by Dragon Lance
Kaz tested the axe, swinging it this way and that, performing maneuvers with it that would have left many another fighter without at least one leg and several fingers. At the end of the short exercise, he hooked it into his harness with one graceful motion. His eyes were bright with pleasure, though he tried to conceal his enthusiasm. “Excellent balance.”
Sardal nodded, impressed in spite of himself with the minotaur’s skill. “May you need it as little as possible. I am sorry that I have no horse to lend you, but I can lead you along a path that will make up some of the time you have lost.”
“Lead me? You’re going with me?”
“Only to the edge of the forest.” Sardal pointed in a northerly direction. “Beyond that, you will be in the desolation of northern Solamnia. Since you have been kind enough to take that scroll to Argaen, I see no reason to enter that unclean land myself.”
“Is it that bad?”
The elf gave him a curious look. “How long has it been since you were last there?”
“After the death ceremony for my companion, Huma, I rode south and have not since ridden back. I have visited the lands east, west, and south of Solamnia, save that part of Istar my people call home, but never have I come within a hundred miles of that region again.”
“You respected Huma greatly.”
“Do you know the Solamnic phrase ‘Est Sularus oth Mithas’?”
“‘My honor is my life.’ Yes, I have heard it before. It generally precedes the Oath and Measure of the knighthood.”
A somber look crossed the minotaur’s bullish visage. “Huma of the Lance embodied that phrase; he was that phrase. I’ve tried to live up to his memory since his death. I don’t know how well I’ve succeeded, if at all.”
“You’ve been unwilling to return to Vingaard solely because of that.” There was no mockery in Sardal’s voice.
Kaz gathered up his things. “I have. If you’d ever met Huma, you’d understand. We met when he rescued me from a band of goblins who had trapped me by surprise. To say that he was shocked at what he’d rescued would not be far from the truth, but that didn’t deter him. Minotaur, human, or even goblin, Huma always sought the best in a being.” Kaz paused. “I think he cried inside for nearly every foe slain. I rode beside him long enough to see that. From our first encounter with the silver dragon to the final confrontation with Takhisis, he was a human who embodied the good of the world. He dared the unthinkable, too, whether that meant defending a minotaur against his fellow knights or seeking out the Dragonlances, which were our only hope.”
Crystalthorn remained silent as Kaz paused again briefly to organize his thoughts, but his eyes glittered as he listened.
“We were separated time and again, but each time I met a Huma who, despite the adversities fate had placed before him, refused to give in. He was the first to make use of the Dragonlances, and he led the attack when there were but a couple dozen of us, mounted on dragons of our own, to face the dragon hordes of the dark goddess. I say us, elf, because he allowed me to be one of the select, an honor like none I shall ever know again. Most of the riders and their dragon companions died before it was over, and a braver group I’ve never met, but the greatest was Huma. He faced Takhisis with only the silver dragon, whose human form he loved dearly, at his side and defeated Takhisis, though it cost him his life.” Kaz shivered. “I arrived as he completed the pact with the Dragonqueen, her freedom for Krynn’s. By then, Huma was almost dead. He asked me to pull the Dragonlance from the goddess’s thrashing body – she wore the form of the five-headed dragon then – and despite my overwhelming fear – fear I still recall to this day – I performed that horrible task because Huma had asked it of me. I don’t think I could have done it for anyone else.”
Sardal waited, but after Kaz had not spoken for several seconds, he prompted, “And?”
The minotaur looked at Sardal with reddened eyes. “And he died, elf! Died before I could get back to him, find help for him! I’d sworn my life to protect his, and I failed him!”
Kaz busied himself with rearranging his equipment. Crystalthorn hesitated and finally, quietly, commented, “I think you find it harder to face your companion’s spirit than you do your own people.”
The minotaur, his things in hand, was already walking in the direction the elf had indicated. His response was low, almost muffled, but Sardal’s sharp ears still made out the single word as the elf moved to catch up.
