by Dragon Lance
He ordered the soldier who’d charged the pony to report exactly what had happened.
“Sire, I saw something large and dark move. I called out, and it didn’t answer. When I challenged it again, it looked like it was trying to avoid being seen. So I couched my lance and went after it.”
“You did correctly,” Kith-Kanan replied. “You say it was a pony?”
“Yes, sire. Its mane was clipped short, and there was a brand on its left flank – a hammer and square.”
“The royal brand of Thorbardin,” Kemian observed. “The pony came from Pax Tharkas.”
Kith-Kanan agreed. “It must be one of the stolen ones. Why is it free, I wonder?” he mused. It didn’t make sense for two escaping prisoners to abandon one of their mounts. The animal must have gotten away by accident.
“Luck is with us!” he announced. “Our quarry has lost half its mobility. If we ride without pause, we should overtake them!”
The elves hurried to their mounts. Kith-Kanan scanned the sky. The sun was subsiding in the west, throwing long shadows across the western peaks. They moved on, traveling into the setting sun, which made seeing distant objects difficult. However, the lost pony was a good omen. Drulethen could hardly be in full possession of his powers if he let a small horse get away.
A leaden sensation hit Kith-Kanan’s stomach like a hammer blow and his hands clenched the reins. Suppose the pony hadn’t bolted. Suppose Dru simply didn’t need it anymore. Because Ulvian wasn’t with him. Because Ulvian was already dead.
Kith-Kanan’s heart argued against it. The sorcerer had no reason to dispense with the prince yet. They had found no body, no sign of struggle, along the trail. Ulvian must be alive.
“Sire?”
Kith-Kanan turned to Kemian Ambrodel. “Yes?”
“The peak, sire. It’s in sight!”
Kith-Kanan looked up. Glowering down at them from its towering height, Black Stone Peak rose above the surrounding mountains. Clouds clung to its lower slopes, but the spire itself was washed by the orange sunset. No details were visible at this distance; the peak was at least twenty miles away.
“Keep the warriors moving,” Kith-Kanan said. The sight of the black pinnacle steeled his courage. For all their differences, there was a bond of blood between the Speaker and his son. If Ulvian had come to harm, Kith-Kanan would have sensed it. His son must still be alive. While he lived, there was hope. Separating him from the clutches of the sorcerer Drulethen, however, promised to be a difficult and dangerous task.
Chapter 14
THE CLASH OF STARS
Verhanna, Rufus, and Greenhands broke camp in early morning while heavy fog in the higher parts of the Kharolis still clung to the trail. It hampered their progress greatly. Fearing unseen crevices and crumbling paths, the trio crept slowly ahead, keeping their backs to the slope of Mount Vikris, the second highest peak in the mountain range. As the day wore on, the fog worsened, until the warrior maiden finally called a halt sometime in midafternoon.
“We’ll walk into a ravine if we continue,” Verhanna said, vexed. “It’s better to wait out the fog.”
“We don’t get stuff like this in the Magnet Mountains,” Rufus observed. “No, sir, we never get fog like this.”
“I wish we weren’t getting it here,” was her waspish reply.
Greenhands passed his fingers through the drifting mist, closing them quickly as if snatching something. Bringing his hands to his face, he opened his fingers and studied them closely.
“What’re you doing?” Verhanna asked.
“I cannot feel this gray thing around us, yet it dampens my hand,” he said, puzzled. “How is that?”
“How should I know?”
As he turned his serene gaze on her, perhaps to respond to her rhetorical question, Verhanna stepped away from the steep wall of the mountain and peered upward into the murk. “I wish there was some wood about. We could go on if we could make torches.”
There was no wood, so there was nothing to do but wait out the confounding mist. Patience had never been one of Verhanna’s virtues, and she chafed at the delay. Greenhands perched on the ground, his back propped against a square boulder. Rufus took a nap.
Eventually the sky darkened and the air cooled. The fog fell as a heavy dew, soaking the travelers, their horses, and all their baggage. Rufus’s hat sagged around his ears. Verhanna wiped futilely at her armor, muttering dire predictions about rust. Only the green-fingered elf remained unconcerned. His long hair hung in thick, damp strands, and water dripped from the hem of his poncho.
