The History of Krynn: Vol V

by Dragon Lance

  Their pounding feet carried them across the empty ceremonial circle at the center of the village. Since a mighty vallenwood stood beside this circle, steps had been pegged into the trunk and a platform of branches had been erected some twenty feet off the ground. It was one of the few Kagonesti sites that had not yet felt the scorching flames of plunder.

  At the foot of the tree, Ash whirled, crouching with his axe upraised. He heard Iydaway scramble up the wooden steps as the young elf slashed his weapon through the air, so fast that the steel edge vanished in a blur. The bakali had learned to respect that razorlike surface. In one mass, the pursuing warriors skidded to a halt, the mob expanding to encircle the tree and try to rush at Ash from the flanks.

  Ashtaway gave his uncle two heartbeats to get up the steps, knowing that a moment longer would give dozens of lizardmen time to overwhelm him. Springing upward and back, still slashing with his long-shafted axe, the warrior retreated up the steps. The wooden pegs were too narrow to support more than one foot at a time, but he held his balance long enough to reach the first of several handy branches.

  A bakali leapt at the elf’s foot, but tumbled back with a bloody gash in its forepaw. Others barked and howled at the rear of the mob before turning about and racing to a nearby lodge. Drawing partially burned sticks from the blaze, the lizardmen waved them through the air until yellow flames crackled and trails of smoke dwindled in the air. Bearing their makeshift torches, the creatures hastened back to the tree.

  By this time Ash had joined his uncle on the ceremonial platform. Above them the bole of the tree rose into the limitless heights, challenging the clouds and leading through innumerable pathways into a dozen neighboring trees. Still clutching the blackened horn, Iydaway started upward. His nephew followed, waiting only long enough to cut the lashing of the platform and drop the heavy wooden structure onto the dozen or so bakali foolish enough to stand directly underneath.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE PATHFINDER

  “Your warning gave us time to flee the village,” Iydaway explained. “We made many of the lizardmen pay for their cruelty, but brave elves gave their lives in that cause.”

  “I found Warrican at his post, slain by surprise attack,” Ashtaway said.

  “Palqua and Thyll held at the mouth of the ravine for a long time. They gave the rest of the villagers time to reach the foot of the bluff and make their way along the shore.”

  The two Kagonesti padded silently along the forest floor, a mile from the ruined village. They made their way toward a grotto in the heart of the vallenwood forest. Years ago it had been selected as the tribe’s gathering point in the event of disaster.

  “And more died to regain the Ram’s Horn,” Ashtaway noted. “Is it so precious, Uncle, that six warriors should perish to save it?”

  Iydaway sighed and shook his head. The spiraling tattoos on his cheeks and chin masked his grief, but Ash knew that the question had hurt the elder warrior, and with that knowledge came regret that he had asked it. But his uncle held up a hand as if to dissuade the younger elf’s guilt. The leafy pattern inked onto Iyda’s palm had a soothing effect on Ash, and again he breathed deeply as he awaited a reply.

  “It is not, in truth, worth the sacrifice of a single life – at least, not that we can say with certainty,” Iydaway declared, his voice rhythmic, almost songlike. “But in the same truth it may be worth the saving of a hundred lives, of the whole tribe. And then who knows? If I had known that those young braves would die – or that I would live – would my decision have been the same?”

  Ash waited, knowing that this was not a question he could answer.

  “In truth, I had to go and get the horn. As long as I live, it is not a thing I can abandon. Were you to throw it into the deepest sea, I should be compelled to dive in after it, drowning in the attempt to plunge the depths. Should you cast it into the fiery crater of one of the Lords of Doom, I must need pursue it, walking through fire as long as blood flowed in my veins. I am the Pathfinder, and such is my destiny and my fate – a destiny that I willingly bear.”

  Iydaway paused, shaking his head sadly. Ash was surprised to see tears in his eyes. When the old elf spoke, his voice had returned to its natural tone.

  “To answer your question, if I had known that my protectors would perish in the attempt, I would have ordered them to remain behind.”

  “And perished by yourself,” Ash confirmed.

  “And the horn would still be lost to the tribe,” agreed the elder.