“Yes.”
*
They had come to a blighted section of the forest. Some of the trees ahead of them were dead, and it reminded the minotaur of the war.
“When I was with Huma,” Kaz was saying, “we thought that all Ansalon must be like this – dead or dying forests and little, if any, wildlife other than carrion crows and other scavengers. It seemed amazing that so many areas had not suffered nearly the damage we thought they had during the war.”
Sardal agreed grimly. “The northern portion of the continent suffered most, but there are areas in every corner of Ansalon that will not be normal for years to come – even in Qualinesti or Silvanesti. Our much vaunted solitude gave us nothing. Men won the war for us, though some remember only that men also fought for the forces of darkness.”
They camped in the forest overnight. Kaz had, at one point, assumed that Sardal was going to lead him along some magic path, but the only magic lay in the fact that only an elf could have ever found this obscure trail.
The night passed without incident – Kaz could scarcely believe it – and the two continued on. They were beyond the point where the minotaur had been thrown into the river, but Kaz paused this day to stare at the rushing water anyway.
“I lost a good comrade here as well.”
“I see no reason why you might not meet up with the kender once more.”
Kaz laughed. “It was not Delbin I was thinking of, though, horrible as it is to admit, I grew used to him. No, elf, I was referring to a strong, loyal horse I’d ridden for five years and never even given a name.” He touched the axe handle. “If some give weapons names, a good steed certainly deserves one.”
“Give him one now.” Sardal smiled. He had never met a minotaur like this!
The minotaur nodded. “When I think of a worthy one.”
They continued on, and early the next day they finally reached the last of the trees. Beyond, the ghost forest began.
“Astra’s Harp!” cursed Sardal. The elf was visibly shaken.
Kaz, meanwhile, found himself caught in the past. Before him stood a nearly dead land, seemingly untouched since the war. He remembered the goblins and the dragons, the piles of dead, and the curses of the ogre and human commanders as they drove the minotaurs forward. The battles gave him a moment of pride, until he recalled that it was Huma’s comrades he had fought much of the time. There had been other battles, this time alongside the Knights of Solamnia, and about those he felt better.
Five years. By now he would have expected to see at least a few tender shoots, a blade of wild grass or two – not this barren deathscape before them.
He heard what sounded like thunder and looked up into the sky, only to understand belatedly what it was he was actually listening to.
“Riders!” Kaz pulled Sardal back.
Some distance away and riding as if the Dragonqueen was on their tail, could be seen a band of knights, twenty, perhaps. As the two watched, the party rode unhesitatingly through the dead forest. They could have only one destination in mind, Kaz knew: Vingaard Keep.
“Those knights come from different outposts and keeps,” the elf commented.
Kaz wondered how he knew and then recalled the tales of how superior the vision of elves was. “They come from different places?”
Sardal nodded. “I was able to glimpse some markings. Each knight has an insignia that represents the keep or outpost he is attached to. Most of the southern forts are represented in that group. It is curious. I am almost tempted to go with you, if I did not have other important ma
tters. …”
The elf quieted, as if he had said too much. Kaz pretended his attention was still totally focused on the vanishing riders. “They should get there days ahead of me. Perhaps the Knights of Solamnia prepare for yet another war.”
“Against whom?”
“I can’t say,” Kaz muttered. “But it would explain in part why they seem to have turned their backs on their people. It may be that the remnants of Takhisis’s armies are gathering together. I could have misjudged them.”
“Do you think so?”
“I won’t know until I get there.” Even to Kaz, the words sounded lacking.
Sardal straightened. “I will leave you, then.” He held out a hand, palm toward the minotaur. “May E’li and Astra guide you – also Kiri-Jolith, who I think would particularly care what happens to you.”
