And I must flee, as well. A dragon orb must never fall into the hands of the Kingpriest. They say he will destroy me or, worse, he might try to gain control of me and use my power to his own ends.
So they have decided to use their magic to carry me into the ethers, to walk the roads of magic that are hidden in time and space, bearing me to a realm far away. The journey will be fraught with peril, for there are rumors that the clerics of the Kingpriest have grown so powerful that they can stalk the paths of magic, waiting to pluck traveling wizards from the ethers and slay them in the name of righteousness.
Feal-Thas the Winternorn has volunteered to transport me to a place of safety, a land cold and barren, the land to which he was exiled when his crime was judged and sentence passed on him by the Silvanesti king, Lorac Caladon.
The wizards believe I will be safe there, for the Kingpriest cares little for this land that has no wealth and few people to worship him.
I will go with Feal-Thas, not because I want to, but because I am afraid of remaining here. For I see dark clouds gathering and a terrible wind rising and the seas boiling and fire raining down from the heavens. I see the wrath of the gods falling like a hammer upon Krynn. I see the people cry to the gods, and I hear no answer.
If I remain here, I am doomed, and though I chafe against my exile, I accept it. I will travel in the safekeeping of this wizard to the land of Icereach, and I will remain hidden in this loathsome wasteland until the time comes when the power of the gods returns to the world.
Then I will find a way to escape.
The mists swirled and the color was beautiful, entrancing. Kit thought she could see hands reaching out to her.
Time was. Time is. The gods have returned. You are god-sent. Come closer. Touch me. Help me escape.
Kit listened enthralled. She edged closer. “Who are you?” she breathed. “What are your powers? If I help you, will you give them to me …”
She felt more than saw something enter the chamber.
12
The Guardian.
itiara stood perfectly still. Her eyes narrowed. She fell back on the defensive. Only moments before the chamber had been empty, then this man had materialized inside, standing near the dragon orb. The man was human. He was clad in armor that had seen its share of battle, for it was dented and scratched, yet he’d kept it in good repair. Kit recognized the armor. It was the armor of a Solamnic knight.
The knight did not see her. He had his back to her and he was staring up at the ceiling. Something about him, about his stance, about the way he moved—graceful and light on his feet, yet powerful, like a mountain lion—was familiar. The knight wore a sword, but he was not wearing a helm. He had black curly hair, cut short. He appeared to be waiting for something, for he shifted his gaze from the ceiling to the walls, and then he started to turn around. “Hold there!” Kitiara ordered. “Keep your hands away from your weapons and turn around slowly.”
The knight did as she ordered, moving with a lithe, almost lazy ease that she knew well. Her heart constricted, then thudded painfully. The knight turned to face her. She knew the movement, knew the black curling hair, the jaunty mustache, the dark good looks … He stared at her, trying to see her face through the eyeslits of the elaborate horned helm of the Dragon Highlord.
“Is that you inside that bucket, Kit?” he asked. She had not heard that rich, hearty voice in many years, yet she knew it as well as the sound of her own. “Don’t you know me? Put your sword down. I’m your father, girl.”
Kitiara held fast to her sword and didn’t answer. This was a trick.
“You’re all grown up, Kit,” Gregor uth Matar continued in admiring tones. “I didn’t expect that. I guess I thought you’d be the teenage girl I left behind. I’m sorry about that, by the way,” he added with a shrug. “I meant to come back for you like I promised. I started to return to Solace half a dozen times, but I never made it. There was always a war to fight or a woman to love …”
He smiled the warm, off-kilter smile that had charmed so many hearts. “I guess there was no harm done. You didn’t need me after all. You’ve obviously done well for yourself. A Dragon Highlord. I’m proud of you, Kit—”
He took another step forward.
“Don’t move!” Kitiara ordered in a choked voice. She coughed to clear her throat. “Stay where you are. This doesn’t make any sense. My father is dead.”
“Did you ever find my body?” Gregor asked cheerfully. “Locate my grave? Meet anyone who saw me die?”