“Let’s move,” Verhanna said at last. “As I figure it, we’re only a couple hours’ ride from Pax Tharkas.”
Once more Greenhands took the lead. He seemed to know where he was going, though he’d never been this way before. Verhanna and Rufus let their mounts pick their way several paces behind him. The violet dusk quickly changed to purple twilight. Solinari, the silver moon, rose above the mountains. The top of the pass was in sight, no more than twoscore paces ahead.
The warrior maiden jiggled her reins, urging her horse to a faster walk. Greenhands was nearly to the top of the pass. His right foot came down on the ridge of rock and dirt that marked the highest point in the pass, and he abruptly stopped. Verhanna pulled up beside him.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Wait,” he replied. “It’s coming.”
“What now?”
She looked up and down the pass, alert for stampedes or rampaging goblins or anything.
Greenhands’ placid expression had changed to one of great excitement. His eyes danced as he pointed upward and said, “Look!”
The starry vault of the sky was crisscrossed by brilliant streaks of light. Dazzling fireballs began at one horizon, streamed upward to the zenith of heaven, and vanished in explosions of color. From every corner, to every corner, the sky was gridded with fiery trails that left ghostly glowing imprints on the watchers’ eyes.
Rufus halted on Greenhands’ other side. “Shooting stars,” he breathed, awestruck.
The celestial pyrotechnics raged on, utterly silent and blindingly brilliant. At times, two streaming fireballs would collide, making a doubly bright burst. Tiny streaks and broad, cometlike meteors were bom, chased each other, and died in every color of the rainbow. Red fireballs left yellow trails. Blue-white comets fell toward the ground, only to burst soundlessly overhead.
“What does it mean?” Rufus wondered, rubbing his neck, stiff from staring up so long.
“Who says it means anything?” replied Verhanna.
“Perhaps it’s an omen, or a warning from the gods, my captain.”
Greenhands smiled. “Do not always look for the worst, little friend. Perhaps this is simply the gods making merry. Maybe the gods need amusement, too. This might be a celebration, not a dire warning of doom.”
No one disputed his words, but Verhanna and Rufus shared a vague feeling of apprehension. This seemed but one more of the inexplicable, and therefore frightening, phenomena that had afflicted their world lately.
“Well, I can see the lamps of Pax Tharkas from here,” said Verhanna. “We’ll be there soon, and you can hunt for your poppa all over the camp.”
Greenhands pointed away from the site of the fortress. “No, this way,” he said and set off on the steep southern trail.
Verhanna maneuvered her horse in front of him. “Look here,” she fumed, “we’ve followed you across nowhere long enough. There’s nothing up this way. If your father is anywhere in these mountains, Pax Tharkas is the place to look. Besides, we’re low on food and water.”
“He is near,” said the green-fingered elf. Greenhands moved to go around the horse. Verhanna let her mount drift forward, cutting him off again. Finally the strange elf put his arms under the black charger’s belly.
“Hey!” Verhanna said sharply. “What’re you —?”
Greenhands planted his feet and lifted. Horse and rider together came off the ground. The animal remained stran
gely calm, though its feet dangled in midair. Verhanna remained quiet as well; she was dumbstruck. With a few grunts and only the slightest evidence of strain, the green-fingered elf raised the enormous load off the rocky ground, turned a half-circle, and set it down on the trail behind him.
“Yow! Do that again!” cried the kender. Greenhands was already on his way, climbing the path.
Stunned, Verhanna called for him to stop. When he didn’t, she said, rather illogically, “Stop him, Rufus! Don’t let him go that way!”
The kender gave her a look of supreme disgust. “How do you reckon I’ll stop him, my captain? Shall I tell him a funny story?”
Verhanna spurred her horse after the rapidly disappearing elf. She rattled up the sloping path, and out came her longsword. She had no desire to hurt him, but his confounding actions and sudden display of strength had shamed her. Raising her weapon, the warrior maiden intended to use the flat of the blade to stun Greenhands.