Kiri-Jolith was the god of honorable battle and resembled a man with a bison’s head. Typical of some of the contrary ways of the minotaur race, he was held by some in as high regard as Sargas, Takhisis’s consort, despite the fact that, if they met, the two gods would have fought a battle royal. Kiri-Jolith was E’li’s – Paladine’s – son.
The minotaur returned Sardal’s hand sign, then turned his eyes briefly to the ghostly forest he was about to enter. “I think my easiest route would be to follow the knights. They’ve left me a fairly obvious trail. What do you say, Sardal Crystalthorn?”
When Sardal did not answer, Kaz turned back to where he had last seen the elf. There was no sign of his benefactor, not even a footprint. Kaz knelt down and studied the ground. He could follow his own footprints for as far as he could see, but of Sardal’s, there was no trace. It was if he had never been there.
Kaz grunted and rose. “Elves.”
He turned back to the bleak lands of northern Solamnia, and shouldering his pack so that it would not interfere should he need the services of Honor’s Face, he started walking. Before he was a hundred paces into the wasteland, he became aware of the sudden absence of all the normal sounds of the forest save one – a familiar one from the war.
Somewhere a carrion crow was calling to its brethren. Kaz knew that the only time they cried like that was when a feast was imminent. Somehow the birds were always there when warriors were about to die; then they would perch and wait for the feast.
The minotaur hoped it was not the crows they were expecting.
Chapter 7
Though there were few clouds in the sky, the sun did not shine as brightly in this bleak region. Kaz could not come up with any suitable explanation. Perhaps the entire land suffered under some affliction, or perhaps it would take years for the Dragonqueen’s curse to fade. He only knew that he would be very happy to be away from this land.
Occasionally there were signs of life. The minotaur’s first glimpse of a wild green plant brought him more pleasure than he would have thought possible. Northern Solamnia was not quite a corpse, then. A struggle for existence was going on.
Night came swiftly and, with it, a relief of sorts. In the darkness, most every land looked the same. The dead trees might have been live ones merely waiting for spring to come, although Kaz knew otherwise. The only things missing in the night were the sounds of the forest. Once he did hear a scavenger cry out to the moons. Somehow those creatures always managed to survive in the desolate areas. A few insects made their presence known, but compared to the usual cacophony of night, the forest seemed empty.
Almost empty. As he was bedding down, something huge and incredibly swift flew over him but vanished before he could even look up. Kaz had only the impression of a massive creature with long, wide wings. His first thought was that it was a dragon, until he recalled in irritation that the dragons – all of the dragons – had vanished at the war’s end. The dragons of darkness had been cast out by Huma. The dragons of light had departed voluntarily, so some said, in order to preserve the balance. No one really knew for certain. Whatever the night flier was, it did not return. Unnerved, Kaz ate a modest meal and settled down.
The minotaur slept uneasily that first night. It was not a feeling he could put his finger on. During the night, he tossed and turned. By morning, Kaz had awakened at least seven times, each and every such moment vivid with the expectation that some goblin was about to cut his throat or some ghoulish horror was rising from the dry earth to claim him. Once Kaz dreamed that the dreadwolf was back, its burning, dead eyes staring at him, demanding answers to questions he could not recall, mocking his ideals.
He continued to follow the trail left by the party of knights. Vingaard Keep was their destination; of that, there was no doubt. Judging by the tracks left by their horses, they were continuing at as fast a pace as they could manage. They would arrive in Vingaard several days before Kaz, which suited him perfectly. Kaz wanted no more confrontations before he reached the keep.
The second day gave way to the third, which gave way region – that could destroy so many trained warriors with so little difficulty?
Kaz reached back and pulled his battle-axe free. Cautiously he approached the first of the dead. This one had been crushed to death by the body of a horse as it fell. He was a young knight, a Knight of the Crown, as Huma had been. His sword lay just beyond his twisted hand. The minotaur glanced momentarily at the weapon and then returned his gaze to it when he noticed peculiar marks and abrasions. He reached down and, with his free hand, picked it up.