The answer was no, but Kitiara didn’t answer. “I’m asking the questions. What are you doing in the chamber with the dragon orb? Are you the guardian?”
“Me! The guardian!” Gregor chuckled. “I’m one of the best swordsmen in Krynn, but let’s face it, daughter dear, would you hire me to guard something this valuable?”
“Then where is the guardian?”
Gregor shrugged, a gesture so similar to Kit’s own she might have been watching herself in a mirror. “I banished it. Sent it packing.”
Gregor took another step. He grinned. “I see you’ve got your flask with you. Would you happen to have a drop of dwarf spirits in that flask, Kit? Forget orbs and guardians and such. Let’s share a dram and talk about what you’ve been doing all these years.”
Kit hesitated, then she said, “All right, but don’t come any closer. I’ll toss the flask to you.
Gregor shrugged and smiled, but he did as he was told. He halted a few feet from her.
Kitiara kept her sword raised and lowered her shield, slinging it by the strap over her arm. With her free hand, she reached down to her belt and took hold of the flask. She uncorked it with her teeth, spit out the cork, then flung the water into Gregor’s face.
He gasped in astonishment as the water hit him and stood there staring at her. Water dripped from his nose and chin and mustache.
“Gods’ breath, girl, what did you do that for?” Gregor demanded, wiping water from his eyes. He looked at her, standing tense and taut, sword ready, and then he burst out laughing.
The chamber shook with his laughter that was as big, raucous and careless as himself. Kitiara had always loved to hear her father laugh.
“Holy water!” Gregor could scarcely talk for his guffaws. “You think I’m a ghost! Ha, ha, ha!”
“I don’t know what you are!” Kitiara said through clenched teeth. Tears stung her eyes and froze on her cheeks. “But you’re not my father. My father is dead. That’s why he never came back for me. He’s dead!”
She lunged at the guardian with her sword.
A horrible stench made her gag. A savage roar cut off the sound of her father’s laughter. One moment Gregor was there and the next she was enveloped by the stench, confronting an enormous being covered in filthy gray-white hair with huge arms and mauling paws. If it had eyes, she could not see them in the tangle of the hair. It had teeth, though, sharp fangs and a long, slavering tongue. She stabbed at the thing desperately and felt her sword bite into flesh. The thing roared again, this time in pain. Claws as long as swords slashed at her, raked across her.
Kitiara gasped as the razor-sharp claws cut through the dragon armor, sliced neat as a razor into the flesh of both her forearms and across her midriff. She staggered back, blood dripping from the gashes. Fumbling at the shield that she’d slung over her arm, she lifted it up to protect herself and held her sword ready. She couldn’t feel the pain, not yet, but she knew it would come any moment now and she braced herself. She gathered her strength and was prepared to lunge again … at Tanis.
He stood in front of her, regarding her with loving concern.
Kitiara blinked and squinched her eyes shut against the phantom and it was then the pain hit her. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Opening her eyes again, she saw Tanis still standing there.
“Kit,” he said gently. “You’re hurt.”
He was as she remembered him—tall and muscular, with the strong arms and hands of a skilled bowman. He wore
his hair long, to cover the pointed ears that gave away his elven heritage. His smile was warm and wide, his chin strong and clean-shaven.
“Kit,” said Tanis sadly, “you didn’t come to the inn. You broke your oath. We were all there. Your brothers, Caramon and Raistlin, and Tasslehoff and Flint. Sturm came, too, and I came. I came because of you, Kit. I came back for you, to tell you I’d made a mistake. I love you. I want to be with you always …”
“No,” cried Kitiara, choking from the burning pain. She watched her own blood dribble down her legs and drip off her arms and splatter on the icy floor. “I don’t believe you.” She shook her head angrily. “I don’t believe in you—whatever you are.”
“Since you weren’t at the inn as you promised,” said Tanis, “I assume that means you don’t care about me.”
