by Dragon Lance
In another dozen steps the wild elf made a gruesome discovery. Though the corpse’s scalp had been torn away and the body horribly mutilated – by talon and fang, it looked like – he recognized his tribemate Warrican. The youngster had earned his first tattoos just the previous winter and took his duties as a warrior very seriously. Yet he had not been prepared for the stealth, the savagery, of the bakali.
And now there was none to warn the village of danger.
Running again, Ashtaway risked minimal noise as he raced along the winding trail. Still he probed the surroundings, wondering if the bakali might have left a sentry to watch their rear. At least Ash could hear no sounds of disturbance – and if the attack had begun, he would certainly have heard it from here.
The stink of the lizardmen grew stronger, and finally the Kagonesti warrior turned from the valley floor, gliding smoothly between the trees of the forested hillside, climbing toward the rounded crest. He darted from tree to tree, staying low, seeking those frequent vantages where curves in the hilltop gave him a look at the valley below.
The lake came into sight, immaculate, blue, sparkling like millions of gemstones in the sunlight. The lofty vallenwoods screened his view of the near shore, but then the featureless expanse of water swept away to a distant, tree-lined fringe.
Ash saw movement around the bases of the nearest trees. At the foot of the slope before him, scaly humanoid shapes slipped through the shadows under the leafy canopy. The lizardmen crept forward, intent on the lodges that stood, still unseen, within the grove. Greenish brown, the monsters blended well with the underbrush. They crept on all fours into an expanding arc around the Kagonesti settlement. The bakali bore crude weapons of stone and bronze, but each of the brutes was much larger than an elf, and was naturally armed with powerful, fang-studded jaws and nimble forepaws tipped with sharp, hooked talons.
Pressing forward, over the rim of the hill, Ashtaway suddenly came upon three bakali crouched in a dip on the descending slope. One of the lizardmen was bedecked in feathers and bore a stout staff topped with a crystal totem in the image of a grotesque beast. The wild elf guessed immediately that this was the chief. The two other lizardmen were garbed as typical warriors, belts of skin supporting loops for their weapons, decorated by one or two dangling osprey feathers. The two spearmen looked to each side while their leader examined the developing ambush below.
In the instant of discovery Ashtaway knelt and drew his bow to full tautness, aiming at the base of the bakali chieftain’s neck. One of the bodyguards turned his snakelike face upward, spotted the elf, and hissed a warning – but not before the Kagonesti had released his missile.
The shaft flew straight, the steel arrowhead plunging through the gristly mane of the hulking lizardman, razor-edges cutting the creature’s throat before it even knew that it had been shot. As his first target fell, Ashtaway drew another arrow. He shot one bodyguard through the heart, dispatching the second immediately afterward.
Only then did Ashtaway throw back his head and utter the alarm – the sharp, keening cry of the hunting eagle, repeated three times. Several voices rose from the village in answering cries: the warning had been received.
The bakali ambushers below whirled toward the hilltop, their attention drawn by the sudden sounds. Ashtaway stood there in full view, and when he had the attention of the lizardmen, he raised his arms over his head, shook his bow and arrows, and whooped jeeringly.
Many of the brutish reptiles charged the lone warrior, while others vanished into the vallenwood trunks, grunting and barking aggressively. Ashtaway heard screams from the village, but the sounds of clashing metal weapons were also audible and he knew that the Kagonesti had not been taken completely by surprise.
But now he was faced with immediate problems of his own. Ashtaway had a dozen arrows left, and twice that many lizardmen rushed toward him, leaping and springing over the ground with shocking speed. Catlike, racing on all fours, a few of the bakali scampered ahead of their fellows up the steep hillside.
Slowing his breathing to the rhythmic pace of perfect concentration, Ashtaway drew back another arrow and let fly, dropping the leading lizardman with a clean shot to the neck. He shot again and again, each missile claiming another one of the attackers – and by always killing the one closest to him, he gained the time to shoot until his feathered shafts were all expended.
