Lindenlea snapped, "Choke it out, boy."
He had long red hair, shaggy and unkempt. His face was filthy, and the soot that smeared his cheeks was only the newest layer of dirt. Urchins in the root cellar, they had likely been urchins in the muddy streets long before then. He lifted his chin, and a little his eyes narrowed.
"Ain't chokin' for you, elf," the boy sneered. "Ain't chokin' nothin’ for the like of you."
Feslan’s hand tightened on the boy's shoulder. He jerked him a little, but not hard. "That's a lady of the House Royal you're talking to, boy. Be mindful."
The boy snorted and twisted a grin that might never have known humor. "Aye, and so what does it matter to me? Reckon her sword'll kill me just as fast be she lady or goblin or bandit." He looked around again at the smoking houses and the broken well not five yards away. He looked at the ravens picking over the dead, at the smoke curling up from the last burning embers of what used to be his home. Then, right into Lindenlea’s eyes he looked, his own blue eyes piercing as daggers.
"So, do it, royal elf. Kill me and get done. I ain't got much here to lose, eh?"
Lindenlea raised an eyebrow. The boy spoke like a bitter warrior, one who had seen too many battles and lost most of them. His face was all bones and hollows, his hands raw with cold, his lips cracked and bleeding. She didn't doubt that under that rag of a shirt, the boy had ribs like ladders. By the look of him, he couldn't count twelve years for himself.
Pawing the barren earth, scenting death and hearing ravens, Lindenlea’s horse pawed the ground, restless. Bridle bits jingled and saddlebags bounced.
"Listen," Lea said. "You may have nothing to lose, but what about those who are hiding with you? Are you ready to let them suffer, too?"
Again the boy snorted. "What? Gonna kill us all ‘cause I won't tell you what you want?"
She appeared to consider this, scratching her chin and looking at Feslan over the boy's head. Then, when enough time had passed, she said, "No. I'm not going to kill them. I was thinking," she said, gesturing with her head to the horse beside them, "I was thinking you might be hungry, and your friends, too."
Ah, there was the key. The boy's face set in stubborn lines, but those melted fast as he contemplated food. He swallowed, then again. He looked away, then back.
"Them was goblins done it," he said, his voice low and flat and dead. "Them was goblins, and one of ’em—" He looked up, his eyes narrowing, his chin jutting as though he didn't think he'd be believed. "One of ’em, it were the biggest goblin I ever seen, green-skinned and pig—eyed. But that ain't the whole of it. I'll tell you that ain't the whole. It had—"
He stopped, shaking his head. Away in the village, among the rubble, Lindenlea heard the voices of her warriors calling one to another or speaking together. She heard the horses and the wind as the boy's silence held.
"It had a fire-staff," she offered.
The boy's eyes went wide. "Aye, it did, and when it pointed it at things, they exploded. But it didn't stay. It didn't—" The boy shook his head, not having the words. "It didn't stay while its army did the killing. It set things on fire and left. It were goin'—" he turned around and pointed out over the stonelands. "It said it were goin' away, back to the Fortress of Ghosts."
Lindenlea glanced at Feslan, who shrugged.
"Where?" she asked.
"The Fortress of Ghosts. Away out in the south, down in the stonelands." As though they were dim-witted, he said very slowly, "The Fortress of Ghosts. In the mountains."
Cold crawled up Lindenlea’s spine. "Pax Tharkas?"
"Aye," said the boy. "There. The Fortress of Ghosts."
Eyes on the saddle bags slung across the back of the elf's horse, the boy licked his lips, dried and split by cold. "You really got food in there?"
Lindenlea nodded to Feslan, who untied the saddle bag and tossed the boy a cold half of the hare that was last night’s supper. The boy caught’ it and darted away. Lindenlea hardly saw him go. She looked away south and east to where sunlight glinted, perhaps off the snowy heights of the mountains, perhaps from the very towers of Pax Tharkas itself.
Pax Tharkas was an ancient city, and long dead. Who knew what might be lying in some forgotten forge or storeroom? More weapons like the fire-staff, more and worse. Lindenlea knew the legends, knew her history. She knew that when dwarves and elves had lived in Pax Tharkas, ancient friends in peace, they had stored many weapons there—swords and axes and spears, bows of finest make, arrows with shafts as straight as truth. And there had been weapons of another make, not forge-made or fletched. There had been magic weapons.