“I care about you,” said Kit, knowing this wasn’t real, yet wanting it to be. “It’s just … I was busy. Ariakas made me a Dragon Highlord. I command an army. I’ve conquered nations. I have a war to fight …”
“When you didn’t come, I decided to love another,” Tanis continued, as though he hadn’t heard her, “an elf woman named—”
“Laurana. I know!” Kitiara cried angrily. “You told me about her, remember? You called her a spoiled little girl. You said she was immature. You wanted a woman …”
“I want you, Kitiara,” said Tanis, and he held out his arms to embrace her.
“Get back!” Kit warned.
The holy water. She had dropped the flask when the apparition attacked. The flask lay on the blood-covered floor at her feet. She made a grab for it, keeping her gaze on Tanis, holding out her sword. She lifted the visor of her helm and swallowed a gulp of the healing water. Her pain eased. Her blood stopped dripping.
She had to attack it again. She’d hurt the thing once. She didn’t know how badly, but she guessed that not all the blood covering the ice was her own. Attacking it meant she would have to go in close and brave the terrible raking claws again. She dropped the flask and lowered her visor and raised her shield. Gripping her sword, she ran at Tanis.
The thing roared. The stench made her gag. She hacked at it with her sword and the filthy white fur was drenched with blood. Flaming black eyes glared at her. Claws raked across her shoulders and her chest and down her thighs. The claws dug deep, piercing flesh. She heard and felt claw scrape against bone and she shuddered from the rending pain, but she kept stabbing at the creature with her sword and finally she felt the blade strike something hard and solid. Putting all her weight behind it, she drove the blade into the thing’s hairy body, thrusting the blade deep, twisting it.
The creature roared in pain and fury and slashed at her violently with the cutting claws. Blood sprayed across the visor and got into her eyes, half blinding her. Kit yanked her sword free. She stumbled backward, and her feet slipped and she fell.
Her hand struck the ice, knocking loose her sword. The weapon slid out of her reach. She tried desperately to stand, but the pain was bad, very bad, and it was hard to breathe. Claws slashed down at her, and Kit rolled out of the way. She remembered the kapak’s sword and she fumbled at it, yanking it out of her belt. She waited until the hairy beast roared down on her and then, blindly, she drove the sword into its body, drove it through hair and flesh and bone. Blood flowed over her hands. A horrible bellow deafened her and a gigantic fist struck, driving her to the floor.
Kitiara found herself lying on her belly. She blinked her eyes, trying to clear the blood, and saw the flask, just out of reach. She crawled toward it, reaching for it with a shaking hand.
There was her mother. Rosamun lay on the floor, her hand on the flask. She gazed at Kitiara with her large doe eyes that never seemed to quite focus on the present, but stared out at some hazy horizon no one could see but her.
“Your father didn’t come home last night,” Rosamun said accusingly.
Kitiara cringed. Not again. The pain of her wounds was terrible, but it was nothing to the pain of the torture rack on which her parents had strapped her, pulling her between them whenever they fought.
“He was with that woman, wasn’t he?” Rosamun’s voice rose shrilly. “The one with the red hair I saw him flirting with at the market yesterday.”
“He was at the Trough, Mother, drinking with his friends,” Kit mumbled. She had to reach the flask. She crawled nearer, holding her sword, ready to strike.
“Don’t lie for him, girl,” Rosamun shouted, her voice rising to a shriek. “He hurts you as much as me with his philandering. Someday he’ll leave us both. Mark my words …”
Kitiara sank down on the floor. Her eyes closed in exhaustion. She saw her father with the red-haired bar wench. The woman had her back against the outhouse, her legs spread, her skirts hiked up. Gregor crowded close to her, nuzzling bare breasts. Kit heard the woman squeal and her father grunt and the squeals blended with her mother’s hysterical ravings.
Kit pushed herself painfully off the red ice. She staggered to her feet. Lifting her sword, she plunged it into her mother’s body, then drove into her father’s body. She kept stabbing and hacking at both of them until the roaring and the sobbing ceased and the thing quit twitching.
Kitiara collapsed.
She lay on the ice, staring at the blood-spattered ceiling. Her hand closed over the flask, and she tried to bring it to her mouth.
“I meant to come back, Tanis,” she told him. “The truth is … I forgot …”
Her hand fell, limp, to the icy floor.
