by Dragon Lance
Merith urged his horse forward, but the animal wanted no part of the giant. It reared and danced, trying to unseat its rider. The elf warrior held on and drew a yellow silk handkerchief from beneath his breastplate. It was a gift from a female admirer in Qualinost, but it served to cover his horse’s eyes and quieted the animal somewhat. Merith wrapped the reins around his mailed fist and spurred ahead.
The golem halted and bent stiffly at the waist. Bits of dried clay the size of an elf’s palm flaked off the giant’s joints and fell to the ground.
Merith watched, fascinated, as the monster’s hand split apart into five thick fingers. It plunged the hand into the ruins of a row of huts, and when it stood erect again, there was someone struggling in its grasp. The giant had the fellow by the throat. Merith saw that he was a Kagonesti elf.
Snapping down the visor on his helm, he charged at the monster. It paid no attention to him at all, even when Merith struck it full force with his sword. A wedge of hard white clay flew from the wound, but the giant was uninjured. The impact of the blow stung the elf warrior’s arm. Grimacing, he struck again. Another chip of clay flew, but to no avail; the poor wretch in the monster’s hand ceased kicking. The giant’s black eyes never blinked. Opening its fingers, it allowed the Kagonesti to drop to the ground close to Merith.
Crouched under the awning of a hut, Prince Ulvian took in the scene with satisfaction. The death of his tormentor, Splint, pleased him immensely. He also saw the warrior, Merithynos, trying to subdue the clay giant with his sword. The prince laughed out loud at the lieutenant’s antics, chopping at the mass of hard clay with comic futility.
Ulvian dashed down the lane, behind the busy Merith, up the hill toward Feldrin’s hut. The golem had stomped flat nearly every other structure around the master builder’s home. Ulvian burst through the door flap.
The outer room was empty. He searched every box and chest, with no result. The structure was divided by a canvas wall, the other half being Feldrin’s bedchamber. Ulvian bolted in and pulled up sharply. Feldrin himself stood guard over a small golden casket.
“So,” said the dwarf coolly, “you have joined forces with Drulethen.”
“Give me the amulet,” Ulvian said in a commanding tone.
“Don’t be a fool, boy! He’s using you. Can’t you see that? He’d promise anything to get his hands on that amulet again – and break every promise once he had it. He has no honor, Highness. He will destroy you if he has the chance.”
“Save your entreaties for someone else!” Ulvian’s voice was a harsh, angry rasp. “My father sent me here to suffer, and I’ve suffered enough. Drulethen has sworn to serve me, and serve me he will. You all think I’m a fool, but you’ll find out differently.” There was a loud crash nearby, and Ulvian added impatiently, “Now surrender the amulet, or the golem will crush you to jelly!”
Feldrin drew a jeweled shortsword from behind his back. “You will get it from me only after I’m dead,” he said solemnly.
Ulvian was unarmed. Feldrin’s keen sword and the steely look of determination in the dwarf’s eyes discouraged any rash action.
“You’ll regret this!” the prince declared, edging back toward the doorway in the canvas wall. “The golem won’t stand and argue with you. Once he comes, you will die!”
“Then it is by Reorx’s will.”
Furious, Ulvian dashed out of the tent. He nearly bowled over Dru, who was coming in his direction. The sorcerer cradled his left hand to his chest, and his ragged robes were soaked with sweat.
“Did you get it?” he cried, desperation glazing his eyes.
“No, Feldrin is guarding it. Why aren’t you with the brazier? Is the spell over?”
Dru mustered his strength; his spell had exhausted him. “I hung the doll over the brazier. The thong is almost burned in two. When it severs, the magic will end.”
The giant figure of the golem came into view over Dru’s shoulder. It had nearly reached the citadel. The parapets were lined with workers, many of whom were hurling stones at the unheeding monster.
“Can you control it?” asked Ulvian quickly. “If you can, then bring it here. It’s the only way to scare Feldrin into giving up the amulet!”
Wordlessly the sorcerer slid to his knees. His eyelids fluttered closed. Ulvian thought he had fainted, but Dru’s lips were moving slightly.
