“Dru!” called Ulvian. No answer. “Drulethen! If you don’t come out, I’ll pitch the box into a gorge so deep you’ll never find it!”
Still there was no response.
Furious and terrified, Ulvian strode to the nearest tunnel opening. As he stepped inside it, a wall of wind gushed forth, flinging him back into the circular chamber. It was impossible to resist the wind, as the slick, curving tunnel floor offered no purchase for his feet. Trash covering the floor whirled around him, and soon Ulvian was back by the firepit. The wind ceased abruptly.
The same thing happened when he tried two other tunnels. Dru wasn’t going to allow him to escape with the box. Very well, resolved the prince silently. If he had to, he would smash the onyx cylinder himself rather than allow the sorcerer to possess it. The pommel of the dwarven sword was hard brass; it would do nicely as a hammer.
The torches blazed brightly in their wall sconces. Ulvian sank down by the soot-stained rim of the firepit, the sword held firmly in one hand and the golden box in the other. The cold of the mountain penetrated to his very bones. He huddled by the small fire burning in the firepit and tried to ward off sleep.
*
Twenty warriors and their leaders crouched in a cold defile, screened on three sides by slabs of upright stone. Some watched the wild aerial display, mesmerized by the dash and clash of shooting stars. Others gripped their lance shafts tightly, feeling the strain of impending combat like a hollow ache in the pit of their bellies.
“I don’t like this – this marvel,” Kemian whispered. “Do you think it’s the sorcerer’s doing, Majesty?”
Kith-Kanan looked up at the dance of comets and shook his head. “That is beyond the power of any mortal to orchestrate,” he said. “More likely, it’s part of the other wonders we’ve seen.” For no reason he could name, the Speaker felt a surge of elation as he watched the stars racing and crashing over their heads. It seemed almost a celebration of sorts. He turned his attention back to the dark pinnacle just ahead. Dru and Ulvian must be inside by now. Still, they couldn’t simply storm in. There was no telling what might lie waiting for them.
Though the Speaker hadn’t been part of the attacking force that originally captured Drulethen, General Parnigar had. Parnigar had reported that Drulethen’s wyvern had slaughtered many good warriors who tried to fight it in the tight confines of the tunnels. At last, Parnigar and the noted dwarf hammer-fighter Thulden Forkbeard had gotten behind the monster and cut its head off.
“Here’s what we will do,” the Speaker whispered. The young warriors forgot the shooting stars and listened intently. “You will separate into five groups of four, and each group will enter a separate tunnel. They supposedly all converge on the center hall, but be careful! Be as silent as you can, and if you find Prince Ulvian, subdue him and bring him out.”
“What if we find the sorcerer?” asked one of the warriors.
“Take him alive if you can, but if he resists, slay him.” Twenty heads nodded in unison.
“Sire,” Kemian said, “what about you and me?”
“We shall go in the main entrance,” Kith-Kanan announced.
The warriors left their lances with their tethered horses and formed into their assault groups, daggers drawn. Kith-Kanan raised his hand, and the ones destined for the farthest cave opening started up the trail. A moment later, the second group set out, and when they had reached the base of Black Stone Peak, the Speaker and General Ambrodel drew their swords and started forward.
In the cold, still air, every sound was as clear as crystal – the click of spurs on stone, the squeak of armor joints flexing, the rush of each elf’s breath. The peak loomed over Kith-Kanan. Memories tumbled through his head, brief flashes of his past like the flare of the exploding meteors overhead. The scene he’d created by baring a weapon in the Tower of the Stars in Silvanost. Scaling the Quinari Palace the night he left on his resulting exile. Arcuballis, his noble griffon, companion during his sojourn in the wilds. Sithas, his twin, whom he hadn’t seen since the division of the elven nation. Flamehaired Hermathya. The vestiges of old shame still burned when he remembered how much he’d been tempted by her beauty, even though she was wife to his brother. His own wife, Suzine, who had perished in the war. Mackeli, his brother, if not by blood then by heart and soul. And as the black shadow of the peak covered him completely, Kith-Kanan recalled the face of Anaya, his first wife and greatest love, the dark Kagonesti woman he’d lost so long ago in the wild forest of Silvanesti.