When she was only yards from the elf, there was a sudden glare of blinding light. For an instant, the mountainside was as bright as noon. Rufus yelled shrilly, and Verhanna felt searing heat on her neck and upraised sword arm. A roar filled her ears, a sizzling sound hissed nearby, and all was white light and throbbing pain.
Eventually cool darkness returned, and Verhanna found herself looking up into the unhappy face of Greenhands.
“Are you all right, my captain?” he said worriedly.
“Y – Yes. Ow!”
Her sword arm burned and ached. “What hit me?”
“Nothing hit you,” said Rufus, his head showing over the kneeling elfs shoulder. “One of those fireballs blasted into the mountain just above your head. The strike flung you off your horse and did this.”
He tossed the stump of her sword down beside her. Verhanna numbly grasped the handle. It was still hot to the touch, and the blade had been melted off, leaving only a misshapen nub of iron above the crossguard.
“Where’s my horse?” she asked groggily.
Rufus shook his head sadly and glanced over his shoulder toward the precipitous drop down the side of the mountain. He quickly said, “You can have mine, though. It’s too big for me. I feel like a pea on a boar’s back.”
They hoisted the stiff Verhanna to her feet and showed her the furrow plowed over the slope by the fireball. The steaming slash was melted at the edges. It was a mere foot or so above where her head had been.
Verhanna peered down the steep slope where her mount had perished. Shaking her head, she whispered sadly, “Poor Sable. You were a brave warrior.” Greenhands was supporting her trembling body. When she stumbled over a stone, he steadied her effortlessly.
With a healthy boost from Greenhands, Verhanna was soon mounted on Rufus’s chestnut horse. Their mobility was severely reduced by the loss of an animal but the kender wasn’t heavy and his horse carried the two of them easily.
“Do you know this trail?” the warrior maiden asked Rufus as they rode away from Pax Tharkas.
“No, my captain, though it seems to lead higher into the mountains.” The kender scrutinized the stars through a screen of speeding meteors and announced they were headed south.
“Into Thorbardin,” Verhanna mused. She cradled her sword arm, still numb from the shock of the fireball’s near miss. For Greenhands’ benefit, she said loudly, “Your father wasn’t a dwarf, was he?”
Before the elf could reply, Rufus piped up, “Oh, that’s impossible, my captain. He’s much too good-looking.” Verhanna jabbed the kender in the stomach with her elbow – her sore elbow. Drawing in her breath sharply, she cursed and groaned, “Shut up, Wart.”
*
Like one of the famed towers of Silvanost, Black Stone Peak stood out against the starry sky, tall, cold, and imperious. The darker openings on its face were entrances to its web of caves, first carved out of the hard, black rock by wild dragons some two thousand years earlier. Ulvian halted his pony and stared up at the forbidding peak.
Dru had once more regained his human form. Now he pushed past the Qualinesti prince, eager to be home again.
“You’ll have to dismount,” said the sorcerer, his voice drifting back on the night air. “There’s no true path into the caves, only some hand-cut steps.”
Ulvian swung down and led the pony by the reins. The night was fiercely cold, and his worn clothes provided little protection. There was no wind around Black Stone Peak, unlike every other mountaintop Ulvian had ever visited. Here the air was still and pregnant with menace.
The trail ended, and the two started up an uneven set of steps chiseled from the living rock. The pony went along reluctantly, tugging at its halter as the steps became steeper and narrower. Ulvian warred with the frightened animal until the pony finally snatched the reins from his hand. It clattered over the steps and quickly fled down the steep, winding trail.
“It’s no matter, my prince.” Dru said genially. “There’s no place for the beast to go.”
Ulvian turned to continue his climb. In the darkness, he took a wrong step and slid off the rock stairway. His sudden gasp and the sound of scattering pebbles echoed loudly.
“We’ll break our necks trying to climb this in the dark!” Ulvian declared.
Dru held out his left hand. As the sorcerer muttered some words in an unknown tongue, Ulvian saw that the ring of black onyx lying in his palm had begun to glow faintly orange, then cherry red. In seconds, a crimson aura had enveloped the sorcerer. The prince, his cuts and bruises forgotten, shrank back as Dru turned toward him.
