Tasslehoff stood over the wolf, watching it grimly, ready to kill it all over if it should somehow spring back to life. When it moved, he gave a savage cry and started to strike again and nearly stabbed Flint, who was trying to crawl out from underneath the twitching body.
Laurana could see the chaos out of the corner of her eye. Using the wizard’s own magical snow as cover, Laurana circled around Feal-Thas to come at him from behind. Gilthanas fired at Feal-Thas, and the large wolf that was no wolf was driven away from the rest of the pack by Gilthanas’s arrows. Forced to remain on the fringes of the assault, Feal-Thas paced back and forth, watching the attack, his tongue lolling, fangs dripping as though he tasted the blood. He did not see Laurana until she was almost upon him, coming at him from behind. He did not hear her over the wolves’ howling and snarling.
Laurana saw Brian’s crumpled body lying on the bloody ice. She had been afraid, but now anger subsumed her fear. She lifted the frostreaver, and remembering Flint’s hastily imparted instructions, she started to swing, to strike the wolf-elf in the back, sever the spine …
Feal-Thas sensed her. He turned his wolf’s head and gazed at her, gazed deep into her heart. His eyes pinned her as the wolf had pinned Brian. She halted in mid-stride. The frostreaver hung in the air, poised, ready to strike a killing blow. But Laurana’s will seeped out of her. Feal-Thas stared at her, yellow eyes probing deep inside her, his thieving hand rifling her heart’s secrets, sifting and sorting, keeping what was valuable, tossing out the rest.
Laurana realized, horror-stricken, that Gilthanas had been wrong. The archmage could still work his magic from inside a wolf’s body. She was in the grip of enchantment, and she could do nothing except flutter helplessly like a butterfly on a pin.
The wolf growled, and she heard words in that bestial snarl.
“I have seen you before!”
“No!” Laurana whispered, quaking.
“Oh, yes. I saw you in Kitiara’s heart. I see her in your heart, and I see the half-elf in both. What fun is this?”
Laurana wanted to flee. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to sink to her knees and bury her face in her hands. But she couldn’t do anything. The wolf trotted closer and she was paralyzed, unable to break free of the fell gaze.
“Kitiara wants Tanis,” said Feal-Thas, “and she means to have him. If she succeeds, Lauralanthalasa, he will be lost to you forever. I am the only person powerful enough to stop her. Kill me, and you give Tanis to your rival.”
Laurana heard the din of shouts mingled with the howling of the wolves. She glanced over her shoulder, saw Brian with his throat torn, Aran dead, Flint crawling out from under the bodies and Tasslehoff fighting as tears ran down his cheeks, forming trails in the blood.
Feal-Thas knew in that moment he’d lost her. He saw his danger. First Kitiara had made a fool of him. She’d brought disaster on him, and now this elf woman was here to finish him off. He saw the two of them, Kitiara and Laurana standing together, laughing at him.
Rage boiled inside Feal-Thas. If he had been in his body, he would have destroyed this feeble woman with a word and a gesture. He would have to settle for tearing her apart, feasting on her flesh, drinking her blood. And someday, he would do the same to Kitiara.
Laurana felt the wizard’s grip release her. She saw the fury in the yellow eyes. She saw the attack coming. She gripped the frostreaver tightly, putting all her strength into it. Laurana forgot about Tanis, forgot about Kitiara. She gave herself and her past and her future into the hands of the gods. She took hold of her own destiny.
Fangs snapping, the wolf leaped at her.
“So be it,” Laurana said calmly, and she swung the frostreaver at the wolf’s throat.
The magical blade blessed by Habakkuk sliced the winternorn’s magic and cut deep into his neck. Blood spurted. Feal-Thas howled. The white wolf slumped to the ice, jaws open, tongue lolling, blood and saliva dribbling from its mouth. The yellow hate-filled eyes stared at her. The wolf’s flanks heaved, feet scrabbled and clawed the ice that was red with blood pouring from the fatal wound.
Faint words, dark and piercing as fangs, sank into her.
“Love was my curse! Love will be your curse and hers!”