  Ashtaway took the sooty spiral and tried to wipe it clean with his hands, succeeding only partially. Still, the shine of the smoothly curled horn seemed to gleam through the dirt, as bright as sunlight in the shadowed forest depths.

  “Is it truly made from the horn of a great ram?” Ash asked skeptically. Though he had enjoyed the music of the horn at village ceremonies and knew that his uncle cherished it above any other object, the young warrior realized that he knew very little about the treasured item. At the same time, with a shiver of portent, he remembered that he had to tell the Pathfinder about Lectral.

  Iydaway shrugged. “That is what Callista Pathfinder, my granduncle, told me, and his predecessor – the Pathfinder Barcalla – told him. The legend declares that, in the Age of Dreams, the Elderwild Kagonos carved it from the horn of the Grandfather Ram – the creature he met, as you know, among the highest peaks of the Khalkists.”

  “Uncle, I heard the second Ram’s Horn.” Iydaway’s eyes widened, but he made no reply. With careful attention to detail, Ashtaway told the tale of his summons from Lectral, and the subsequent encounter with the wounded dragon. Iydaway nodded sagely, clearly unsurprised by the information – a fact which, in itself, surprised Ash a great deal.

  “It is fitting that you were the one who heard,” Iyda said, smiling gently.

  “Myself – and Hammana,” Ash noted.

  “Yes, and Hammana. That part puzzles me.”

  “Her healing has been a great help to Lectral – some of his wounds might otherwise have killed him.”

  “Indeed.” Iydaway walked in silence for a time. When he spoke, his question took Ashtaway by surprise. “Does it seem as though the mantle of Pathfinder is a burdensome thing, Nephew?”

  “No – well, perhaps yes. It is an important task, I know. And no wild elf should find it difficult to stay away from the House Elf cities. But for a man to go through life without taking a wife … that, it seems, might be a lonely choice.”

  “The Pathfinders of the wild elves, from Father Kagonesti on, have been solitary elves, true. Perhaps, because of this, we have not felt that lack as much as another might.”

  “I know that they have been great leaders, Uncle, and a strong bond to unite all the tribes.”

  “Indeed, it was Father Kagonesti who gave birth to our freedom. Without our first Pathfinder, there would be no tribes today.”

  “And you, Uncle, have shown the tribes the way to survive the Dragon War. Finding the paths deep in the forests, seeking these glades where the trees shield us from the sky … we owe you much.”

  “Ah … but that is a sadness, that we must forever hide from the sky. At least we, at the Bluelake, have the best of the deep forest – for our shore gives us a glimpse of open waters and sky.”

  “When the war ends, then perhaps we’ll seek the high valleys again, where the wild elves lived for hundreds of years,” Ash mused. He himself had always loved the heights and had spent much of his youth exploring the mountains within a fifty-mile radius of the Bluelake. Yet, despite these sojourns, Ash was not by nature a solitary elf and always rejoiced when he returned to the company of his villagemates.

  “It will be the task of the Pathfinder to lead us there,” Iydaway agreed. “Though I have found the path may best be chosen through discussion among the people, perhaps spiced with a bit of persuasion by myself. In this, I am different from Callista or Barcalla. My predecessors – following the example of Father Kagonesti – would show the path and exp
ect the tribe to follow. For me, it is better when we talk first, then move.”

  Ashtaway nodded thoughtfully, curious that his uncle chose to explain this philosophy to him.

  The two Kagonesti continued in silence, remaining alert for pursuit. Once they heard the hoot of an owl and looked up to see a tattooed warrior waving them on. A few minutes later, they joined the rest of the tribe in the shadowed depths of the vallenwood grove. A pool of still water reflected the darkening sky, and Ash’s heart broke at the sight of the many frightened faces peering out from behind the mighty trunks.

  The elves would not risk many fires tonight, but they felt secure for the moment from bakali pursuit. A dozen warriors stood duty in the woods, posted in pairs and observing from the treetops fully a mile away from this secret grotto.

  The rest of the tribe, save for the nine warriors who had fallen during the battle, now awaited the communal decision as to their next course of action.

