Trail of the Black Wyrm - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  She looked up and saw.

  Nuvis was supposed to be invisible, a hole in the sky marked by the League’s seers and astronomers, not by its form, but by the stars it blocked out. Priests of the evil gods and wizards devoted to darkness were said to be able to behold Nuvis as clearly as its red and silver cousins. It lit the world of the dead, an emblem of the Thenolite armies. But common folk, those untouched by shadow, simply could not see the third moon.

  Yet there it was, risen above the jungle: a disk of purest black, but with many colors swirling within: purple, and crimson, and midnight blue. She saw craters and seas on its surface, forming what looked like a dour, glowering face. An aura shone around it, snaking out in all directions like ink in water. Nuvis was alive, seething, its magic dancing in the night air.

  “Yes,” said a voice like grinding stones, from the far side of the rooftop. “My power is strong here. It surrounds this place. You can see Nuvis, just as all in Aurim could see it when I ruled. And all Taladas will see it, in time, once I am reborn.”

  Essana tore her attention from the black moon, forcing herself to look at the statue and the specter floating above the altar. Maladar’s shade was unchanged: pale, as insubstantial as mist, bound to the Hooded One by ropes of silver fog. His face was more horrible than any of the Brethren, a carved and charred mass of gnarled flesh, with patches of skull showing through. His eyes gleamed with the green-brown of rotting meat. Her heart sank at the sight of him.

  “I do not fear you,” she said defiantly.

  “You lie,” he answered. “I can smell your dread, Essana of Coldhope. It hangs thick in the air. You know your fate, and it terrifies you, but you try not to show it. You are a strong woman. In another time, I would have made you one of my wives.”

  She raised her head. “In another time, I would have poisoned you while you slept.”

  Maladar laughed. “Many have tried. I flayed their skin and left them spitted on stakes atop the tallest towers of my palace, for the skyfishers to take. My courtiers made a game of it—who would lose his eyes first, whose liver they would take. Quite a few lingered for days before the end. Once, I skewered every slave I owned because one was caught approaching my bedchamber with a knife.…” He fell silent, lost for a moment in thought, then waved his hand. “But this is no time for pleasant memories. Not now. Bring her to me, my servants.”

  The Slayer and the Speaker stood to either side of her, flanked in turn by yaggol, whose minds were lodged like splinters into hers. Bowing, the Brethren dragged Essana forward, toward Maladar. Every step was torment, forced upon her by her captors: she could never have walked on her own, in her weakened state, but the yaggol’s thoughts compelled her. They approached the altar, the bloodstained slab where the Keeper and countless elves had died.

  “Look at me, girl.”

  She didn’t want to, but it didn’t matter. Her gaze rose, inexorably, to the gruesome ghost above her. And yes, she felt fear. A kender would have felt it.

  “He is out there,” Maladar said. “Your husband. He is coming, as the Taker told you. He will watch you die, and I will feast on his rage, his anguish. They will only increase my power. A pity, a cruel irony—to have searched half of Taladas for you, only to lose you again as soon as he’s found you. It will tear him apart.”

  “Barreth won’t let me die,” Essana growled. “He’ll find a way.”

  Maladar shrugged, then looked over her shoulder. “Ah, the prodigy and his mentor. Now the ceremony can begin.”

  Essana tried to turn, stumbled, and only caught herself at the yaggol’s command. Jerkily, like a puppet, she righted herself and raised her gaze to the top of the stair. There, lit by Nuvis, stood the Master and her son.

  “Your mother awaits you, boy,” Maladar hissed. He relished this cruelty. Here was a man who had known malice so long, it had become his only desire. “Have you the blade that will open her veins?”

  The boy was older than even a few hours ago. Another year of his life, maybe two, had passed. “I do, my lord,” he said, drawing a curved knife, identical to the ones the Faceless carried. It glistened in Nuvis’s shifting light.

  “Good,” said the specter. “Come, then. We had best be ready when your father arrives.”

  Fight them, Essana told herself, as the Slayer and the Speaker took hold of her arms and dragged her backward. You have to resist. You must fight!