13
Recovery. Fewmaster Toede
surpasses expectations.
itiara fought on. Clawed hands had hold of her, and she lashed out in fury, kicking and hitting, and screaming curses. “Hold her down!” a guttural voice ordered angrily. “I’m trying, sir!” panted another. “Belek, sit on her feet. Rult, pour more water down her throat!”
A heavy weight immobilized Kit’s lower limbs. Strong hands seized her wrists and prized open her jaws. Someone poured water into her mouth.
The water went down the wrong way, and Kitiara choked. Gasping for air brought her back to consciousness. She opened her eyes and saw monstrous faces leering at her. She couldn’t move and she tensed to fight, then the mists cleared and she realized the faces were covered in scales, not fur, and none of them were faces from her past.
They were kapak faces, and the lizard-men had never looked so wonderful to her as they did now.
“You can let go of me,” she mumbled.
The commander regarded her warily, then gave a nod of his head. The kapak who had been sitting on her legs got up, groaned and limped off—apparently she had kneed him in a sensitive spot. The two kapak soldiers who held her wrists backed off.
“What about the guardian?” Kit asked.
“Dead,” said the commander.
Kit nodded thankfully and closed her eyes to let the dizziness pass.
“What was it?” she demanded.
“Hard to tell,” said the kapak. “You hacked it to bits. Whatever it was, none of us had ever seen one before.”
“Some foul creation of the wizard’s,” said Kit, shuddering. “You’re sure it’s dead?”
“Very,” replied the commander.
Kitiara sighed and relaxed. She was not in pain, but she felt weak and trembly and her brain wasn’t working right. Her father had been there … and Tanis. But that wasn’t possible, and the dragon orb, talking to her …
Kit’s eyes flared open. “The dragon orb! I have to go save it—”
“No, you don’t,” said the commander. “Sleet’s guarding the orb. Takhisis’s orders. You should rest. You’ve earned it.”
“How long have I been out?” Kit wondered confusedly. “A week,” said the kapak.
“A week!” Kitiara repeated, staring at him disbelief. “The healing water closed your wounds, but you lost a lot of blood, then a fever set in. We thought you were dead a couple of times. Her Dark Majesty must think highly of you.”
“And y
ou went to all this trouble to save me.” Kit shook her head and noticed even that small motion exhausted her. “Why didn’t you just let me die? You dracos don’t have much love for humans.”
“We don’t like humans,” the kapak agreed, “but we don’t like elves more.”
Kit smiled weakly. “Speaking of elves, I’m surprised Feal-Thas didn’t kill me.”
“He hasn’t been here with flowers,” said the kapak dryly. “In fact, he hasn’t been here at all. He’s holed up in that ice palace of his.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t know his guardian’s dead.”
“Oh, he knows,” said the kapak. “The winternorn knows everything. They say he can read minds. He’s cunning, that one. He has as many twists and turns as a snake. If you want my opinion, he set you up to die. He wants you out of the way. One less rival.”
Kitiara thought this over. It made sense, as much as anything made sense around here.
“I’ll guess I’ll have to kill him,” she said. “Give me my sword—”
She tried to sit up. The kapak gave her a shove and Kit fell back on the bed with a groan.
“Maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow …” she mumbled.
The commander chuckled. “I can see why you’re a Dragon Highlord. And speaking of dragons, a blue has been hanging about, worried sick about you. He threatened to tear down the castle if anything happened to you. I never saw a dragon in such a stew.”
“It must be Skie. Good old Skie.” Kitiara sighed deeply and contently. “Tell Skie I’m all right, will you? And thanks, Commander. For everything.”
She rolled over on her side, hugged the fur blankets around her, and went to sleep.
Two days and several caribou steaks later, Kitiara felt well enough to leave her bed. The first thing she did was to see for herself that the guardian was truly dead. She ventured cautiously into the narrow tunnel, sword in hand. The blood—her blood—was frozen in the ice, but no corpse. The kapak had told her there wasn’t much left of the monster, and now there was nothing at all.
Dragons of the Highlord Skies Page 15