Without doubt, the hobgoblin had found his fire-staff there, or thereabouts. And when Lindenlea looked over her shoulder, west to Qualinesti, it seemed there wasn't as much distance between that old fortress and the elven forest.
"My lady," said Feslan. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to think a moment, and this is what I'm thinking about: " ‘Back to the Fortress of Ghosts,’ the boy said. Back, as though Gnash had been there before."
Long deserted, the fortress could not have been swept clean of all that had once been there. Perhaps the hob had come upon some ancient mage’s secret hoard. If that were the case, it would be best if the hobgoblin never returned there.
Lindenlea looked south to the gleaming peaks of the Kharolis Mountains. A softer breeze blew here than must be breathing there. There, so up, it would still be winter. And there, or close to there, Prince Kethrenan hunted, questing to find his wife.
Lindenlea looked east to the stonelands where the hobgoblin and his army might even now be stopping to burn and loot before pushing on to Pax Tharkas. Last she looked to home, to the forest her prince had put into her care, her beloved kingdom.
Chapter 13
"I’m following gods."
The voice came out of darkness, and it sounded both near and far away. Elansa walked stunned, all her senses reduced. It was hard to see in the barely lit tunnel. She should have been able to discern the red outlines of her companions, the edging glow of their lifeforces. She could not. Only strangely—near and far, then near again and far again—she did hear the voice of the one who claimed to follow gods, the voices of those who scoffed or groaned in pain or exhaustion. A metallic taste filled her mouth, slick and coppery, and she knew that was blood. She had bitten her tongue, her lips to bleeding when she'd engaged the magic of the sapphire phoenix. Someone held her in his arm as she walked. She wanted to pull away, to cry out for the pain that caused. The ogre who'd gripped her had left a mass of bruises.
"Ah," said the one who held her, "nothing's broke, girl. Keep walking."
Brand. His impulse, his arm, his own strides moved her, not her own will. Left to herself, she would have crumpled to the ground.
She said so, once. "Let me go. Let me fall." In her heart she'd cried, Leave me behind!
All her bones screamed, as though they had been separated from their joints, wrenched from their sockets. She hadn't worked healing magic with the talisman. She had called upon the god to let her speak with the earth, the rock of the world, and that had been granted. She had not asked for healing. She had asked for breaking. As her body had known how to gather the illness of trees and then feel the healing of the sapphire phoenix, now her body felt the breaking, the tumbling of stone, the cracking of rock. She had rent a piece of the earth and felt all the tearing pain in her body.
"Na," said Brand, "na, now, girl. You go on. You can."
Ah, she must have whispered that plea she'd thought had been a silent scream in her heart. She went on. She had no choice. He would not let her stop.
"I am following gods."
Char said that, and recognizing his voice felt like a triumph. Elansa looked up, looked around, and saw the dwarf standing head-cocked and looking up at Brand.
"I’m following gods, and if y’ had but the one eye I do, you'd know it."
No one had the one eye Char had. No one had the ability to see in almo
st complete darkness as even a one-eyed dwarf could. Faint beams of light shivered down from the ceiling of the close tunnel; there were cracks above. This light, barely discernable to humans or elves, was enough for Char to find his way, enough, it seemed, for him to find something to follow.
"So y’ just trust me," the dwarf said, his jaw jutting, his dark beard bristling. "I’m what y’ got in here, Brand, so just trust me."
Brand held her, but absently, keeping her on her feet by holding her against him. It was the way you'd hold a sack. But leaning against him, she felt the breath he took, the considering breath. She felt his answer in the relaxing of his muscles.
"I trust you," he said, very quietly. "But all this talk of gods—" He tilted his head toward Elansa. "They liked the killing of the ogres, Char. They didn't like the way it was done, the magic and the crying out to a god."
Char made a sound far back in his throat. He sounded like his hound. "Then they're idiots. The rock fell, the stone cracked, a god lifted his hand. Blind fools."