The hatred and the life faded out of the wolf’s yellow eyes, and in the moment of his death the enchantment that had transformed Feal-Thas into the wolf snapped. One moment Laurana was staring at the corpse of a wolf. She brushed her eyes to clear them of snow, and when she looked again, the body of the elf lay on his back in a vast pool of blood. His head was nearly severed from his neck.
Laurana gasped and shuddered and turned away. She was sick with shock and horror. She started shaking, and she couldn’t stop. She had some dim realization that she was still in danger—the wolf pack might turn on her, attack her. She looked up to see one wolf running toward her, and she struggled to lift the frostreaver, but it seemed suddenly immensely heavy. Gasping for breath that wouldn’t seem to come, she braced herself.
The wolf paid no heed to her. It padded up gently to the body of the elf, sniffed at the blood, then it threw back its head and gave a wailing howl of grief. The other wolves, hearing the howl, broke off the attack and began to wail. The wolf nuzzled Feal-Thas. The beast looked at Laurana, its gaze going to the glittering, blood-stained frostreaver. The wolf snarled at her, turned, and slunk away. The rest of the pack trailed after, disappearing down the tunnels.
Laurana sagged to her knees. She still held the frostreaver clutched in her hands. She did not think she could ever let go.
Gilthanas knelt beside her, putting his arm around her.
“Are you all right?” he asked fearfully, when he could speak.
“I’m fine,” she said through stiff lips. “The wizard didn’t hurt me.”
She realized, suddenly, this was true. Feal-Thas had tried to hurt her with his terrible curse, but he had not touched her. If love had been the elf’s curse, it was because he had let something beautiful grow into something dark and twisted. She didn’t know about Kitiara. None of that made sense. For Laurana, love was her blessing and would continue to be, whether Tanis returned her love or not.
She was not perfect. She was well aware there would be times when she would know despair, jealousy, and sorrow, but with the help of the gods, love would bring her closer to perfection, not hinder her in the pursuit.
“I’m all right,” she repeated firmly and, rising to her feet, she threw the frostreaver down on top of the body of the dead wizard. “How are the others?”
Gilthanas shook his head. Sturm stood protectively over the bodies of Aran and Brian. Sturm was covered in blood, pale and exhausted, but he did not appear to be hurt. Flint had firm hold of Tasslehoff, who was wildly waving the blood-smeared Rabbitslayer and screaming that he was going to kill every wolf in the world.
Laurana hurried to the kender and put her arms around him. Tas burst into tears and collapsed into a sodden and blood-covered heap on the ice.
Derek had a gash on his face and claw marks on his hands and arms. One of the sleeves of his fur coat hung in tatters. Blood oozed from a bite on his thigh. He gazed down at the bodies of Aran and Brian with a slight frown, as if trying to recollect where he’d seen them before.
“I’m going into the dragon’s lair to find the orb,” he said at last. “Brightblade, stand guard. Don’t let anyone come after me, especially the elves.”
“Gilthanas and Laurana probably saved your life, Derek,” said Sturm hoarsely, his throat raw.
“Just do as you’re ordered, Brightblade,” Derek said coldly.
He limped out of the chamber, heading for the dragon’s lair.
“The gods go with him,” Laurana murmured.
“Hah! Good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say,” said Flint, patting the hiccupping kender on the back.
15
The dragon orb. The knight.
he dragon orb was pleased. All was going better than hoped. The powerful archmage who had kept
the orb prisoner—kept it safe, too, though the orb now gave no thought to that—was dead. Over the centuries, the orb had come to hate Feal-Thas. The orb had repeatedly tried to lure the wizard into using it, hoping to bring the wizard under its control. Feal-Thas had been too smart for that and the orb had seethed and schemed, seeking a way out of this godforsaken place.
Then the place was no longer godforsaken. Takhisis returned and spoke sweet words of blood, fire, and victory, and the orb heard her blandishments and longed to be a part of her new world. But Feal-Thas would not let the orb go. He was so powerful, with his own powerful advocate among the gods, that the wizard could turn a deaf ear to Takhisis.