The sword was chipped, dented, and scratched beyond belief. Kaz had never met a knight who did not pay careful attention to the condition of his equipment. Soldiers in general learned early to take care of their personal possessions, especially their weapons. This sword, however, looked as if the knight had been beating it against a stone wall. And the stone wall had won.
He returned the sword to its rightful owner and moved on. The next knight had fared no better; half of his body lay elsewhere. Kaz snarled and quickly walked past. In the main group, he counted the corpses of sixteen men and eighteen horses. There was some indication that at least a couple of horses had ridden off, but whether there were riders as well as horses that escaped was a question with no foreseeable answer. Kaz found two more bodies beyond the camp, one with his head and helmet squeezed into a single mass and the other wrapped around a tree. All had been dead for at least a day, probably more.
Under other circumstances, the minotaur might have tried to give the knights proper burial. However, that would take far too much time, and it would be just his luck if another band of knights came along while he was in the midst of things. Kaz swore that, at the very worst, he would tell Lord Oswal what he had found. The knighthood would avenge its own, wouldn’t it?
He found another horse and two more bodies half a mile beyond the last ones, plus brand-new sets of prints to the fourth and fifth. Kaz was slowing down. The trail left by the knights avoided any villages, which possibly indicated that the riders were going out of their way to avoid other people. The minotaur dared draw no conclusion just yet.
Just after midday, he saw the birds again. Carrion crows.
By his estimate, there had to be several dozen. He could only make out the ones in flight at first, but as he continued on, Kaz spotted them perched in trees as well. Carrion crows were scavengers, and it was likely that they were feeding on the refuse left by the knights.
Somehow, though, Kaz felt otherwise. His pace quickened. A scent long familiar to him wafted past his widened nostrils. He snorted in open disgust.
Soon the number of birds had grown so great that Kaz began to wonder if they were preparing to attack a living creature such as himself. When he saw the extent of the carnage, however, Kaz knew that they need not be concerned with him.
As far as he could see, no one had been spared. The bodies lay spread out for some distance, as if whatever had killed them had heaved them into the air in every direction. Some of the riders had been torn apart, others crushed. There was blood everywhere, so much blood that even Kaz, who had fought in many violent battles, grew nause
ous. Here indeed was a vision out of his worst memories, his worst nightmares. The carnage here was comparable to anything he had ever witnessed or heard tales about. The group hadn’t had a chance against whatever had attacked. From the looks of things, the knights had been caught unaware after bedding down for the night. One victim was mangled in his bedroll.
These were the selfsame knights who had ridden past Kaz and Sardal only days before. Twenty or so men, all dead. Not cut down in battle, but torn apart as if by some huge, ravaging beast, though how could that be possible? What still existed in this region – or any in the dry, dusty soil. These he did not recognize. They were neither human nor horse, but too vague to be identified as anything else.
There were several sets of prints, and it appeared that these intruders had dragged two heavy objects. Kaz had a dawning suspicion of what he might find and quickened his pace, hoping he was not too late already.
In this area, there was little cover save the trees themselves. The minotaur, being as large as he was, had a difficult time concealing himself. Kaz suspected that there was a phalanx of guards around somewhere. Axe in hand, he was forced to crawl through rotting underbrush as he searched. Judging by the prints, there were at least seven or eight members in the group he was following.
A breeze brought the smell of burned meat to his nostrils, causing Kaz to snort in disgust. The smell he recognized as that of horseflesh, a disgusting odor for an even more disgusting meat. The minotaur had survived on such flesh several times during the war, and he had never learned to accept the taste.
With the scent of burning meat came the first snatches of conversation. The group was both amused and wary. They were goblins.
“Stick him again, Krynge!”
“Got nothing to say, shellhead?”
“Feed him to the flames, Krynge, and let us listen to his screams!”
“Naaa. Not till we know there ain’t more coming,” the one known as Krynge called back.