Abruptly the golem did a jerky about-face and came marching toward Feldrin’s hut. Merith dogged its heels, no longer slashing with his sword, but keeping it in view. When the elf warrior spied Ulvian and Dru, he put his head down and rode hard toward them.
“Merith is coming!” shouted the prince.
Still the sorcerer chanted. The golem’s wide, round head swiveled down to look at the mounted warrior. An arm the thickness of a mature oak limb swept down, knocking horse and rider to the ground. The horse let out a shriek and lay still. Merith struggled vainly but was pinned under his dead mount.
“That got him!” Ulvian cried, leaping into the air in his excitement.
“And I’ve got you,” said Feldrin from the door of his hut. Startled, the prince stepped back.
The dwarf had been a fighter of some note in his youth, and he knew how to handle a sword.
Raising the jeweled blade high, he advanced toward Dru. The sorcerer never flinched, so complete was his concentration. Ulvian flung himself at the dwarf and grappled with him. The golem was only a score of yards away, and its long stride ate up the distance rapidly.
“Let go!” roared Feldrin. “I’ve no wish to harm you, Prince Ulvian, but I must —”
His muscled arms pushed steadily against Ulvian’s lighter strength. The prince’s grip was slipping. Gleaming in the morning sun, Feldrin’s sword was only inches from the sorcerer’s skull.
A wall of white fell on the prince and the dwarf. Ulvian was knocked backward through the air, landing hard on a pile of torn canvas and broken tent stakes. The breath was driven from his body, and the world vanished in a red, roaring haze.
Hands propped the prince up. He gasped and fought for air, and at last breath whooshed into his lungs. His vision cleared, and he saw Dru kneeling beside him. Ulvian shook his head to clear it, for he saw a remarkable thing: The spell animating the golem had obviously ended and the giant had fallen on Feldrin’s hut, breaking into several large clay pieces. From under a barrel-sized portion of the monster’s torso, Feldrin’s fur-wrapped legs protruded. His feet twitched slightly. A groan sounded from under the mass of clay.
Dru was shaking and drenched with sweat, but his voice was triumphant as he said, “Where’s the amulet?” Ulvian stammered that Feldrin kept the onyx talisman in a golden box. The sorcerer dashed into the ruins of the master builder’s hut.
A profound silence had fallen over the construction camp. Ulvian blinked and gazed across the wrecked site. The walls of the citadel were lined with workers, all staring at him. Already some were leaving the parapet, no doubt to hurry to Feldrin’s rescue.
Dru was tearing through the broken bits of hut, muttering. Ulvian called out, “We must flee! The workers are coming!”
The sorcerer didn’t even respond, but kept up his frantic digging. Feldrin groaned once more, louder. Ulvian picked his way through the chunks of lifeless golem. He pushed a heavy slab of clay off the dwarf and knelt beside him.
“I regret this, Master Feldrin, “said the prince. “But injustice requires strong deeds.”
The dwarf coughed, and blood appeared on his lips. “Don’t go with Drulethen, my prince. With him lies only ruin and death....”
“Aha!” shouted the sorcerer, falling to his knees. He flung aside a bit of canvas, revealing the gilded box. No sooner did Dru stoop to pick it up than he shrieked in pain and dropped it again.
“You filthy worm!” he howled at Feldrin. “You put my amulet in a charmed case!” But Feldrin had lost consciousness and was beyond Dru’s maledictions.
“Come here!” the sorcerer barked peremptorily. “Pick up the box.”
Ulvian glared at him. “I’m not your servant,” he retorted.
The first band of workers from the citadel appeared at the end of the wrecked street. They were armed with hammers, staves, and mason’s tools. Eight men went to lift the dead horse off the fallen Merith. The warrior got stiffly to his feet and pointed expressively toward Feldrin’s tent.
“There’s no time for false pride now!” Dru spat. “Do you think those fools are going to pat us on the back for what we’ve done? It’s time to flee, and I can’t touch that wretched box. Pick it up, I say!”
Reluctantly Ulvian did so. Then he and the shaken sorcerer ran for the corral near the foot of the eastern slope. The prince snared two horses, short-legged mountain ponies, and boosted the weakened Dru onto one of them. Bareback, the pair rode hell-for-leather out the gate, scattering the other animals as they went. By the time the outraged workers reached the corral, not a single horse remained, and the only sign of the fugitives was a rapidly rising cloud of dust.