  Ashtaway quickly sought out Wallaki, Hammana’s father. The old shaman, a respected figure in the tribe, had been given a straw mat underneath a lush vallenwood, where he would be as comfortable as possible. Resting a small gourd over a patch of glowing coals, Wallaki mixed some kind of medicinal brew with herbs and water. The shaman raised his darkly tattooed face hopefully as Ash approached, though his eyes seemed to search beyond the warrior’s shoulder.

  “I – I had hoped …” The shaman’s voice choked, and Ash was grateful that he could ease his fears.

  “Hammana is safe, not near the village,” Ash said, explaining the summons that had drawn the two of them into the foothills. “Now she remains with Lectral, healing his wounds, which are many and deep.”

  “Hammana tends a silver dragon?” The shaman nodded without surprise, studying the strong-smelling brew that bubbled over his fire. “That is a wondrous thing for anyone, and the highest honor of all to a Kagonesti healer! But are you sure she is safe?”

  “Safer than beside the Bluelake,” Ash said wryly. “But, in truth, Lectral is a fine dragon, and grateful for her attentions. And though he cannot fly, he can certainly protect her from any other threats that might lurk in the woods.”

  “That is very well, then,” Wallaki agreed, before turning back to his potion and beginning a mystical chant.

  Ashtaway joined the warriors who gathered around the Pathfinder and his spiral Ram’s Horn. Iydaway played the instrument slowly, mournfully, the music cushioning and echoing the grieving of the tribe for its lost warriors. He ceased playing long enough to recount the story of Ashtaway’s attack, and other warriors – who had seen parts of the battle from distant treetops – chimed in with further praise. Ash sat tall and proud, deeply warmed by the praise of his comrades. Warrican’s father recounted a list of the dead, and after each name, the warriors chanted a pledge, promising that the deaths would be avenged.

  Finally the Pathfinder lowered his horn. The other braves waited expectantly until he spoke. “Our homes are destroyed, and the hated enemy camps in the ruins of our lodges. Some of us have died, but many more still live. Now we must decide what to do.”

  “Let us return to the lake shore during the night. We’ll kill the lizardmen and reclaim our village!” spat a young warrior, Ampruss, whose father had been one of the first warriors to fall.

  “Already the bakali have given me cause to grieve,” argued Maggera, newly widowed mother of Ampruss. “Let us escape with those lives we have saved.”

  “Perhaps we can muster other tribes to aid our attack,” suggested an older warrior. “The Whitetail village is but two days away, the Silvertrouts barely another day beyond. Shall we get them to help?”

  “It would take too long,” Ash suggested. “These bakali came to raid our village. I don’t think they want to live there.”

  “We should attack quickly! The lake shore has been our home for a full century,” stated Faltath, a veteran warrior and lifelong friend of Ashtaway. “Are we such cowards as to be driven away by a single attack?”

  “It is not a matter of cowardice, but perhaps destiny,” Iydaway demurred. All the other arguments ceased as the Kagonesti waited for the honored Pathfinder to continue.

  “We know that war has blackened the northern plains and extended far into the mountains and forest lands as well. The dragons of the Dark Queen fly ever farther, it seems, always seeking to extend the range of her deadly servants.

  “Now we can go back to the village and kill many bakali,” Iydaway continued, the firm resolve in his voice indicating that he, personally, would derive great satisfaction from this bloodletting. Then his tone took on a sadder, more wistful sound. “But I fear we may not be so lucky when the lizardmen come again. If Ashtaway had not been returning from his hunt, we would be weeping for many more of our people tonight.”

  “The bakali never came before! Why do you say that they will come again?” persisted Faltath, who had earlier counseled attack. He was a huge elf, nearly as big as a human, and had been Ashtaway’s main rival in the arts of the hunt and battle during his early years. Though they had become different as they matured, Ash still admired Faltath’s strength and his determination when faced with a course of action. The big warrior’s face was obscured by spiraling whorls of black ink, so that his eyes flashed from the middle of an apparently spinning vortex. Now they glowed with anger, an accusation against any brave unwilling to join his proposed attack.

