He started a small swing, moving Anakerie through a gradually increasing arc, that took her well out over the lava field in one direction, but ever closer to the waiting Maizan and their Castellan in the other.
“There’s a proper order ta the way of things, Drumheller,” he said as he worked. “Yeh’ve cast it into chaos, an’ the whole world besides. Whatever fate comes for you, it’ll be as well earned as well deserved. So far as I’m concerned, Anakerie is well rid of yeh an’ my only regret is I can’t save the Sacred Princess in the bargain.”
Above, Ryn turned to Thorn, demanding another line.
“That perch isn’t big enough,” was the Nelwyn’s reply, “and far too unstable.”
“I don’t care, I have to help her!”
“Then leave her!” Thorn’s expression was as fierce as the larger, bulkier Wyr’s, neither figure willing to be swayed. “Geryn’s her best chance, her only chance. By staying, you put our lives at risk as well!”
“He’s right,” Elora said, placing herself between them. “The mountain’s awake, and angry beyond Drumheller’s ability to manage it. I can feel that. So could you, Ryn, if you took the moment to care.”
“They have her,” Khory announced casually.
“Bless the Maker,” Ryn said thankfully, then looked around sharply as Elora plunged to her knees at the edge of the slab.
“Geryn,” she called, “throw us the rope, we’ll pull you up!”
Again, that wild smile from the young man.
“I don’t think so, Sacred Highness. But I thank you for the thought.”
“Drumheller!” she cried, full-voice.
“There’s nothing I can do.” Sorrow was stark on his face, and fatigue as well. Sorcery wasn’t an option any longer; he stood by act of will, his body could do no more, his reserves had been drained dry, as had the Deceiver’s.
The ground shook again and with another awful crack the face of the slab opened before them, calving clear as cleanly as if it had been quarried. Against such a terrible noise, Elora’s scream should have been a little thing, easily buried, but all present heard her nonetheless.
As though she’d passed a portion of that strength to the man below, Geryn’s voice came back to them just as clearly, with a smile to it that made Elora wail and turn away to bury her head on Thorn’s shoulder.
“For the Princess Royal,” the Pathfinder cried as the cliff gave way around him.
His last words, before the fire claimed him: “For Angwyn!”
* * *
—
To the ear, Doumhall’s death throes sounded like a game of bowls, with balls the size of mountains. To the eye, it was a great, glowing cauldron of raw fire as the elemental heart of the world fountained into the sky. The peak itself had collapsed in the night to form a monstrous caldera, easily a mile across, canted upland from Duatha Headland and the King’s Gate—and frozen Angwyn beyond—and lava poured from the summit to complete the destruction of Cherlindrea’s forest begun by the firedrakes. The molten rock filled in the serrated rills and spread mostly to the side as though to form a wall.
Of the Maizan there was no sign, which was hardly a surprise since they’d been on the south side of the peak when it blew, a comparatively safe venue but one that allowed them no chance of pursuit. Thorn sensed the Deceiver wouldn’t be following either, at least not right away. Too much had happened too quickly; the fiend had actually been hurt, as well as his host form; he’d have to recover before making another move.
So would Anakerie.
So would he, though he prayed everyone around him would stay healthy for the immediate future. He had his limits, too.
Ryn was hunting, Khory sitting sentry near the cave wherein they’d taken refuge. They’d traveled far enough north to pass the fringes of the storm. There were clouds above, turned to scattered streamers by the high-altitude winds, and beyond them he could see the sky itself and all its welcome stars. This was still primeval land, they wouldn’t find settlements for another few days; once they crossed that threshold, Thorn knew they’d have to move as hard and fast as the wind.
It was a hard climb to find Elora, perched atop the hill where she had a decent view south of burning Doumhall. The effort quickly left him breathless and he was huffing long before he reached her. He brought a steaming mug of broth, fresh from the cookpot, and she wrapped her hands around the mug to warm them before hazarding a sip. She sat as huddled into herself as she could manage, back to a standing stone, legs pulled close to her chest.
“I wish I had the opportunity to return this,” he said, mostly to himself, fingering Anakerie’s silver hair clip.
Elora gave him a sidelong look, then returned her eyes to the distant burning mountain. “No more use for it?” she asked.
“I have use for it.”
“You like her, the Princess.” Elora didn’t wait for his reply; she was already certain of the answer. Instead, she said, “I never had the chance. She ran away from home right after I arrived.”
“Her father wanted her to be the first of your vizards.”
Elora’s face twisted. “I’d have rather had a friend. She ran away. By the time she returned to Angwyn, the patterns of our lives were both set.”
“Not anymore. Patterns, I mean,” when Elora cocked a questioning eyebrow. “Yours and hers both are broken.”
“Mine, hers, the whole wide world’s. So everyone’s fond of telling me.”
“We’ve all been humbled, Elora. It’s what comes next that matters. The order of the world—the fundamental way of things—has changed. Perhaps permanently. We either accept it, or try to set things right.”
“I bet you’d rather be home, tending your beets.”
“Corn, and barley, thank you very much. And wheat. Burglekutt grew beets.”
“Is she a friend, Drumheller, or foe?” Elora asked after another cautious sip of soup and a lick of the lips at its delicious taste.
“Yes.”
“That’s no answer.”
“No.”
She gave him a look to see if he was making fun of her. His in return told her that was as good as she was going to get on the subject.
“I hope she’s all right.”
“So do I.”
“It’s my fault,” she said. “If I hadn’t tried to break loose—”
Thorn took a long breath, then let it out as slowly. “Geryn chose his fate when he left us on the reef, before the firedrakes. You trusted me with your life, Elora, wholly and without reservation. He couldn’t. Not then. Not later. He’d marked a path for himself, built himself a structure to define the shape of his days; he couldn’t bear to tear it down, nor conceive of how he’d survive the aftermath of such destruction.”