The sorcerer smiled. “Don’t be afraid, Highness. You wished for light, and I have provided it,” he said smoothly. He climbed higher, approaching the vertical side of the peak. In the glow of the amulet, an oval opening came into sight. Dru ducked into the low cave, and Ulvian, rather reluctantly, followed behind.
The cave smelled old and dry, with a faint background aroma of decay the prince couldn’t identify.
A dragon’s den should smell fetid, he knew, but this one had been vacant for two millennia. The floor was remarkably smooth and doubly difficult to walk on since it sloped seamlessly up to join the walls and ceiling.
As they moved through the passage, the bloody glow surrounding Dru now and again illuminated some object on the tunnel floor: a dead, desiccated bird, a broken clay lamp, some tatters of cloth.
The two moved hunchbacked for some distance. Suddenly Ulvian saw Dru straighten. In a pace or two, the prince had emerged from the low tunnel into a vast cavern hollowed out of the very center of the stone spire. The sorcerer kicked among some debris near the wall and found a torch. He muttered a word of magic over it, and the ancient timber burst into flame. Dru circled the great chamber, lighting other torches still held in iron wall brackets decorated with metal spikes. The smell of burning tarry pine filled the cold air.
When at last all the torches were lit, Dru tossed his into a firepit in the center of the room. Some debris and wood there crackled into flame.
Lighted, the chamber was hardly less fearful than when dark. Most of the furnishings were wrecked, destroyed when the sorcerer’s stronghold fell to the dwarves and elves. Glancing upward, Ulvian could see a few stars through the smoke hole fifty feet above him.
A more gruesome sight met his gaze when he looked down again. Resting in niches around the circular wall were hundreds and hundreds of skulls – white, empty, dry skulls. Some belonged to animals: mountain bears, elk, lions. Others were more disturbing. The light, airy craniums of elves nestled beside the thicker, smaller skulls of dwarves. In fewer numbers were human heads, recognizable by their wide jaws and small eye sockets.
“Lovely décor,” the prince said, sarcasm masking his nervousness.
Dru had righted a broken chair that could nonetheless bear his weight. “Oh, these are not my doing,” he said with mock humility. “The original owners of the peak collected these little mementos, and I didn’t have the heart to throw them away when I took possession.” A smile parted his thin lips. “
Besides, I think they lend a certain air to my humble domicile.”
Ulvian shrugged and kicked through the shattered remains of Dru’s former life. He threw a leg over a stove-in barrel and sat. “Well, we’re here,” he said. “Now what?”
“Now you must give me the other half of my amulet.”
The small golden box was hard and heavy inside Ulvian’s cloak. “No,” the prince replied. “I have no illusions about how long I’ll live once I do that.”
“But, Your Highness, Feldrin will certainly send someone after us, perhaps even royal warriors of Thorbardin and Qualinesti! I cannot possibly defend us with only a half measure of my powers.”
Half a hundred skulls leered over Dru’s shoulders. Here on his own ground, the ragged prisoner of Pax Tharkas seemed to acquire new strength, greater self possession. “I didn’t come here to withstand a siege. I am bound for Qualinost,” Ulvian declared. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve gotten all the reward you earned – escape from Pax Tharkas and half your amulet.”
Dru folded his hands, twining his fingers together. “It’s a long way to Qualinost, my prince. You have neither horse, nor pony, nor royal griffon to take you there.”
From the corner of one eye, Ulvian saw the pommel of a sword lying on the floor, buried by torn parchment and broken pottery. “Am I your prisoner?” he asked coolly.
“I thought we were partners.”
“A prince of the blood and a base-born sorcerer, partners? I think not, Master Drulethen. On the other hand, if you wish to become my servant... “Ulvian rubbed his beard thoughtfully. The sword hilt was just beyond easy reach.
“I would serve you gladly! But without my entire amulet, I am a poor spell-caster and not half the sorcerer I could be for you, Highness.”
As Dru finished speaking, Ulvian hurled himself at the half-buried sword hilt. He skidded in the debris, and his fingers closed over the rough, wire-wrapped handle. By the time he’d rolled clumsily to his feet, Dru was gone. The broken chair was still there, but the sorcerer had vanished.