Throwing down his bow – he would return to get it later if he was still alive – Ashtaway pulled the long-hafted axe from his belt and raised the gleaming, steel-headed weapon over his head. Though the shaft had been made by Ash himself, Iydaway had told him that the axe head was a venerable artifact. The Pathfinder claimed that the weapon had been in the tribe for generations – legends held that it was handed down from Father Kagonesti himself. Whatever the weapon’s past, Ashtaway suspected that the keen steel blade was no stranger to bakali blood.
A lizardman rushed up the hillside, leaping over the bodies of the chieftain and bodyguards. The creature sprang at the elf, jaws gaping like a crocodile’s. With a single downward swing of the axe, the Kagonesti split the monster’s skull, using the creature’s reckless momentum to amplify the force of the blow. Slain instantly, the beast fell atop the corpses of its comrades.
Ashtaway surprised the next bakali by rushing forward, swinging the axe in a dazzling array of slashes. The first two chops nicked the lizardman’s arms, sending it skidding into retreat. With a nimble leap, the Kagonesti swung again, wielding the axe as if he assaulted an ancient vallenwood trunk.
But the pale white skin of a bakali’s belly was no equal to that legendary hardwood. Ash’s blade slashed halfway through the monster’s torso, sending it tumbling backward in a writhing mass of gore. The following lizardmen slowed their pace, suddenly alarmed by this deadly elf.
The Kagonesti did not give the bakali time to consider a revised plan. He rushed first at one, crippling it with a downward slash of the axe, then followed up against another, driving it to the ground and then killing it.
More than a dozen of the lizardmen swarmed to the hilltop. Ash risked a quick glance into the grove – he still couldn’t see any of the village, but several ominous wisps of smoke emerged from the upper levels of the leaves. All he could hope was that his desperate warning had given most of the villagers time to escape. He knew that every adult, male or female, who could wield a weapon would be covering the flight of the children and the infirm.
He could do nothing for his people by dying on this hilltop. Instead, he spun and raced along the crest of the twisting ridge, darting through the trees with the grace of a deer, flying like a bird over the far side of the slope, diving toward the denser woods at the bottom. He paused in the shadows of a fallen vallenwood, where a cluster of roots extended overhead like a miniature cave. Far behind, still near the top of the hill, he saw several lizardmen cautiously advancing. The creatures darted back and forth, checking behind every tree trunk. Ashtaway smiled grimly – obviously he had taught them great respect for his fighting prowess.
Moving with caution and utter stealth, he worked his way along the foot of the ridge, steering clear of the bakali who had fanned into a long line to pursue their search. The lizardmen at the downhill end of the rank came within a dozen paces of Ashtaway, never suspecting that the patch of darkness beside the base of a great fir tree was anything other than afternoon shadow.
The searchers safely past, Ash sprinted along the forest floor. The smell of smoke was strong in his nostrils. The picture of the sturdy lodges – leather-bound houses that each sheltered a wild elf family – ravaged by the invading bakali nearly blinded him with fury.
Then he was in the midst of the vallenwoods, the great trees rising like pillars from the soft, brush-free ground. Each trunk was larger around than a chieftain’s lodge, the upper branches so dense and so far above that they filtered the bright sunlight into a kind of vague and perpetual twilight. Ashtaway ran like a ghost along pathways that yesterday had chuckled to the tread of
children’s feet but now festered under the lingering stench of bakali.
Even before he emerged into the encampment, the smoke began to sting his eyes, and when he burst from between the last vallenwoods he could not stifle the wail of despair that rose from his lips. The lodges, the huts, the drying-racks for hides and jerky, everything was in flames. Lizardmen ran to and fro, forked tongues flicking menacingly from their jaws.
Yet, as the creatures piled more and more of the tribe’s possessions onto the bonfires, Ashtaway sensed a frustration, a bitter sense of failure in the monsters’ demeanor. Heart pounding, the Kagonesti warrior looked around, realizing with a glimmer of hope that there were no bodies! The villagers, most of them at least, must have escaped.
At the moment of his realization, one of the bakali warriors spotted Ash and uttered a shrill warning bark. Immediately several reptilian warriors converged.