“Will we? Survive?” she asked after a time.
“We’ll try.”
“Will we win?”
“I don’t know.”
“Any idea how?”
He considered for a bit, then said, “Not the slightest.”
She laughed aloud. “Then how can we fail?”
Her laughter faded and she sniffed, very much a girl who’d hardly begun the journey of her life.
“I miss my bear,” she said, with true sadness.
“I beg your pardon?”
She shrugged, tried to cover her sorrow with a smile. “My bear. I had it in my arms when I came to Angwyn. The only thing that came with me from home.” Her voice broke on the word and she sniffed loudly. “Wasn’t much to look at. Singed all over, poor thing, one eye gone, an ear torn to shreds. I didn’t know better, I’d say it had gone to war.” Her smile broadened. “I used to look at him, in bed at night, and think to myself—you figure this is something, Elora my girl, you should see the other guy!”
An impulse drew Thorn’s hand to his pouch. Even as he reached inside he had a flash of InSight about what would be waiting. And rememb
ered as well that last exchange with the Demon.
“Evil abides,” he had said, in despair.
Silly little mage, had been the reply—so does good.
The bear did indeed look the worse for wear. The fur had been brushed and cleaned—he knew from the touch that it had been by Elora’s own hand, this was a treasure she entrusted to no one—but soot had been baked into its fabric, making him a very dirty blond. The fabric over one foot had worn away and been replaced. From the odd shape—it no longer matched its fellow—it was clear that new stuffing had been added as well, by a seamstress with more desire than skill. It was indeed missing an eye, and an ear had been savaged, with companion scars down the side of its head. But the eye that remained looked back at him with the rough-and-ready confidence of a survivor.
“Bear!” Elora said in a whisper, not daring to believe the sight.
He handed it to her and she cradled it with the gentle passion of one true friend for another.
“How?” she asked Thorn.
“You’ve Khory’s sire to thank.”
“The Demon?”
“I think it snuck it into my pouch before our escape.”
“What a world”—she marveled—“where Demons offer kindness.” Then she looked from bear to Nelwyn.
“He’s yours, isn’t he? You made Bear for me.”
He nodded.
“I couldn’t be with you, so I left him in my place. I thought it was a dream. I suppose”—and he looked skyward, letting memory sweep him along like the wind—“where dragons are concerned, dreams are reality and reality a dream.”
“You know, I always told myself that it was Bear who saved me.”
“Well, I asked him to look after you.”
“Thank you, Thorn. With all my heart.”
Her eyes turned once more to the newborn, ancient volcano in the distance.
“Why is there always fire?” she wondered.
“That which cleanses, that which consumes, been a part of your story from the start, I’m afraid. One of the Realms. Fire, I mean.”
Her head turned a fraction to her left, looking past Doumhall toward the glow that could no longer be seen thanks to the volcano’s fury. “The ways the world ends, that’s what Ryn said—in fire or in ice. Ancient Angwyn claimed by one, young Angwyn by the other.”
“The world’s far from dead, Elora. Both fire and ice have their role in the preservation of life as well as its destruction.”
“What the StagLord said, is everyone’s hand against us?”
“Very likely, I’m afraid. New relationships, new alliances. It’ll be a time before the dust settles, while new heads claim their respective crowns. Afterward, everyone’s going to choose up sides. Some might join the Deceiver willingly, others may well be overthrown. Some will decide the safest place is on the sidelines and wrap themselves in neutrality. The best, I hope, will cast their lot with you.”
“It’s a war, then.”
“Against the Shadow, yes.”
Her eyes were blinking very rapidly, the distant glow of Doumhall giving her tears the aspect of the raw lava flowing down the mountain’s flanks.
“I didn’t want Geryn to die,” she said softly, after a silence.
“Nor I. But that’s the way of things sometimes.”
“I keep seeing his face—not the way he was at the end, but when we were friends, on the boat and on the beach, when he kept trying to keep me warm.”
“Good. So long as you remember, the good in him lives on.”
“Like the brownies said?”
“Like the brownies said.”
“Thank you for saving me.”
He stretched his arm across her shoulder, and drew her close. She snuggled like a cat again, like his own daughter, fitting herself as best she could to his lap, and he stroked her gleaming hair.
“I did my part,” he told her, “as did we all. But when it counted, Elora Danan, you saved yourself.”
Then, for what felt like the first time in a lifetime, he let a smile of true joy crease his weathered features, and he sang the hope of the world to a deep and gentle sleep.
For fans
of fantasy
everywhere
G.L.
To Eleanor, Betsy, Lucy and Tom
For Faith, Trust, Patience and Skill
C.C.
GEORGE LUCAS is the founder of Lucasfilm Ltd., one of the world’s leading entertainment companies. He created the Star Wars and Indiana Jones film series, each film among the all-time leading box-office hits. Among his story credits are THX 1138, American Graffiti, and the Star Wars and Indiana Jones films. He lives in Marin County, California.
CHRIS CLAREMONT is best known for his seventeen-year stint on Marvel Comics’ The Uncanny X-Men, during which it was the bestselling comic in the Western Hemisphere for a decade; he has sold more than 100 million comic books to date. His novels First Flight, Grounded! and Sundowner were science fiction bestsellers. Other projects include the dark fantasy novel Dragon Moon and Sovereign Seven™, a comic book series published by DC Comics. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.
The saga of the Shadow War continues in
SHADOW DAWN
AND
SHADOW STAR
By Chris Claremont
Story by George Lucas
Available
from Bantam Spectra
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Shadow Moon Page 48