The cave mouth was low, and both elves had to duck to enter. Kemian tried to go in ahead of his monarch, but Kith-Kanan gestured him back.
Compared to the brightly flashing display outside, the tunnel was velvet blackness. Kith-Kanan eased his feet along, sword point leading, as his eyes adjusted to the dark. The curving floor was like glass, and his iron-shod feet slid all too easily. Kemian lost his balance and fell backward, landing with a loud clang. Shamefaced, he rolled to his hands and knees and hissed, “Forgive me, Majesty!”
Kith-Kanan waved away his apology and asked, “Can you stand?”
The young general rose slowly. “Come,” whispered the Speaker.
A yellow glimmer appeared far ahead. Kith-Kanan’s breath froze on the chin guard of his helmet. The feeble light grew and picked out a thin coating of frost on the tunnel walls. No wonder it was so hard to walk! Kith-Kanan put out a hand to halt Kemian. The warrior stopped.
Carefully the Speaker replaced his sword in its scabbard. Tied to the upper hanger ring of the scabbard was a small leather bag, closed with a drawstring. Kith-Kanan removed the bag from its ring. It held powdered resin, which sword-armed warriors used to coat the grips of their weapons. During battle, blood and sweat conspired to make sword grips treacherous, so a generous layer of pine resin made a warrior’s hold more secure.
Kemian watched, fascinated, as Kith-Kanan sprinkled resin on the soles of his metal-clad boots.
The white powder clung to everything it touched. Kith-Kanan indicated that Kemian should imitate his action. The younger elf did so.
It was fortunate they applied the gum to their feet, for only a short way ahead, the tunnel floor sloped downward at such an angle that walking without the resin would have been impossible. By now, both elves could smell torches burning – and something else. They heard a low drone, not of conversation, but of a male voice singing.
The Speaker stopped short. He squatted, using his sword for balance. Far out in the center of the great chamber ahead, a lone figure huddled under a ragged brown cloak, rocking back and forth, humming.
“It’s the prince!” Kemian breathed.
There was no sign of Drulethen, which worried Kith-Kanan greatly, though he was relieved to see his son alive. “Stay hidden, General. I will approach my son.”
“No, sire!” Kemian caught the Speaker’s arm. “It could be a ruse to draw you out!”
“He is my son.” The Speaker’s brown eyes bored into Kemian’s blue ones. The general dropped his gaze and his restraining grip.
“The other warriors should be in position by now,” Kith-Kanan said encouragingly.
He stepped down the passage, his sword still sheathed. Kemian braced his hands against the walls and waited in an agony of suspense, fearing something would spring out and attack the Speaker.
Kith-Kanan emerged into the chamber. The array of skulls, the detritus of Drulethen’s former furnishings, failed to distract him. In a moderate tone, he called out, “Ulvian?”
The prince’s sagging head jerked up, and he swiveled his neck to face his father. Cuts and bruises marred his bearded face. Ulvian’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, that’s clever,” he said, his words slurred and rather high-pitched. “Assuming the shape of my father, eh? Well, it won’t work!”
He slashed at the air with an antique short sword.
Kith-Kanan glanced at the other tunnel mouths. The dark circles were all empty. He saw no sign of his other warriors.
“Son, it’s truly me. Whe
re is Drulethen?”
Ulvian staggered to his feet. He needed two hands to keep the sword pointed at his father. “I won’t give you the amulet,” he snarled. “I won’t!”
Kith-Kanan walked slowly forward, hands wide and devoid of weapons. “Ulie, this is your father. I’ve come to save you. I’ve come to take you home.” He spoke soothingly, and the prince listened, his head hanging like a ponderous weight on his shoulders. The Speaker came within an arm’s length of his son.
“You’re not my father,” croaked the exhausted Ulvian. Awkwardly he thrust at Kith-Kanan. The Speaker easily sidestepped the blow and grappled with his bleary son. Kemian and all the other warriors, still hidden in the tunnels, burst from the openings, believing their Speaker was in danger. No sooner had they shown themselves than a blast of wind roared down from the ceiling, flattening the warriors and sweeping them head over heels back into the tunnels. Their cries echoed from far up the passages. The wind ceased blowing, and Kith-Kanan and Ulvian were alone in the chamber. Almost.