Brand shifted his grip, his arm slid lower, circling Elansa’s waist. She breathed a little easier for the lessening of pain.
"Might be," Brand said, his voice chill. "Doesn't matter. You spook them any more, and things aren't going to be easier."
"Ain't so easy now," the dwarf muttered. "Ain't been gettin’ easier for a while."
He didn't say it hard. He didn't accuse. He spoke, and the tone of his voice touched Elansa like sadness. There had been a plan, a grand scheme between these two, to stand against their old enemies, to settle the feud with the goblins forever. He'd bargained in good faith with Kethrenan, or he had intended to. She believed, standing there, that if Keth had kept to the letter of the bargain, Brand would not have done less. He had no feud with elves, for all he thought of them as heartless neighbors. Maybe his plan would have worked, but Keth hadn't been minded to hand over a trove of weapons. Then goblins had come roaring onto the false field of exchange….
Elansa’s knees wobbled, and she began to sag in Brand's arm. Ah, gods, if only she could lie down, or even sit.
Brand shook his head, not conceding. "Listen to me, Char. There's enemies all around. Ogres in the caves and elves outside, and someone stole our weapons and sealed all our bolt-holes. Tell me later if you think our plan has turned in my hand. Now, get us to Pax Tharkas."
The dwarf turned. A thin drift of light showed his face, worn and weary, eyes sunken, skin gray. It was how he looked when he knew there was no drink to be had. His last lay in the ruined cavern among the corpses of two friends, ogres, and hounds.
"Come on then," he said, not to Brand, but to all those dark shapes gathered, breathing and muttering, and some groaning with hurt and weariness. "Come on. Let's walk."
Brand shifted his grip again. Elansa winced, but she made no cry. They followed Char, the line of them winding through the darkness. When pale glimmers of light sifted down from the ceiling, they saw the tunnel changing, the walls growing wider apart. Their own weary legs told them the way was rising now.
"We're getting close to the surface," someone said, whispering and hopeful. It sounded like Nigh-toothless Kerin. And Ley—she knew his voice, for it spoke in the accents of home—said he thought that was the case.
They stopped twice for water, to cup their hands under little rills running down the walls. It tasted sharply of minerals, but no one complained. Each filled up his or her hands with it and drank gratefully. Only Char didn't, wanting something else, and he kept his distance from his fellows, a surly space. He didn't stop talking about his godly guides though, and he took a sour satisfaction to see how that worked on his companions. Most, he seemed to take grim satisfaction in Arawn’s sneering.
"He's mad. The damn dwarf’s gone mad, and that’s what they said happened the first time—"
Not more than that did Arawn say, though, for Char had stopped and turned. He didn't drop his hand to the throwing axe at his belt or make any other threatening gestures. He lifted only his head.
"Come along, Arawn," Char said, his voice a low mockery of coaxing. "Come along if y’ have the guts, and see where gods are leading me." He laughed, but it sounded hollow. "Might be our raggedy little princess knows. Might be she could tell you what waits."
Whispers rustled in the passage, like the shuffling of bats’ wings. Arawn said nothing. He was not one to bluster, but Bruin muttered, and Pragol hissed. Brand told them all to shut up, he said he'd bind the next one who wasted his breath on threat or challenge and leave him in the dark. Satisfied, Char turned and walked ahead, up the rising way and into the dim light that did not increase and did not fail.
As the outlaws marched on, it could be seen that Char did indeed follow gods. Here and there, barely seen, felt by hands reaching to steady a walker, hands reaching to find a place to stop and rest, were images chipped into the stony walls—a dwarf with a warhammer, a dwarven smith at an anvil, more like those. These were not the works of an artist with time to make them perfect. They were the offhand works one sees when men are idle and their hands resent the stillness. Dwarves had been here, thinking of Reorx, thinking of the god and the images they most liked to create.
The rough god, peering out from shadows under her hand, comforted Elansa. Here had been folk who knew the right of the world, who knew that gods lived. In the long ago days of this rough craft, the gods had walked with their children. They had visited Krynn in guises fair or dark. The great families of deities had been deeply involved with Krynn. Now, they were not. They were gone, but these little images, the faith in the hearts of those few races who remembered, argued that gods did exist, even if they were long gone from this realm.