*
Merith stood by a crackling fire, which blazed in a wide stone urn outside Feldrin Feldspar’s hut. In spite of his badly bruised left leg, he had insisted on standing guard personally outside the master builder’s home. The entire camp was silent, and nothing stirred but the wavering flames before him. The lieutenant kept his cloak close around his throat to ward off a persistent chill.
The clip-clop of horse’s hooves alerted him. Quickly he stepped back from the fire, back into the deep shadows cast by the hut’s overhanging roof. Drawing his sword, he set his shield tightly on his forearm. The hoofbeats drew nearer.
A tall figure, mounted on a rather tired-looking sorrel, emerged from the night. The newcomer’s face and figure were obscured by a long, monkish robe with a deep hood. The rider approached the fire and dismounted. He peeled off a pair of deerskin gloves and held his long, tapered fingers to the heat. Merith watched carefully. Short plumes of warm breath issued from the stranger’s hood. Though he waited long minutes, the newcomer made no threatening moves. Warming his icy hands and body seemed to be his greatest concern. The lieutenant stepped out of the shadows and faced the robed figure.
“Who goes there?” he demanded.
“A weary traveler,” answered the stranger. He spoke through the lower edge of the hood, and his words were muffled. “I saw your fire from a distance and stopped to warm myself.”
“You are welcome, traveler,” Merith said warily.
“A naked sword is a strange welcome. Are you troubled by bandits hereabouts?”
“Not bandits. A single elf did all this. A sorcerer.”
The hooded one jerked his hands back from the fire. “A sorcerer! Why would a sorcerer trouble a lonely outpost such as this?”
“The evil one was a captive here, a prisoner of the King of Thorbardin and the Speaker of the Sun,” Merith explained. “Through treachery, he regained his powers, wrecked the camp, and escaped.”
The visitor passed a hand across his hidden brow. Merith caught the glint of metal at the fellow’s throat. Armor? Or just a decorative torc?
The stranger asked how the sorcerer had escaped. The elf warrior told him briefly about the golem, though he didn’t mention Ulvian’s part in the affair. The visitor asked endless questions, and Merith found the late-night conversation tired him. His leg ached unmercifully, and his heart was heavy with the news he must send to his sovereign. The hooded stranger must be a cleric, he decided.
Only they were so talky and inquisitive.
Weariness was banished instantly when Merith saw a pair of horses appear at the far end of the path. One of the riders was wearing armor. Merith lifted his sword and shield. The hooded stranger waved at him soothingly.
“Put down your weapons, noble warrior. These are friends of mine,” he said. In a swirl of dark robes, the hooded one turned and hailed the two mounted fellows.
“Is something the matter, sire?” called the armored rider.
“Sire?” wondered Merith.
The stranger faced Merith and tossed back his hood. Pale hair gleamed in the firelight. It was Kith-Kanan himself.
“Great Speaker!” Merith cried. “Forgive me! I had no idea —”
“Be at ease.” Kith-Kanan waved, and Kemian Ambrodel and his father, Tamanier, rode up to the crackling fire.
“Are there just the three of you, Majesty?” asked Merith, scanning the path for more riders. “Where is your entourage?”
“I have a small party at the high end of the pass,” Kith-Kanan explained. “I came down with the Ambrodels to find out what had happened. Even in the dark, the camp looks like a cyclone hit it.”
Merith told the story of Drulethen, Ulvian, and the golem in detail, this time leaving out nothing. “I led a band of fifty trusted workers along the trail Prince Ulvian and Drulethen made,” he finished, “but we couldn’t hope to catch up on foot.”
“Never mind, Lieutenant. Is Feldrin Feldspar well?” asked the Speaker.
“He has some broken ribs, but he will survive, sire.” Merith managed a smile.
Kemian relieved the younger warrior and sent Merith to bed. Once the lieutenant was gone, Kith-Kanan shed his monkish habit, revealing full battle armor.
“I had a premonition something evil would happen,” Kith-Kanan said grimly. “Now it is up to me to set things right. Tomorrow Lord Kemian and I will take the escort cavalry and go after Drulethen.”