“Well, well,” said the voice of Dru. “The sovereign of Qualinesti has come to see me. I’m flattered. I knew there would be pursuit, but I hardly dared imagine the Speaker of the Sun himself would seek me out.”
“Show yourself, Drulethen,” Kith-Kanan commanded. “Or do you prefer to hide like some eavesdropping servant?”
“Here I am!”
Kith-Kanan whirled awkwardly, supporting Ulvian in his arms. The sorcerer had appeared behind them, on the opposite side of the firepit. Drulethen now wore a crimson robe. A band of shining black silk flowed across his chest and over his shoulder, trailing on the floor behind him. A ruby pin glittered in the silk on the sorcerer’s left breast, and his blond hair was shiningly clean and combed back from his forehead. All trace of the slave of Pax Tharkas called Dru was gone. He was Drulethen of Black Stone Peak once more.
“By your command, Great Speaker,” he said mockingly. He wore the onyx ring portion of the amulet around his neck on a strand of braided black silk. He bore no obvious weapons.
“You will surrender now to the authority of the Speaker of the Sun and the Thalas-Enthia of Qualinesti,” Kith-Kanan said. “Surrender or face the consequences.”
Dru chuckled. “Surrender? To one elf and one halfbreed? I think not. Your troops are scattered, Speaker, and cannot enter this place unless I wish it. And you cannot compel me to do anything.”
Never taking his eyes from the sorcerer, Kith-Kanan lowered Ulvian to the floor. The prince was unconscious from sheer exhaustion. The Speaker drew his own formidable blade.
“Swords don’t frighten me! I have only to wish it, and I’ll go where you’ll never see me or find me. That will leave you and your worthless son to fall asleep or starve. In either case, you will be at my mercy.”
The Speaker stared hard at Drulethen’s face. He knew from experience that magical disappearance was an illusion, a misdirection of the watcher’s attention. The sorcerer wasn’t going to fool him easily.
“So why don’t you go?” asked Kith-Kanan.
Drulethen stepped down from the hearth and circled around, coming closer. His scarlet raiment rustled softly. Kith-Kanan kept himself between the sorcerer and Ulvian. “I merely hoped that you could be reasonable,” purred the Silvanesti. “Perhaps we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”
Stall. Think, thought Kith-Kanan. Give Kemian a chance to do something. “Such as what?” the Speaker said.
“Inside your son’s shirt is a small golden box. It holds the other half of my amulet, and I cannot get it myself. If you give me the rest of my amulet, I will swear to serve you for, say, fifty years.”
“Serve me how? I do not traffic in black magic.”
Drulethen smiled pleasantly. He looked sleek and well groomed in his new attire, not at all like the wretched prisoner who had hauled stones from the Kharolis quarries. “If it’s definitions that bother you, then I’ll stipulate that I shall perform only the whitest of magic, exactly as Your Majesty orders. Isn’t that fair?”
Torchlight flashed off the ruby pinned to the black silk on Drulethen’s chest. Kith-Kanan’s eyes flickered to it and back to the sorcerer’s face. What had the magician just said? Ah, yes. He remembered now. “So for fifty years’ service to me, you get a lifetime of power for yourself,” he said. “Assuming you even honor your oath to me. I don’t think the world would thank me, Drulethen.”
The sorcerer’s gray eyes were flinty. “Then your answer is no?”
“It is no.”
The ruby flashed fire again. This time Kith-Kanan’s attention strayed too long, and Drulethen suddenly wasn’t there. The Speaker crouched, ready for an attack, then cut through the air with his sword. From above came thin, eerie laughter.
“Father and son are so alike!” chortled Drulethen. “I shall leave you to a common fate. Farewell, son of Sithel! I only wish my wyvern were here. He did so enjoy eating the flesh of highborn Silvanesti!” The laughter took a long time to fade away.
Kith-Kanan knelt and found the hard lump that was Feldrin’s box inside Ulvian’s clothing. The prince never stirred.
Circling the room, the Speaker searched for a way out. No wind rushed in at him unless he got within a pace of an opening. Lying just inside the tunnels were daggers and helmets dropped by his lancers.
An idea came to him. Cupping his hands to his mouth, Kith-Kanan shouted, “Hello! Kemian Ambrodel, can you hear me?”
