Feal-Thas must have removed the remains. Either that or they’d disappeared on their own.
Kit left the chamber where she’d almost died and continued down the tunnel to the dragon’s lair, intending to discuss Ariakas’s plan for the dragon orb. This did not go well, for Sleet proved to be every bit as dull and obtuse as Skie had predicted. The white dragon blinked at Kit with heavy eyelids, scratched her ear with a clawed foot, and tilted her head to the side, as if viewing Kitiara from that angle somehow made her instructions clearer. At length Sleet yawned, lay her head down on the ice, and closed her eyes.
“Do you understand what you’re supposed to do?” Kitiara asked, exasperated.
“I’m to guard the dragon orb,” Sleet muttered.
“Guard it from Feal-Thas,” said Kit.
“I hate Feal-Thas.” The dragon’s lip curled back over her teeth.
“When the Solamnic knight comes, you—”
“I hate Solamnic knights,” the dragon added, and rolling over on her back, she fell asleep with her legs in the air and her tongue lolling out of her mouth.
Kit gave up and walked out. She hoped they all killed each other.
Kit was ready to leave Icereach. She had decided against seeking revenge on Feal-Thas. Ariakas more than half-suspected her of being complicit in the death of Lord Verminaard. She didn’t want the emperor to think she was going about Ansalon on a quest to murder his Highlords. She would have her revenge on the elf, but in a time and place of her choosing, not his.
She sent a message to Feal-Thas in his Ice Palace, saying she was leaving. His message back to her read, I didn’t know you were still here.
“The emperor was a fool to put a dark elf in charge of anything,” Skie remarked when Kitiara told him her tale. “Good elves are bad, but bad elves are worse.”
The two stood on a wind-swept ice field outside the castle walls. Kitiara was bundled in furs and held her hand over her eyes to protect against the blinding glare of the sun off the ice. She wondered irritably how a sun this bright could shed such little heat.
“You should go inside,” Skie added. “Your teeth are chattering.”
“So are yours,” said Kit, fondly stroking the neck of the blue dragon. Icicles hung off Skie’s chin, making it look as if he had grown a hoary beard.
“I’m cold inside and out,” said the dragon glumly. “When do we leave this horrible place?”
“I have to read those dispatches Ariakas sent first, see if he has any orders for me.”
She left the dragon stomping about the glacier, flapping his wings, trying to keep warm.
The first dispatch she read was from Emperor Ariakas, informing her of victories in the eastern part of Krynn. The Highlord Lucien of Takar now had half the continent under his control, or so Ariakas claimed. Kitiara ground her teeth as she read this. Solamnia would be under her control now if Ariakas had permitted it. As for Lucien, what had he conquered? Kender, elves, and goat herders. Bah!
Ariakas said he hoped her meeting with Highlord Feal-Thas was going well. Kitiara growled deep in her throat at this. He expected her to send him a full report.
Kitiara sat for a long while, pondering the message. Something was wrong. Ariakas had never before written her anything as formal and stiff as this. The letter was not even in his handwriting. He had dictated it. Always before he had written to her personally.
There were many reasons why Ariakas might have dictated this message—he was fighting a war, trying to govern a large region, searching for the Green Gemstone man, dealing with an impatient goddess. Small wonder if he did not have time to write her a personal note.
Still, Kit was bothered by this and by other small details. She had expected him to ask for her report in person and he had instead told her to write it. He had said nothing about future orders. He had said nothing about Solamnia. Kitiara decided she would leave the blue wing to search for Tanis around Thorbardin. She would travel immediately to Neraka to find out what was going on.
She rolled up the missive in a tight twist and held it to the flame floating atop the seal oil. She watched the fire consume it, dropping it only when the flame was about to burn her fingers.
The next thirty or so dispatches were all from Fewmaster Toede. Kit glanced over them, grinning. They were copies of dispatches sent to commanders of the forces of the Red Dragonarmy containing orders that contradicted his former orders that countermanded his previous orders. Kitiara figured the commanders simply tossed these away, which is what she was prepared to do when she noticed that one was addressed to her.