The sapphire phoenix hung round Brand's neck caught a gleam of gray light and shot it back to her eye. He saw it too, and he slid the talisman back into his shirt.
Following gods, they walked, and as the ceiling of the tunnel dropped low, tall humans bent to make their way. After a time Nigh-toothless Kerin said, "Why, them's tools!’ and the voices of others echoed to agree. Here and there, in corners, up against the narrow walls, lay the heads of hammers, rusted chisels, picks whose wooden handles had long rotted in the damp air under the ground.
Brand slipped his arm beneath Elansa’s and helped her to stoop. "Bend low, girl. Head down. I don't think it’s far now," he said, his lips right beside her ear. "See, there's light ahead. The way is climbing. Hang on."
Like a voice out of far memory, Char’s drifted back, Crying, "Ho! Come on! Come ahead!"
She stumbled, and Brand lifted her up. He moved her to the side, pressed her back to the wall while the rest filed by. They passed, and in each she felt the urgency of their need to be out of the cramping tunnel, to see what Char had found. Her legs sagging, Brand let her sit. As the last of them passed, he crouched next to her.
"Can y’walk?"
"In a moment."
He grunted, then sat beside her. He lifted her blouse and winced to see what the ogre had done. "Damn me if you aren't all luck, girl. Your ribs should be broken." He eyed her keenly. "But that ain't the worst, is it?"
Elansa leaned her head against the stone, and a thin trickle of water crept down her neck. "No, the magic hurt the worst. It’s better now. I'm tired."
He looked like he wanted to ask about that, but all he said was, "Only a little way now. Come on, get up." He took her hands and pulled her up. She stood, and he held her against him again, but not as strongly now. He helped her through the low passages, and when they came out he stopped.
"Ah, gods," he breathed, who didn't believe in gods. "Look at that, will you?"
Men had spoken that way as they entered the stony forest where the battle with the ogres had taken place. Their voices hushed with wonder, they had stared around them at that deep place sculpted by time and rivers and the hands of dwarves. The hardest among them had admitted they’d seen little to match the beauty. There was not that much of beauty here, but there was more of wonder, for all that lay before them
was created by mortal craft. Ley walked the perimeter, looking up, looking out. He was of Qualinesti, and Elansa didn't know what his station had been—tradesman, craftsman, servant. His eyes met hers, and she saw it: He knew the lore, knew he stood on the doorstep of a wondrous place.
It was, indeed, a doorstep, and not a lovely one. They stood in a smelting cave, high-sided and long deserted. At one end rose a shaft, and from this light poured down as once, a long time ago, ore had, shoved from the open pits above. Great iron vats, gone to rust and ruin now, lined the sides. A pungent odor clung to the stone walls, strong enough to make Elansa’s eyes water. Far across the cavern a tall, broad opening gaped, like a mouth opened to scream. From there cold air drifted, carrying a fresher scent, the perfume of air that had never lived below ground, that only knew sunlight and starlight and the sweet breath of the seasons.
Elansa looked behind her, back the way they’d come. All those tunnels, all those dark ways, had been known to the dwarves who'd made Pax Tharkas and delved the open pits of the Tharkadan Iron Mines, that army of stonemasons and sculptors and smiths who had made real what kings had dreamed. Some of the tunnels they must have discovered and used, perhaps they even dwelt there for a time, for the making of Pax Tharkas had not been accomplished quickly. Perhaps they had delved some of those tunnels, though Elansa doubted they would have wasted much time at that. Through these tunnels the dwarves had traveled, roads beneath the surface of Krynn, unknown to any but them. One of those dwarves, she knew, had gone back and forth to Qualinost, perhaps by those underground ways for as far as they would take him, then overland. He'd seen the marks of the Lily of the Night, a king's lovely mistress. Perhaps the dwarf had crafted those lilies himself, small works of beauty to relieve an artistic hand that spent most of its time hacking a martial fastness out of the mountains.
Elansa’s skin prickled with chill, and her breath caught in her throat. She stood in the least lovely part of the great fastness whose name meant Peace of Friendship, yet she could not help but feel awed. She had heard many tales of Pax Tharkas, and she had never thought to see the place.
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