  But she could barely hold her head up on her own, and the yaggol wouldn’t let her do anything, even if she could. Grinding her teeth, she let the Brethren lay her down upon the altar. They slid chains around her wrists and ankles, though they were of little need. Her head hung a little over the slab’s edge, settling into a niche so that her throat lay bare, exposed. Maladar hovered above her, his eyes agleam with hunger. Nuvis shone behind him.

  Footsteps. The Master drew near, her son at his side.

  “You have given us much trouble,” he said, his bloodshot eyes afire with scorn. “Now see how much your struggles avail you.”

  She ignored him, her gaze fixed upon her son. “Azar,” she breathed. “Please.…”

  But he shook his head, raising the knife in salute to Maladar. “I am the Taker,” he declared, “and your life is mine.”

  Chapter

  32

  THE EMERALD SEA, NERON

  The going was hard for Eldako. He ate little and slept less. The pain was with him always, every mile they journeyed through the jungle. He told the others he could feel the end coming: his people called it tsaris ni’vask, “the gathering twilight.” Most of the heroes in merkitsa folklore felt their end coming: struggling toward a final goal while one’s life ebbed away was a common theme in wild elf tales. It was nothing to be ashamed of, and Eldako did not complain. Watching Shedara, though, Forlo knew it was hurting her to lose him by stages. She was pale, her mood brittle. At times, at night, when she thought the others weren’t watching, she sat up and stared at the moons with shining eyes.

  Forlo understood her grief, what it was to fear losing what you loved. With every day of their journey through the jungle, he feared he would know it too well, soon enough.

  The black moon grew fatter every night. Forlo grew anxious, trying to forge ahead through the brush too quickly. Twice now, Hult had had to pull him out of sucking death mires. The cha’asii, for their part, were unperturbed by their steady pace. The vale they sought was soon coming. The temple lay ahead.

  And then, at dawn after yet another sleepless night, they saw their destination, at last. Eldako did not—his dragon-ruined eyesight, once eagle-keen, made it impossible for him to make out anything at all beyond a few dozen paces—but he heard the others murmur and asked Shedara to describe it.

  “Beyond the next rise,” she said. “Pyramids, seven of them. Only the tops are visible above the mist. All gleaming black—but there’s something atop the tallest. Something that … shines.” She squinted, then shuddered. “Solis, have mercy. I think it’s Maladar.”

  “The statue?” Forlo asked. He didn’t have elf eyes. He didn’t see what she saw.

  She shook her head. “No. I glimpsed him before. When he conjured the flood to destroy the horde … he stepped out of the statue, for a time. A ghost. He glowed, but the light was pale … cold. The same light shines atop Akh-tazi.”

  “Ah,” Eldako said. “That is a good omen.”

  “Good?” she replied, looking at the wild elf as if he were mad.

  Eldako shrugged. “He is awakened, but still just a shade. He hasn’t come into his full power yet.”

  They tried not to let Forlo hear, tried to keep their voices down. He heard anyway. He knew they were afraid for him, for what fear and pain and worry were doing to him. He’d seen his reflection just this morning, in a pool near where they’d camped. He’d barely recognized the man he’d become: ashen, sunken-cheeked, deep shadows under his eyes. Now he stared across the last miles, at the hovering ghost, the evil thing that would take his child’s body. His hands opened, clos
ed, opened, closed. His whole body was tense, like a hunting hound with a scent thick in its nostrils, straining to be let loose upon its quarry.

  Hult leaned close. “Soon,” he said. “Be easy, my friend. Your wife lives. Your child is unclaimed. There’s still time to save them. And time to avenge.”

  The end of their journey was near, and that knowledge seemed to give Eldako new energy. That day, as they crossed down into the last valley, wending slowly down a steep slope, then along the bank of a wide, swift river to a cascade of waterfalls, where the water was shallow enough to ford, then back up an almost vertical bluff on the far side, the pain of his wounds seemed to fall away.

  “I wish I had my bow,” he said as they neared the top of the ridge.

  “I’m sorry,” Hult replied. “If we hadn’t burned it.…”

  “You never would have found me. I know. And I suppose it wouldn’t matter in the least if I did have it.” The wild elf flexed his ruined arm, the puckered skin glistening. “I know I haven’t the strength to pull or the sight to aim. This is my companion now.” He touched the sword sheathed at his side.

