Qualinesti lies prostrate under the armies of the bandit king, Lord Samuval, where the lingering curse of the great dragon Beryl poisons the heart of the land. Cast out of one desperate situation, the Lioness is delivered first into Qualinesti, then into the hands of brutal slavers where she experiences firsthand the oppression of her homeland.
Unknown to her, another lost soul has come to Qualinesti. Inspired by an unlikely mentor, this mysterious figure leads a handful of Kagonesti foresters against a bandit army numbering thousands. Superstitious enemies—and allies—call him the Scarecrow. When the Lioness meets him, she will know him by another name.
Far away, the elves in exile struggle to leave Khur and reach the hidden valley of Inath-Wakenti. The nomads, consumed by dreams of vengeance, won’t let them go in peace. Adala, the chief of the Weya-Lu, drives her people on, with only one goal in mind—the complete extermination of the the elves in Khur. Opposing her, Speaker Gilthas has only pride and promise to keep his faltering people on the unmarked trail to safety. The question is which will give out first, the Speaker’s life or the quest for Inath-Wakenti.
The rebellion in Qualinesti smolders, then explodes. Cities fall, armies fail, and the elusive elves pass on through the angry countryside, fanning the flames of revolt. A forgotten queen, a loyal scout, and a lovelorn soldier cast their lot with the Lioness and her enigmatic leader. But will they follow the Scarecrow into the land of death itself?
ALSO BY PAUL B. THOMPSON & TONYA C. COOK
THE ERGOTH TRILOGY
VOLUME ONE
A WARRIOR’S JOURNEY
VOLUME TWO
THE WIZARD’S FATE
VOLUME THREE
A HERO’S JUSTICE
THE BARBARIANS
VOLUME ONE
CHILDREN OF THE PLAINS
VOLUME TWO
BROTHER OF THE DRAGON
VOLUME THREE
SISTER OF THE SWORD
ALLIANCES
Elven Exiles • Volume II
©2006 Wizards of the Coast LLC
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.
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All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Cover art by: Matt Stawicki
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6365-2
640-A1916000-001-EN
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v3.1
DEDICATION
Thou has left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;
There’s not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee. Thou hast great allies.
—William Wordsworth, “To Toussaint L’Ouverture”
Contents
Cover
Other Books in the Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
shadows
Shadows gathered around. No amount of light would dispel them.
Kerianseray, seeking death, vanished in the blink of an eye. So too had the elves’ tenuous peace disappeared, like water spilled on the hot stone streets of Khuri-Khan. Gilthas Pathfinder, Speaker of the Sun and Stars, had tried to maintain peace as long as he could, but it evaded his grasp. His wife gone, concord lost, the Speaker’s only thought was to save his people. So he chased a shadow called Inath-Wakenti.
Adala Fahim, chief of the Weya-Lu tribe of Khurish nomads, pursued vengeance. The loved ones of her tribe had been slaughtered by a shadow which she saw in the shape of elves. So great was her anger, it took on a life of its own, a name of its own—maita, fate—and commanded the loyalty of numerous tribes.
Prince Shobbat plotted to replace his father, Sahim-Khan, on the throne of Khur. He made pacts with sorcerers and fanatics and traveled deep into the desert to see the shadows of the future. The Oracle of the Tree gave him the glimpse he craved, and it was far more than he had bargained for. The shadows entered his soul. In the fertile field of the prince’s treacherous mind, the shadows grew and multiplied until the light of reason was nearly extinguished.
A master plotter in his own right, Sahim-Khan bent the disparate elements of his kingdom to his will to preserve his unhappy guests, the elves. Sahim dreamed of great days for Khur, of triumphs on the battlefield, in the council chamber, and in the vibrant souks, where all manner of goods and services were sold. The seed of these dreams was the treasure the khan extracted from the Speaker. When shadows gathered from many sides to endanger the continuing supply of this treasure, Sahim dared the wrath of the elves’ enemies to safeguard their exit from his city. In such ways are heroes made, even heroes with the blackest hearts and basest motives.
Across the world more shadows gathered. A grieving queen would not give up the search for her lost king. An ambitious child sought to exceed the fame of her bloody father. A loyal warrior searched for the Speaker’s lost consort. A peerless bounty hunter stalked a hidden criminal. And entangled in the ghostly expanse of the Silent Vale, a scholar courted madness by trying to fathom a secret left behind by gods.
Of all these shadows, the longest and darkest was cast by a faceless, nameless being, delivered to death’s very doorstep. Cursed with a life he loathed, he must choose between oblivion and blessed obscurity, or glory and the endless terror of discovery.
Finally, one other had gone abroad to meet his destiny. Older than the trees, he followed in the footprints of the gods, striving to decipher the shadows they left behind five thousand years earlier. He intended that no one and nothing would stand in his way. Kingdoms and nations, the lives of thousands, were nothing compared to his final goal: eternity itself.