  “Because that is the way of wars,” Iydaway responded, “of all great wars, at least. And the war that plagues Ansalon now is such a war. This I know. It is a great monster whose reach has been sweeping ever closer, until today we were grazed by a single talon on the far fringes of its great body, well removed from its dark and bloody heart.

  “Yet the talon has learned that it can reach us, and when next it strikes it will be with the full force of a paw, or a mighty leg. The next time perhaps the bakali will have time to surround us, or they may come with ogres, even dragons. Then the killing will fall upon us.”

  “Dragons do not care about the forest floor,” argued Faltath, his fist clenching around the heavy hilt of his longsword.

  “This is not true, not anymore,” Ashtaway declared. He told of the battle between the twin red dragons and the armored knights. His wonder at the knightly courage choked his voice, and for the first time he profoundly regretted his silence, knowing that he should have warned the humans of the impending attack. Understanding that the other braves regarded the presence of the knights to be as great a threat as the red dragons, he tried to reach them with his eyes, to show them that, somehow, these humans were different from the land-stealing men who had been the lifelong enemies of the tribe.

  As he spoke, his listeners remained silent. “Not only were human riders patrolling this part of the forest, but the dragons who flew overhead were also searching the ground. If they had spotted the village, it is foolish to think that they would not attack, simply because they haven’t done so before.”

  “But the lizardmen must be taught a lesson, just as we would slay the humans if we found them near the village!” Faltath argued furiously. “We know that Ashtaway fought and killed many bakali, while the rest of us fled! How can we let them think we run with our women and children at the first sight of an enemy, not daring to exact revenge?”

  “We cannot let them think this,” Iydaway declared bluntly, momentarily silencing the belligerent warrior. Faltath eyed the Pathfinder carefully, waiting to hear his next suggestion.

  “The lizardmen must be punished for their attack. But we, the Kagonesti of the Bluelake, must also find a new home. It is clear that the war will no longer leave us in peace – and it is equally clear that, though this is not our struggle, it has the power to sweep us into its grip and destroy us.”

  “How will the bakali be punished?” demanded Faltath, as if he had not heard the rest of the elder’s pronouncement.

  “We will make an attack, savage and unrelenting, that slays many and drives the rest from our village.
They shall know it as a place of defeat and death – but even so, we shall no longer live there.”

  “But … where do we go?” asked Ampruss.

  “We shall move south, past even the village of the Silvertrout, into the heart of the woodlands between the two great mountain ranges of the world. There we shall find a new lake, and there we will make our new home.”

  “It is decided, then,” said Faltath bluntly. “We march to the south, but not until we have slain many, many bakali.”

  “Indeed,” Iydaway said. “And that is enough talking for me. I shall leave it to you warriors to plan the attack.”

  CHAPTER 13

  VENGEFUL ARROWS

  Ashtaway looked to his right, across the space between the lofty vallenwood trees. Faltath, his tattooed face locked in a grimace of fury, signaled that he was ready. With a look to the left, Ash saw Balkas, a young archer with a patient and deadly eye. The bowman had an arrow drawn back to his cheek, and Ashtaway knew that his tribemate already had a bakali in his sights.

  “The braves are almost ready,” Ash whispered to Iydaway, knowing that the warriors on the flanks were still moving into position.

  The Pathfinder nodded. “Soon,” he replied, his words as soft as the night breeze.

  Ash deeply regretted his uncle’s presence in the tree, with the battle so imminent. The Pathfinder had been a mighty warrior in his day, but Ashtaway would have been much happier if the old elf had consented to wait with the other elders, safe in the forest grotto, until the attack was over. He knew better than to argue with the stubborn Pathfinder, however – all he could do was resolve to keep an eye out for him as much as possible.

  The ruined village sprawled below them. Lodges and huts still smoldered, but no trace of their wooden frameworks jutted from the soft ash. The central circle, beside the greatest vallenwood, was strewn with rubble and debris. In the fullness of the predawn dark, the shapeless bundles that were sleeping bakali lay haphazardly about the village, exhausted from their battle and its subsequent revelry. The lizardmen were not totally careless. They had posted several guards around the periphery of their captured glade, but these sentries had been no match for Kagonesti stealth. Now, each of those guards was dead, throat slit by an elven warrior.