  Finally, nothing lay between them and the temple. The tallest pyramid loomed huge against the ruddy blur of sunset, the faintest flicker at its top. They stared at it, quiet, solemn.

  Eldako’s face was peaceful now, with the end of their quest in sight at last. Forlo knew that look, had seen it on the faces of men who faced battles they knew would claim their lives. Not fear anymore, not anger—just calm acceptance. Serenity. Shedara must have felt some of what was in his mind, for her eyes glistened when she looked at him. Her hand slid into his. Neither of them spoke a word, only held each other with their gaze, Eldako nodding. A farewell.

  After a while, she leaned in close to kiss him. Forlo turned away.

  A commotion rose among the cha’asii, much frantic gesturing and chattering. Hult answered them, then glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened.

  “The moon,” he said in a hoarse voice. “It rises.”

  They all turned and saw Nuvis in its dark glory. The black moon hung above the trees, visible, its dark aura bleeding away into the bruise-colored sky. Hult bit the heel of his hand to ward off evil. Shedara’s grip on Eldako’s hand tightened.

  “Merciful Astar,” she breathed. “I’ve never felt the dark moon this strong.”

  Forlo turned, looking back at the temple, almost frantic. Essana. He could almost hear her voice, crying out to him. Wondering where he was. “We’ve got to go,” he said. “We’re almost out of time.”

  Eldako nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s end this for good.”

  Together, the cha’asii as silent as shadows on either side of them, they started down toward Akh-tazi.

  The plan was simple. The night before, they’d gathered around a guttering cook-fire, over which roasted the carcass of a large jungle snake. The cha’asii knew the land around the temple well, knew the ways in, the terrain, and even where the Maws tended to post guards. They had sent out new scouts every two weeks. Unfortunately, the word from the most recent party was not good.

  “There is only one approach now,” Le-nekh explained. “Only one way to attack—we go up the hill from the south and push on up the steps to the top of the temple. All other ways are barred. Bridges cut, Vaka on the prowl … but the south … there is still a path that is clear.”

  “Then it’s got to be a trap,” Shedara noted. “These Faceless are too smart to leave one direction clear, out of many. They’ll be waiting for us.”

  The cha’asii nodded, the feathers in his hair bobbing. “Yes. Many akitu-shai will be waiting.”

  “So what?” Hult asked. “If there is one way, there is one way. We cannot turn back.”

  Forlo shook his head. “Surely there must be a secret passage. There always is, in case the temple were overrun and the priests inside had to flee.”

  The cha’asii exchanged glum looks. A log popped in the fire, dousing the sizzling snake in golden cinders. “There was such a way,” Le-nekh said. “We had hoped to use it ourselves … but now it is shut. The Keeper used it, when he tried to rescue the woman. The dark ones hold it now. It will be trapped, guarded, or sealed. Perhaps all three.”

  “Khot,” Forlo said.

  “South it is, then,” Shedara said. “And just the four of us will go.”

  “What?” asked Le-nekh.

  “What?” asked Hult.

  Eldako smiled, understanding. “Like we did with Gloomwing.”

  “We’re the bait,” Forlo agreed. “The Maws won’t know the rest of you are coming. You wait in hiding. We lure them out, and you fill them with arrows.”

  “And if you see any men in black robes, shoot them first,” Hult added.

  And so they went, down into the valley of Akh-tazi, the temple rising before them on its low, steep hill. Skyfishers circled above, expecting blood. Maladar’s unholy glow rose into the starry night sky. Nuvis was a dark eye, watching them, unblinking. They circled the tor, pushing through the jungle until they came at last to a path leading up its southern face. There they stopped, gazing up. Eldako licked his cracked and peeling lips.

  They had a plan, knew it well. But Forlo, a veteran fighter, knew that a plan was often the first casualty of the battle.

  No matter. Separating from the cha’asii, who crept along behind, they began to climb the hill.