Kitiara settled down and prepared to enjoy it, figuring the inanities of the hobgoblin would at least give her a good laugh.
The opening salutation did just that. Written in a hand certainly not belonging to the hobgoblin, it took up half a page and began by addressing Kitiara as: “Most Exalted, Revered and Esteemed Highlord, Honored Among Men and Gods and Nations,” and it went on from there. She skipped over most of it to reach the main body of the missive, which began by describing the pleasure the Fewmaster had received from meeting her and expressing his ardent desire that he be permitted to polish her boots again the next time they met, which he hoped and prayed to Her Dark Majesty would be soon.
Then Kitiara’s chuckles ceased. She sat bolt upright and reread the paragraph.
My spies in Thorbardin report that those persons in whom you most graciously expressed an interest, these being those assassins who murdered our much beloved and deeply lamented Lord Verminaard (may Chemosh embrace him) have left the mountain fastness of the dwarves and are reportedly en route to Tarsis, trying to flee the justice they so richly deserve.
“Tarsis …” murmured Kitiara, interested. She read on.
Immediately upon receiving this news, I put out a bounty on these criminals and I fully expect they will be captured soon. Knowing that your most gracious lordship was interested in seeing these miscreants brought to account and for your lordship’s further edification, I have included here within a copy of the bounty notice I drew up, complete with the names and descriptions of these assassins. I have sent these notices to the commanders of our illustrious forces in the region. I confidently expect to have these criminals under lock and key at any moment.
Kitiara doubted if any of the commanders had even bothered to look at it.
Of course, “these criminals” might not be Tanis and his friends. There were, by report, eight hundred human refugees holed up in Thorbardin. She fished out the notice that had been rolled up in the center of the Highlord’s letter and, her heart beating fast, scanned over the names.
Her past seemed to leap out at her, as it had done in the chamber with the guardian. Faces rose from the mists of time.
Tanis Half-elven. Bearded half-elf. Thought to be the leader. Of course, Kit thought to herself. As always.
Sturm Brightblade. Human. Solamnic Knight. Her tryst with Sturm had certainly not gone as planned.
Flint Fireforge. Dwarf. Grumpy old Flint. He’d never liked her much.
Tasslehoff Burrfoot. Kender. Hard to believe that little nuisance was still alive.
Raistlin and Caramon Majere. Human. Wizard, warrior. Her little brothers. Half-brothers, really. They had her to thank for their success.
Tika Waylan. Human. The name sounded familiar, but Kit couldn’t place her.
Elistan. Human. Cleric of Paladine. Dangerous rabble-rouser. How dangerous could the cleric of a weak god like Paladine be?
Gilthanas, elf; Goldmoon, cleric of Mishakal … yes, yes … Kit scanned past them impatiently. Where was the name she sought …
Laurana. Elf princess. Capture alive! The elf female is the property of Fewmaster Toede and is not to be harmed, but should be sent back immediately under heavy guard to the Fewmaster. Reward offered.
“So here you are,” Kit said, displeased. “Still with him.”
She stared hard at the name as though she could conjure up a picture of her: blonde, slender, beautiful.
Kit thought it over and didn’t see why he should, yet the possibility that he might reveal he had seen her and talked to her was troubling. She wished she hadn’t told him her real name. That had been a bit of bravado.
Tarsis—a day’s journey by dragon.
Kitiara sat for a long time gazing at the flames flickering in the bowl of seal oil, making plans. She did not forget Ariakas. Those who forgot Ariakas tended to live very short lives. He had to be appeased, kept happy. He had to be made to think that what she was about to do was being done for him.
She smiled and shook herself from her scheming and went back to finish Toede’s letter, expecting to be entertained by more evidence of the hob’s stupidity. Unfortunately, his stupidity did not prove to be that entertaining. Kitiara sucked in an angry breath that exploded in a curse.