But this was the grove where Ashtaway had spent the greater portion of his life. He didn’t need to look overhead as he thrust the axe haft through his belt and leapt, strong hands closing around the limb he remembered. Nimbly swinging upward, Ash rose to his feet on the sturdy bough, some ten feet above the ground. One of the lizardmen prodded upward with a spear, and Ashtaway reached down with lightning quickness, snatching the weapon away.
Standing again, he raised the shaft to his shoulder and threw it at its original wielder. The crude flint spearhead gouged a painful wound in the monster’s side and sent the other bakali scrambling backward.
With another upward leap, Ashtaway seized a second branch, scampering along this one until he reached the deep shadows near the tree trunk. The lizardmen scrambled toward the bole of the mighty vallenwood, jabbing upward with their spears.
A few of the monsters leapt, grasped the lower branches with their clawed hands, then scrambled up toward the waiting elf. Ashtaway met the first of these with a slashing blow of his axe, chopping off a forepaw that reached too far upward. Another bakali tumbled backward, bleeding, and the rest of the monsters paused.
Ash cawed at them like a taunting crow, dancing rudely back and forth on the limb, just out of reach of the lizardmen’s crude weapons. He watched the slitted yellow eyes narrow hatefully, saw the tongues flicking in and out of the scaly jaws as more of the monsters raced to the tree.
When a large crowd of the brutes had gathered, Ashtaway leapt upward again, pulling up to the next limb, then bounding still farther above. Soon dark shadows cloaked him as the branches pressed closer, and he knew he was fully masked from below. At the same time he heard the snapping of branches, and the muttered cursing of his enemies – obviously the mud-dwelling bakali had entered the foreign realm of the treetops in their search for the vexsome Kagonesti.
Balancing with easy grace, Ash stepped away from the thick tree trunk along a slender but sturdy limb. Pacing his steps carefully, he was able to move without causing the rustling sounds that accompanied each lizardman’s presence. The branch began to sag as he neared the end, but from here he could see the stout limb of a neighboring tree, extending to within a dozen feet of his position.
Hurling himself into space, Ash felt the stinging passage of branches whipping across his skin. For a brief moment he flew between the trees, and then his hands unerringly seized the supple branches of the next vallenwood. As the limb bent downward, the Kagonesti swung into the concealment of enclosing branches. In a few seconds, he dashed all the way to the tree trunk, where, once again concealed by shadows, he stealthily worked his way upward.
Shouts and barks rose from the ground. Ash knew that his leap had been observed, but the lizardmen would have trouble catching him no matter which tree protected him, and sooner or later the elf would find an escape route concealed from below.
High in the sheltered boughs, Ashtaway threw himself flat on a broad limb – a branch that had been one of his favorite vantages since the village had been here. Crawling outward like a snake, keeping his body atop the thick branch, he remained invisible to the watchers below. The sturdy wood bent only slightly from his weight, and soon he emerged from the thicket to get a good view of the clearing on the lake shore.
The heavy cloak of leaves concealed any glimpse of the sky overhead. So dense was the foliage that the smoke had begun to collect underneath it, just as a smoldering cook fire obscured the ceiling of a lodge. The edge of the bluff dropped toward the lake beyond the far line of trees. The lone pathway to the water followed the floor of a narrow, steep-sided ravine descending from the edge of the village clearing. Two Kagonesti warriors lay, cruelly hacked, at the mouth of this ravine. Obviously they had been a rear guard, holding so that the rest of the villagers could escape.
Ashtaway saw no sign of the rest of his villagemates, which he took as good news. It seemed that most of the Kagonesti had escaped. His heart burned with hatred as he watched the lizardmen ransack and destroy the village. Yet everything, from houses to drying racks to the furs, pots, and spices that were the possessions of each family, was replaceable. It was the lives of his people for which he felt the most fear.
Peering into the grass choking the upper end of the ravine, Ashtaway saw a telltale bending of the long-bladed plants. Someone – several people, actually – concealed themselves there, where they, too, could watch the destruction of the village. Some of his fellow warriors, he suspected, had returned to spy on their enemies. The Kagonesti braves should be safe, since the minor waving of the reeds was not likely to attract the attention of the brutish bakali.