The sun rose. Only the deepest shadows could remain.
1
No breath of breeze stirred among the trees. A dense canopy of leaves, parched by summer heat until they were brittle as glass, cast a perpetual shade on the forest floor. Although excluded, the sun made its presence felt. The air in the forest was stiflingly hot and still as a tomb. Birds did not sing, and nothing moved that could avoid moving.
A trail
no wider than a horse’s hips was worn through the underbrush. It wound up hills and down hollows, following no discernible path. At an uncommonly straight stretch, the path ran along the foot of a hill, between a pair of lofty ash trees. The hill comprised shelves of broken slate, terraced down like a timeworn staircase to disintegrate at last into the dust of the narrow path.
A person occupied the last of the slate steps. Covered in a monkish robe despite the heat, he sat with his forearms resting on his knees, hands hidden in the robe’s capacious sleeves. His head was completely covered by a ragged cloth sack, loosely tied about his neck. Holes were cut out for his eyes. Rips and tears too numerous to count dotted the robe’s faded brown surface, each neatly darned or patched.
He had been sitting there, unmoving, unspeaking, for a very long time. Where his robe touched the ground it clung, matted by leaf mold. Some who passed took him for a scarecrow. Others saw the stick thinness of his limbs, the knobby shape of his joints, and decided he must be a corpse. One or two, thinking to relieve the dead fellow of his purse, approached. They saw his eyes.
Staring from the sack, the eyes were not dead, but neither did they belong to a sane or peaceful being. The whites were shining and damp, as with tears, but the corners were as dry as dust. Set in them were pupils as hard as gems. When the eyes did blink, their lids were revealed to be mottled red, without any lashes at all.
Upon beholding those eyes, the would-be scavengers fled, calling on long-ignored gods for protection. Word spread that the lonely, ancient path was haunted. It was said the spirit of a murdered priest kept watch at the slate stairs, a man doomed by an unknown transgression never to rest. Soon enough, those few who trod the forest path abandoned it, finding other ways to their destinations. The trail had never been a popular one. It came from no place special and led nowhere worth going.
The one they feared no longer knew how many days he had sat there, enveloped by a stillness only the ignorant could mistake for tranquility. Neither man nor ghost, he was an elf. Silent and immobile as he appeared to the world, his mind was a maelstrom, boiling with memories of the journey that had brought him there.
Had it hurt to be burned alive, to feel the flames consuming his clothing, skin, hair, flesh? There were times he couldn’t remember. The burning seemed a thing apart, sometimes as immediate and vivid as the dreams that sent him screaming into wakefulness, and at other times remote, a thing that had happened to someone else.
For an eon he had known only pain, coupled with an intense desire to live. He crawled away from where he’d fallen, at first using only the tips of four fingers and a few toes. Three sunsets passed before he’d dragged himself ten yards. Every grain of sand, every bit of leaf he slid over, was a knife, shredding his outraged flesh. He kept going until he fell into a shallow, clear-flowing brook. There he was born again. Chill water dampened the raging fire in his body and cooled—but did not extinguish—the fever in his mind.
He arose from the brook in the grip of an undeniable compulsion to go east. Home lay eastward, and he had to go home. There he would find succor. There the fire would be quenched at last.
He crawled out of the stream like a newborn salamander and turned to the rising sun. Living as an animal in the forest, he ate whatever he could find, whatever couldn’t crawl away fast enough. As his damaged body couldn’t bear the slightest touch of clothing, he went naked, garbed only in mud and leaf litter, or rain and air.
All that existed was the journey eastward. He grew strong enough to walk, but a new horror took shape in his mind: that others might see him as he was—mutilated, disfigured, destroyed. The very thought brought a shame so great he could scarcely breathe. No one must see him, not friend, foe, or stranger. He tried to steer clear of settlements and travelers, but his senses, ruined by the fire, no longer served him as they once had, and he learned then what shame really was.
One morning he was looting carrots from a garden when a dog found him. It circled, growling deep in its throat. He had never been afraid of dogs before, but slow and crippled as he was, the approach of the mongrel filled him with dread. When it drew too near, he flung dirt in its eyes. It shook off the grit and began to bark.
Down the hill from the garden was a cottage, a solid homestead built of stone and thatch. Gray smoke spiraled from its chimney. As the dog barked, he heard the cottage door bang open and a youthful voice call, “Wolf! Wolf, where are you?”
He backed away on his hands and haunches, keeping his face toward the dog. It followed, head down, ears laid back, barking. His fingers found a rock just under the surface of the tilled earth. He pulled it free of the soil and hurled it at the dog. The effort made his arm and shoulder muscles sing with pain, but the stone found the dog’s forehead. Yelping, it ran down the hill to the farmhouse.