Then Ariakas came up with a scheme to use the orb to bring about the downfall of the Solamnics. Kitiara came to set his plan in motion. She killed the guardian, and Feal-Thas was forced to hand over the orb to the care of an obtuse and thick-skulled dragon. More, in his arrogance, the wizard was foolish enough to use the orb to lure his enemies into an ambush. The orb had not taken an active role in the destruction of Feal-Thas, but it was pleased to think that it had, in some small way, been of use.
Now the victorious knight was coming to claim his prize. The essences of the five dragons trapped inside the orb roiled and writhed in anticipation. The orb glowed with a hideous light that sank to nothing the moment the knight set foot in the chamber. The orb went clear as a crystal lake on a fine midsummer’s day. Not a ripple disturbed its placid surface. Pure and innocent-seeming, benign, harmless, it sat upon its pedestal and waited.
The knight entered the lair in naive glory and total ignorance. He limped in, moving slowly and cautiously. Sword drawn, he looked about for the dragon or any other guardians. He would find none. The lair was empty, except for Sleet’s victims—dead bodies encased in ice to be thawed and eaten when she, the lazy beast, did not feel like hunting.
The knight found the orb immediately. The dragon minds inside could both see and feel his yearning. He proceeded warily, however, advancing at a crawl, constantly looking over his shoulder, fearful of something sneaking up behind him. The orb waited patiently.
At last, certain he was alone in this chamber, the knight sheathed his sword and limped toward the orb. He took from his belt a sack made of deer hide. He looked at the orb, looked at the sack, and frowned slightly. The orb was too large. It would not fit inside.
A sound came from behind him and the knight dropped the sack, drew his sword, and turned around. Instantly, the orb shrank itself down, becoming just the right size. The sound was not repeated and the knight turned back. He was startled to see the orb appeared to be smaller. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. He fell back a step.
The orb sat on its pedestal, blandly innocent.
The knight shook his head. He was wounded, bleeding, exhausted. He’d been mistaken. He again sheathed his sword, picked up the sack and spread it on the icy floor, ready to receive the orb. He reached out his hands and placed them on the crystal orb, prepared to lift it off its stand and put it in the sack.
Oh, the things about magic the knight did not know, but which he would soon find out!
To his everlasting sorrow.
There are magical words that must be spoken by the person who touches the orb. These words would not assure the orb would come under the person’s control, but they would weaken the will of the dragons caught within. The person placing his hands upon the orb should have a strong and powerful will and should be ready to seize hold and dominate the essence of the trapped dragons. He must be ready to meet the hands that will reach out, grab hold, and try to drag him down.
The knight thought he had only to pick up a globe of clear crystal. He was suddenly and terrifyingly disabused of this notion. Light flared from the globe and struck him directly in the eyes. He closed his eyes against the blinding glare and did not see the colors start to swirl and dance. He did not see the hands that reached out and grabbed hold of his.
The knight gasped. He tried to free himself, but he was not strong enough. His will wavered. He was ignorant, confused, and horribly afraid. He did not understand what was happening and the orb had an easy time of it. It dragged him down and dragged him under, held him fast until he ceased to struggle.
The dragons began to whisper to him, words of despair, meant to destroy hope.
When they were finished with the knight, they let him go.
Pleased with himself, never realizing that forever and always he would hear the voices whispering doom to him in the night, Derek Crownguard bore the dragon orb out of Ice Wall Castle.
16
The dead and the living.
he wolves had fled, but the danger had not. Derek had gone off to the dragon’s lair to find the orb. Laurana and the others remained in the tunnels beneath a castle under siege. Sounds of fighting echoed faintly down the tunnels. The Ice Folk had managed to fight their way inside the castle and were battling the enemy within its walls. Their day was not finished. The wizard was dead, but those who served him were not.
Sturm sheathed his sword and knelt down to compose the bodies of his comrades. He shut the staring eyes and covered Aran’s ghastly face with his own cloak. He washed the blood from Brian’s face with handfuls of snow.