Nothing. He moved to the next tunnel, always standing back to avoid triggering the magic wind. “Hello, this is the Speaker! Can you hear me?” he cried. After trying six holes, he finally received a reply.
“Yes, we hear you,” came the faint answer. It was one of his warriors. Soon the Speaker heard Kemian’s shout.
“Get all the rope you have,” Kith-Kanan ordered. “Tie it together, then tie one end to a large rock. Roll it into the tunnel. It should follow the downslope to me, then I’ll be able to use the rope to climb out against the wind!”
“Understood!”
“It won’t work,” said Dru’s bland voice. “No rope in the world can withstand the Breath of Hiddukel.”
Kith-Kanan planted his fists on his hips and said sarcastically, “You don’t mind if we try, though, do you?”
He returned to his sleeping son and gathered him in his arms. He lay Ulvian’s slack form near the entrance to the tunnel where he’d heard his warriors. As he did so, Kith-Kanan recalled Drulethen’s reference to Hiddukel. That must be the evil sorcerer’s patron deity. Weeks ago, when Hiddukel had appeared to him in the Tower of the Sun, he’d given his name as Dru. Had the god been hinting at the part his infamous disciple would play in the lives of the Qualinesti?
“There’s no way out for you.” Dru’s voice was sharp. “Give me my amulet, and I’ll spare your life.”
“My life? A while ago you offered to be my slave for fifty years.”
The sorcerer said no more. Kith-Kanan drew a tattered piece of tapestry over his son and sat down to wait. His nerves were singing with tension, but he knew that if the warriors took too long, fatigue would surely set in.
And nothing would stand between Drulethen and his black amulet.
15
THE FERTILE SEED
“ARE YOU SURE THIS IS THE WAY?”
Rufus Wrinklecap’s high voice split the cold night air. He, Verhanna, and Greenhands were following the steep, south-leading pathway up into the mountains. Verhanna had convinced Greenhands to let the kender take the lead to scout the narrow path for them. After some grumbling about having to walk instead of ride, Rufus complied. He quickly grew excited as he detected signs that others had passed along the trail very recently.
“Who were they?” asked Verhanna.
“Qualinesti, on shod horses,” the kender replied. He sniffed the scant hoofprints, barely indented in the stony soil. “Warriors. At least twenty of them.”
She scoffed, “How can you tell they were warriors?” Rufus stuck his small nose i
n the air. “I can smell their iron, my captain.”
Verhanna pondered the significance of the warriors’ presence. They surely weren’t hunting runaways from Pax Tharkas; Feldrin Feldspar had dwarven brigades to do such work. Intrigued, she moved on, following the kender.
Greenhands had barely spoken at all since they’d begun to climb. Not even the continued panorama of fiery comets overhead broke his profound silence.
At last they reached a small level patch on the upward slope, and Verhanna called a pause for rest.
Rufus dropped where he stood, worn out by his nose-to-the-ground scouting. Greenhands remained upright, his eyes fastened on the slope before them. Now he started off again. Verhanna, chewing on a piece of venison jerky, called him back.
“My father is near,” he replied, glancing back at her. “I must go.”
Wearily the warrior maiden dropped her half-eaten snack in her saddlebag. “Come on, Wart. His Majesty is going.”
“What’s the hurry?” complained the kender. Verhanna offered him a hand, and he swung onto the saddle pillion. “Where are we going? That’s all I want to know – and what’s the hurry?”
“Don’t ask me,” Verhanna said, clucking her tongue to urge the tired horse forward. “But I tell you this, Wart – If we don’t find something significant by sunrise, I’m turning back, and to Darkness with Greenhands!”
The trail made several sharp turns and climbed at an even greater rate, so that they lost sight of Greenhands, who was keeping some paces ahead of them. Verhanna and Rufus passed a deeply shadowed defile on their left, and the horse halted on its own. It danced and snorted, tossing its head and refusing to go on, no matter how Verhanna coaxed or used her spurs.
The sky went dark.
The sudden cessation of the darting stars was startling and left the landscape much blacker than before. No moons shone; only the glimmer of starlight illuminated their way.
Rufus tugged at Verhanna’s elbow. “The horse is calm now,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The Qualinesti Page 21