He staggered to his feet, a half-chewed carrot still in his teeth, and made for a nearby canebrake, pushing through the wall of green. Bladelike leaves scored his ruined skin in a dozen places, the wounds like fresh fire. Dropping into the cover of the tall cane, he choked back sobs.
Rapid footfalls announced the arrival of Wolf’s master. He glimpsed a shock of sandy hair, a homespun tunic, and tanned bare feet. With two fingers he parted the cane a little wider.
“Is someone there? Wolf, what is it?”
The youth was an elf, with the sharp chin, narrow nose, and upturned ears of a pure-blooded Qualinesti. The boy was a fine-looking lad, and despite the caution ingrained over the untold weeks since the burning, he was moved to speak.
“Forgive me for stealing. I was hungry.”
Actually, those were the words he intended to say. All that came out was a series of loud, dry croaks.
The young elf heard. Shouting for Wolf, he lashed out with the staff, laying open a gash in the cane and revealing the intruder crouched within. Shock and horror twisted his fine features.
“Goblin!” he cried. “Stay back! Wolf, help!”
He tried to reassure the boy, but his scorched throat wouldn’t form words, only inarticulate grunts. He held out a hand, meaning to show the boy he intended no harm, but the young elf recoiled, screaming, and tripped over a furrow. Wolf rushed forward and buried its fangs in the outstretched arm.
Indescribable agony jolted through him, equal parts pain and fury. He jerked his arm, hauling the dog close, and grabbed it by the throat. He would have throttled the animal had not the boy begun raining blows on his shoulders with the staff.
New pain raced through his body. He hurled the dog aside and reeled away, deeper into the scissorlike cane stalks. The elf boy ran down the hill, shouting for help.
Deeply wounded in body and soul, he fled to the deeper woods, resolving never to show his face to the world again. In the days that followed, he was chased by his own kind, harassed by flies and mosquitoes, and treed by a wandering panther. Where insects bit him, boils erupted. He covered the wounds with mud and kept moving. The urge to go home died, destroyed by the elf boy’s reaction and by the glimpse he caught of his own reflection in a pool of water. The monstrosity that stared back at him was so horrible, he actually recoiled from the sight. The reaction was instinctive, but his was a nightmare from which there was no waking.
The day finally came when his hunger could no longer be denied. Berries, beetles, and snails were not enough. His healing body demanded more. One day deep in the woods, far from any habitation, he smelled the fecund aroma of bread baking. Like a marooned drunkard sniffing wine for the first time in a month, he sought the tantalizing odor, braving discovery.
The aroma drew him to a clearing. He hid behind a thick elm tree and studied what lay beyond. The center of the clearing held a crude hut constructed from rough-hewn trees—a human habitation. It was their way to build shelters from freshly killed trees. Besides, the fire hadn’t stolen his senses completely; he smelled the humans before he saw them.
There were three in view, male and bearded. Were their beards not of different colors he doubted he’d be able to tell
them apart. Judging by the row of axes leaning against the hut, the three were foresters. A smoky fire burned in a ring of scavenged stones. The red-bearded man tended a flat iron pan by the fire. The smell of bread rose from the pan. However, the sight of the humans caused something other than hunger to twist in his belly: hatred. These three were invaders in his forest.
“Who’s there?”
Without realizing it, he had allowed himself to be glimpsed by the red-bearded man. He moved as quickly as fire-ravaged muscles and taunt, scarred skin allowed, crouching in a dense thicket. His grotesque shape was barely concealed as the other two humans approached.
“What’s wrong?” called the one on the left, yellow bearded and younger than the others.
“I saw something,” Red Beard replied, standing up from the fire.
“Man or beast?” asked Black Beard.
“Maybe neither.”
Black Beard snorted. “What, again? You see elves behind every tree, Gaff. I told you, the only ones in forty miles of here are in Olin’s slave pens.”
“You don’t know that for sure. I heard a bunch of Wilder folk raided Aymar’s camp just two nights past.”
Yellow Beard agreed. “He’s right. We don’t know what might be out here.” He retreated to the campfire. “I’ll be glad to get the job done and get out of here.”
“Not me,” said Black Beard. “I haven’t seen this much virgin timber in ages. There’s a fortune all around us—”
“Three fortunes,” put in Yellow Beard pointedly. “But we have to be alive to enjoy them!”
The two humans persuaded their black-bearded comrade to abandon the camp. Sunset was not far off, and they’d be safer at the logging camp, where there were soldiers.
The three shouldered their axes and departed. He had no trouble following their heavy-footed progress through the forest. He emerged from hiding and crept forward in a stoop, his fingers touching the leafy ground lightly. Beneath the grime, each hand was a mass of fibrous scars, the nails black and hard as talons; he still could not make a tight fist.
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