Laurana had feared Gilthanas would rush off after Derek, perhaps even fight him for the dragon orb. Gilthanas did not leave. He stared at the bodies of the two knights, remembering that only last night they had been alive, laughing, talking, smiling, and singing. He bowed his head, his eyes filled with tears. Laurana stood at his side. He put his arm around her, and together they knelt in the snow to pay their respects to the dead. Flint made a swipe at his eyes and cleared his throat. Tasslehoff smeared blood over his face as he blew his nose on Caramon’s handkerchief.
The dead lay in some semblance of peace, their arms crossed over their breasts, their swords clasped in their still hands.
Sturm raised his eyes skyward and prayed quietly, “‘Return this man to Huma’s breast, beyond the wild, impartial skies; grant to him a warrior’s rest, and set the last spark—’”
“Time for that later,” Derek interrupted.
He came from the dragon’s lair and he held a leather sack in his hand tied with a drawstring. “I have the dragon orb. We must get out of here before we are discovered.”
He glanced down at Aran and Brian, lying on the blood-stained ice, and a spasm passed over his face. His eyes dimmed; his lips trembled. He pressed his lips tightly together. His eyes cleared.
“We will return for the bodies after we have made certain the dragon orb is safe,” he said, cold, impassive.
“You go on, my lord,” said Sturm quietly. “I will remain with the fallen.”
“What for? They are not going anywhere!” Derek rasped angrily.
Flint scowled and growled deep in his throat. Laurana stared at Derek in shock.
Sturm stood quiet, unmoving.
Derek flashed them all an irate glance. “You think me callous, but I am thinking of them. Listen to that!” He gestured down a tunnel. They could all hear the unmistakable sounds of battle—clashing metal, shouts and oaths and screams—and those sounds were growing louder.
“These knights gave their lives to secure the dragon orb. Would you have their sacrifice go to waste, Brightblade? Perhaps you think we should all stay here and die with them? Or do we finish our quest and live to sing of their bravery?”
No one said a word.
Derek turned and walked off, heading back the way they had come. He did not look behind to see if the others were following.
“Derek is right,” said Sturm at last. “We should not let their sacrifice be in vain. Paladine will watch over them. Harm will not come to them until we can return to claim them and take them home.”
Sturm gave a knight’s salute to each of the fallen, then he walked after Derek.
Gilthanas retrieved what arrows he could find and went after Sturm. Flint harumphed and rubbed his nose and, grabbing hold of Tasslehoff, gave th
e kender a shove and told him to get a move on and quit standing there sniveling like a big baby.
Laurana lingered in the chamber with the dead. Friend. Foe. Picking up the frostreaver, stained with the wizard’s blood, she walked to her destiny.
The Fall of Ice-Reach Castle
A N I CE F OLK S ONG
By Lester Smith
Attend now, Ice Folk, to my tale,
Of the day that Ice Wall Castle fell,
And heed the lessons it reveals.
The tower had stood for ages long,
With walls of ice on walls of stone;
And wizard Feal-Thas called it home.
This dark elf magus held in thrall
A thousand thanoi to man its walls—
Fierce walrus-men. Nor was this all:
Draconians, too, in their hundreds
Upon the Ice Tower’s walls abounded,
To do whate’er Feal-Thas commanded.
And more than this, a great white dragon
Served the wizard’s will! Its might again
Affirming Feal-Thas’ right to reign.
For the dark elf had resolved to rule
With iron fist, and intent cruel,
Where long our people had endured.
The Ice Folk seemed to face their doom.
Against this threat, we had no boon.
Our hope upon the wind was strewn.
Listen, Ice Folk, to my tale!
Then Habakkuk, our old god, came
To Aged Raggart, in a dream,
And promised victory in his name.
And strangers, too, were come to join
The Ice Folk’s cause, for which they gained—
Knights, elves, and dwarves—welcome as kin.
Chief Harald, frostreaver in hand,
Called all true souls to take a stand
And cleanse the ice of Feal-Thas’ stain!
The day that Ice Wall Castle Fell!
Our ice boats launched as day dawned fair.
Dragons of the Highlord Skies Page 44