“You bloody fool!”
She bounded to her feet, crumpling the letter in her hand. She started to hurl it into the flames, then checked herself. She made herself read it again, but it didn’t improve the second or third time. She then threw it into the flames and watched it and all her plans go up in smoke.
The idiot hobgoblin was going to attack Tarsis!
She knew why. The red dragons were putting pressure on Toede to take them into battle, and although the hob’s guts spilled out over his belt he apparently didn’t have enough to stand up to the dragons.
Toede should be massing his forces to attack Thorbardin, concentrating on that. Instead he was committing his forces to an assault on a city that had no military value and little wealth, a city he could not hope to keep. He simply did not have troops enough to occupy it. Once, Tarsis might have been a worthy prize, back before the Cataclysm when the city was a seaport. After the fiery mountain struck, the sea departed, leaving Tarsis landlocked, its merchants bankrupt.
She had no idea what Toede was thinking. The answer was—he wasn’t. Kitiara was on her feet, prepared to fly to Haven to try to put a stop to this when she realized, suddenly, that she might be able to use this inane decision on the part of the hob to her advantage.
She recalled the date he’d given for the attack—a fortnight from now. She did not have much time and there was a lot to be done—and done circumspectly. Not even Skie must suspect her true motives. She tucked the sheet of parchment with the names and descriptions of the assassins of Lord Verminaard beneath her shirt, took a couple of swigs of dwarf spirits to enable her to endure the freezing cold of the journey, and, bundled in furs, she gathered up her gear and went out to meet the dragon.
“Where are we bound?” Skie asked. He was in a hurry to leave.
“Thorbardin to fetch the blue wing,” said Kitiara. “Then we’re going to Tarsis.”
Skie snaked his head around to stare at her. “Tarsis! What are we doing in Tarsis?”
“I’ll explain later,” Kit said, her voice resounding hollowly from inside the horned helm.
Skie wanted to hear more about this crazy decision to bring the blue wing to Tarsis, but he decided to wait to discuss it some place where his tail wasn’t stuck to the ice. He spread his wings, wrenched his tail loose, gave a great leap off his powerful hind legs, and soared thankfully into the crystalline blue sky.
BOOK II
1
An Offering to Zeboim.
Derek Quotes the Measure.
erek Crownguard and his fellow knights, Brian Donner and Aran Tallbow, stood at the rail of a merchant ship, watching their entry into the harbor of Rigitt, a port city located about seventy miles from Tarsis. The ship, known as the Marigold, named for the captain’s daughter, had encountered fair weather and smooth seas the entire way.
Aran Tallbow stood head and shoulders over his fellow knights. Aran was a large man and he lived large, being jovial, good-natured, and fun-loving. He had sandy red hair and his mustaches—the traditional mustaches of a Solamnic knight—were long and flowing. He was fond of a “wee dram” as the dwarves say and carried a small flask in a leather holder attached to his sword belt. Inside the flask was the finest brandywine, which he sipped continually. He was never drunk, just always in a good humor. His laughter came from his belly and was as large as himself. He might seem an unlikely knight, but Aran Tallbow was a fierce warrior, his courage and skill in battle renowned. Not even Derek could fault him for that.
As the ship sailed into the harbor of Rigitt, the knights watched with amusement as the sailors offered up gifts of thanksgiving. The gifts ranged from necklaces made of shells to small wooden carvings of various monsters of the deep, all handmade by the sailors during the voyage. Chanting and singing their thanks for a safe journey, they tossed the gifts into the water.
“What is that word they keep repeating, sir?” Aran asked the captain. “Sounds like ‘Zeboim, Zeboim’.”
“That’s it exactly, sir,” said the captain. “Zeboim, goddess of the sea. You should make an offering to her yourselves, my lords. She doesn’t take kindly to being slighted.”
“Despite the fact there has been no sign of this goddess for over three hundred years?” Aran asked, with a wink at his friends.