  There were things in the underbrush, near the pyramid’s base. Horrifying faces hewn from dark, porous rock, webbed with ivy and tiny red flowers. None was even vaguely human: at best, they resembled the Crawling Maws, all bulbous skulls and tentacled mouths. Others were stranger still—a scaly head, featureless save for a single eye above a fanged mouth; something that looked like a giant brain with a beak like the Vaka’s; an amorphous mass of claws and feelers and jagged fangs.

  These were old idols, things once venerated by the akitu-shai. Maybe they were real gods, Erestem and Hith and Sargas, and all the other dark beings that dwelt beyond the curtain of the world. Maybe they were monsters that crawled up out of the Abyss, in times before elf or man walked the face of Krynn. Maybe they were born of the Maws’ imagination alone, false idols to whom they sacrificed blood and burned flesh. Whatever, they belonged to the jungle now. Vines completely covered some, and others lay in crumbled heaps, pulled apart by growing things. In time, the rest would join them. It might take a thousand lives of men, but nature would bring these dark things to ruin.

  It heartened Forlo, somewhat, as the four of them stepped out of the trees, to stand at the foot of the tall, steep flight of steps that led up Akh-tazi’s side. The glow of Maladar’s specter washed over the edge of the temple’s roof, mingling with Nuvis’s weird, black light. And there, waiting for them, were the Maws.

  There were scores of them—a hundred or more. They swarmed down the steps, tentacles thrashing—some empty-handed, some holding hooked blades. Their mouth parts gnashed and hissed, making a sound like a pit of scorpions. Their eyes gleamed ice-blue in the putrid moon glow, devoid of emotion.

  As they chittered down the stairs, Forlo felt their minds push against his, scrabbling like rats against the barrier of cha’asii magic. None could get through, but the clawing sensation made him want to scratch at his temples. They tried to form words in his mind, tell him what to do, wrest control of his body. And, worse, some part of him wanted to let them. They were ancient, beyond any other creatures in Taladas. They knew secrets no one else did—even now, in their degenerated form, so far from their onetime glory. They would share these with him: all he had to do was take off the talisman, cast it away, yield himself to them.

  It was so simple. He reached for the feathered amulet.…

  “No,” Shedara said, reaching out and grabbing his hand.

  He looked at her, not recognizing her face. She was only an obstacle, trying to thwart him. She had to be stopped, had to be dealt with. He tried to pull away.

  “No!” she yelled again, gripping his hand so tightly the b
ones ground together. “They’ll destroy you. They’ll crush your thoughts and make a puppet of your empty flesh. And then I’ll have to kill you!”

  Forlo blinked. The yammering voices at the edge of his mind receded. Calm came over him. He shuddered at what he’d almost done, lowered his gaze.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Something must have gotten through the magic.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think the cha’asii made these amulets with this many Maws in mind.”

  Forlo glanced toward the steps. The writhing mass of creatures was halfway down, their pace slow, deliberate. He drew his sword. Hult’s blade was already bared, and now the others followed suit. There was strain on all their faces—tensed jaws and sweat-drenched brows from fighting off the Maws’ invasive thoughts. They would have to watch each other, these next few moments, and carefully. Forlo had nearly fallen; the others could do the same.

  “Come on!” he yelled, brandishing his sword at the akitu-shai. “Cowards! Quit skulking and attack us!”

  The Maws hesitated, glaring down at them with their cold eyes. Then their tentacles tensed, rising and arching like talons, and a chorus of shrill screeches split the air, driving like a rusty spike into his skull. Hult replied with a Uigan battle cry. Forlo roared in the minotaur tongue. Eldako joined in, skirling like a hunting hawk. Shedara shouted profanities, clashing her sword and dagger together.

  The Maws charged.

  They came on much faster than Forlo expected. The creatures practically dove down the stairs, leaping down three or four steps at a time, landing on the soft earth like panthers, then springing forward, claws and knives extended. He brought his sword around, almost too late, and killed two with a single blow. White slime spattered his face, got in his mouth, tasting of rotten meat. He spat it out, cursing, and swept the blade back, taking off the left side of a Maw’s head. The creature staggered on its feet, the mealy remains of its brain dribbling from the wound, then dropped to his knees. He kicked it in the face, felt the rest of that ghastly head burst, and sent it sprawling back into the press.