Then Ash’s heart almost stopped beating as he saw a tall, proud figure stand among the long-bladed grass. He recognized the hawklike features, the feathered ceremonial cape of the Pathfinder – but why would Iydaway expose himself? Other Kagonesti – a half dozen young warriors – rose behind Iydaway. Resolutely, the small band of elves started from the ravine into the smoky clearing. They had not yet been observed by the plundering lizardmen, but Ash knew they would inevitably be seen – probably in a matter of seconds.
Ashtaway released his grip on the branch, rolled to the side, and plunged downward with dizzying speed. Shouts of triumph rose from below, bringing a grim smile to the falling elf. With precise timing he seized a lower limb, arresting his fall and swinging himself back into the concealment of the vallenwood greenery.
Again he raised his head and taunted his enemies with the cawing of a crow – the most insulting sound in the long list of Kagonesti malignery. As if they sensed his scorn, the bakali grew frantic, howling and snapping ferociously. Several of them threw spears into the tree. One of the weapons thunked into the bark near Ashtaway, and the elf quickly pulled it free, hurling it firmly toward the chest of its caster.
But now whoops and shrieks rose from across the clearing, and Ash knew that Iydaway’s small band had been discovered. “Why?” he groaned aloud. Why did his uncle risk his life like this?
Dropping lower, Ash got a look at the courageous, futile charge – six Kagonesti warriors and an old man, brandishing a mixture of swords, axes, and spears, charging into a camp occupied by perhaps a hundred savage lizardmen. Howling madly, the elves attacked with such valor that, at first the bakali scrambled to get out of the path of these mad fighters.
Iydaway was not as quick as he had been three centuries before, but the Pathfinder still flew over the ground with grace and balance. The old elf feinted a charge directly across the camp, then turned and led his small party toward the smoldering wreckage of a large, ceremonial hut.
The bakali closed in, and two of the younger warriors halted, meeting the charging lizardmen with steel swords, holding them at bay while Iydaway and the other warriors raced toward the ruined hut. Reaching the smoldering wreckage, the venerable elf plunged into the hot coals, kicking his feet through the ashes on what had once been the floor of his home.
Ashtaway cried out in fury as he saw the pair of rear warriors fall, rended savagely beneath the talons and fangs of the bakali. Dropping to the ground in the midst of his enemies, Ash struck th
is way and that with his axe, carving painful wounds into several of the lizardmen before he again leapt upward and pulled himself to the minimal safety of a tree branch.
But now, at least, he had begun to guess at his uncle’s motives. There was only one possession of the tribe that was truly irreplaceable, a treasure that would always be passed from generation to generation. It had been entrusted to Iydaway before Ash had been born, and often the young warrior had watched as his uncle made music or ritual with the celebrated artifact.
Now, the young warrior knew that Iydaway had gone to retrieve the Ram’s Horn.
One of the Kagonesti protecting Iyda fell, pierced by a bakali spear, while the three who remained fought desperately to screen the elder. None of the lizardmen seemed willing to brave the heat of the coals in pursuit. They would wait for the old warrior to burn, or to emerge from the ruins into range of their weapons. One, then another of the warriors fell, cruelly slashed. Many more bakali had gathered in a ring around the base of Ash’s tree, fully encircling even the vast sweep of the vallenwood’s branches.
Ashtaway moved with the speed of thought, flying like an arrow from the limb, driving his head into a lizardman’s back. The creature went down, its spine shattered, and the Kagonesti rolled away from the body, bouncing to his feet beyond the enclosing ring of bakali.
Racing toward the ruins of his uncle’s lodge, Ash chopped down the only reptilian warrior who tried to stand in his path. He saw the last warrior of the Pathfinder’s escort die, pierced by a stone-tipped spear. Iydaway, a blackened shape in his hand, abruptly threw his hatchet, dropping one of the lizardmen standing warily beyond the coals. Ash shrieked like a hunting hawk, racing at the other two, madly brandishing his bloodied axe. A crowd of howling lizardmen pursued the fleet Kagonesti.
The elder warrior snatched up his weapon and leapt into step beside his nephew, sprinting for the largest of the village vallenwoods. Ash didn’t risk a glance backward, but as he slowed his pace to match Iydaway’s he knew that the enraged bakali had begun to close the gap.