“Just because we’ve heard no word from her, nor seen a sign, doesn’t mean Zeboim’s not keeping her eye on us,” said the captain gravely.
He leaned over the rail as he spoke to drop a pretty bracelet made of blue crystals into the green water. “Thank you, Zeboim,” he called out. “Bless our journey home!”
Derek watched with stern disapproval. “I can understand ignorant sailors believing in superstitious nonsense, but I can’t believe that you, Captain, an educated man, take part in such a ritual.”
“For one, my men would mutiny if I did not, my lord,” said the captain, “and for another”—he shrugged—“it’s better to be safe than sorry, especially where the Sea Witch is concerned. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, as we are coming into port, I have to attend to my duties.”
The knights stood beside the railing, observing the sights and sounds of the port. With winter fast closing in, the port was almost empty except for the fishing vessels that braved all but the fiercest winter gales.
“Beg pardon, m’luds,” came a voice behind them.
The three knights turned to see one of the sailors bowing and bobbing to them. They knew this man well. He was the oldest aboard ship. He claimed to have been a sailor for sixty years, saying he had gone to sea as a lad at the age of ten. He was wizened and bent, his face burnt brown by the sun and wrinkled with age. He could still climb the ropes as fast as the young men, however. He could predict the coming of a storm by watching the way the gulls flew, and he claimed he could talk to dolphins. He had survived a shipwreck, saying he had been rescued from drowning by a beautiful sea elf.
“For you both, m’luds,” the old man said, gumming the words, for he was missing most of his teeth to scurvy. “For to give to the Sea Witch.”
He held in his hands two carved wooden animals, and these he presented with a bob and a bow and a toothless grin to Aran and Brian.
“What is it?” Brian asked, examining the small hand-carved wooden animal.
“It looks like a wolf,” Aran remarked.
“Yes, m’lud. Wolf,” said the old man, touching his hand to his forehead. “One fer both.” He pointed a gnarled finger first at Aran, then to Brian. “Give ’em to the Sea Witch. So she’ll take kindly to you.”
“Why wolves, Old Salt?” Aran asked. “Wolves are not very sea-like. Wouldn’t a whale suit her better?”
“I was told wolves in a dream,” said the old man, his shrewd eyes glinting. He pointed to the sea. “Give ’em to the goddess. Ask ’er for ‘er blessing.”
“You do and I’ll bring you up on charges before the Council,” Derek stated.
Derek was not noted for his sense of humor, but he did sometimes indulge in small dry jokes (so dry and so small they often went unnoticed). He might be teasing, but then again, he might not. Brian couldn’t tell.
Not that it mattered with Aran, who was quick to turn anything into a jest.
“You frighten me. What would be the charges, Derek?” Aran asked with mock concern.
“Idol worship,” said Derek.
“Hah! Hah!” Aran’s laughter went rolling over the water. “You’re just jealous because you didn’t get a wolf.”
Derek had kept to their cabin during the voyage, spending his time reading the copy of the Measure he carried with him, making notations in the margins. He left the cabin only to take daily exercise on the deck, which meant that he walked up and down it for an hour, or to dine with the captain. Aran had roamed the deck from morning to night, mingling freely with the sailors, learning “the ropes” and dancing the hornpipe. He had undertaken to scramble up the rigging and had nearly broken his neck when he fell from the yardarm.
Brian had spent most of his time at sea trying to restrain the high spirits of Aran.
“So I just toss this into the water … “said Aran to the old man, prepared to suit his actions to his words. “Do I say a prayer—”
“You do not,” said Derek sternly. He reached out and plucked the wolf carving from Aran’s hand and gave it back to the old man. “Thank you, mate, but these knights have their swords. They don’t need a blessing.”
Derek looked pointedly at Brian, who, muttering his thanks, handed his wolf to the old man.
“Are you certain sure, m’luds?” the old man asked, eyeing them intently. His shrewd scrutiny made Brian uncomfortable, but before he could respond Derek cut him off.
Dragons of the Highlord Skies Page 16