Tamanier said, “And Prince Ulvian?”
The silence in the camp was unbroken except by the soft snapping of the fire in the urn before them. The Speaker stared into the flames, the light giving his face and hair a ruddy glow. When the castellan was certain his sovereign wasn’t going to answer, Kith-Kanan looked up and said evenly, “My son will face the consequences of his deeds.”
Chapter 12
THE GREEN AND GOLDEN WAY
The high plains in summer were a harsh place. Dry and barren, they were frequently swept by grass fires that would burn right up to the stony bases of the Kharolis Mountains before dying out from lack of tinder. Yet as Verhanna, Rufus, and Greenhands ascended the sloping plain toward the distant blue peaks, the grassland was not only green, but also covered with flowers.
“Aashoo!” The kender sneezed loudly. “Where did all dese flowers come fum?” he muttered through a clogged nose. The air was thick with blowing pollen, released by the thousands of wild flowers. Verhanna wasn’t much bothered by it, though she was startled by the vigor and variety of the flowers around them. The plain was an ocean of crimson, yellow, blue, and purple blossoms, all nodding gently in the breeze.
“You know, I’ve been this way before, on the way to Pax Tharkas,” she said. “But I’ve never seen the grasslands bloom like this. And in the heat of midsummer!”
Ahead of them, his rough horsehair poncho coated with yellow dust, Greenhands walked steadily onward. His simple, sturdy features took on a special nobility in the warm light of day, and Verhanna found herself studying him more and more as they traveled.
“Ushwah!” barked Rufus. “Dis is tewwibuh! I cand bweathe!”
The warrior maiden dug deep into her saddlebag. In a moment, she brought out a thin red pod, shriveled into a curl. “Here,” she said, tossing it to her scout. “Chew on that. It’ll clear your head.”
Rufus sniffed the tiny pod, but to no avail; nothing could penetrate his stuffy nose. “Whad is id?” he asked suspiciously.
“Give it back, then, if you don’t want it,” Verhanna said airily.
“Oh, all wide.” The kender stuck the stem end of the seed pod in his mouth and chewed. In seconds, his look of curiosity was replaced by one of horror.
“Ye-ow!” Rufus’s shriek rent the calm, flower-scented air. Greenhands halted and looked back, startled out of his unvarying gait. “Dat’s hot!” protested the kender, his small face purpling in distress.
“It’s a dragonseed pod,” Verhanna replied. “Of course it’s hot. But it will clear your head.” Despite its fearsome na
me, dragonseed was a common spice plant grown in the river delta region of Silvanesti. It was used to make the famous vantrea, a hot, spicy dried fish that was beloved by southern elves.
Their horses overtook Greenhands. Verhanna reined in and said, “Don’t worry. Wart was complaining about the pollen, so I did a little healing of my own.”
Tears running down his cheeks, Rufus sluiced his tingling mouth out with water. Then he sniffed, and a pleased expression spread across his florid features. “What do you know! I can breathe!” he declared.
Greenhands had been standing between their two horses. Now he headed out once more, and they rode after him.
Verhanna urged her mount forward until she was alongside the silver-haired elf. The day was quite warm, and he had flipped back the front edges of his makeshift poncho, exposing his chest to the sun. In secret, sidelong glances, the warrior maiden admired his physique. With a little training, perhaps he could become a formidable warrior.
“Why do you stare at me?” asked Greenhands, intruding on the captain’s thoughts.
“Tell me the truth, Greenhands,” she said in a low voice. “How is it you’re able to do the things you do? How did you heal my shoulder? How did you turn aside a herd of wild elk? Raise flowers out of dry soil?”
There was a long pause before he replied. Finally he said, “I’ve been thinking about those things. There seems to be something with me. Something I carry... like this garment.” He passed a hand over the coarse fabric of the blanket he wore. “I feel it around me and inside me, but I can’t set it aside. I can’t separate myself from it.”
Intrigued, Verhanna asked, “What does it feel like?”
Shutting his eyes, he lifted his face to the golden sunlight. “It’s like the heat of the sun,” he murmured. “I feel it, yet I can’t touch it. I carry it with me, but I can’t take it off.” He opened his eyes and regarded her. “Am I mad, Captain?”