The History of Krynn: Vol I

by Dragon Lance

  Under the wall were clustered an ever-changing forest of tents and ragged lean-tos. Wanderers of every stripe came to the valley to trade. Born in the open, some folk could not adapt to the close streets and roofed dwellings of the village. They pitched their tents and remained for one day or a hundred, trading game, labor, or objects for food and handicrafts.

  Something in the muddle of scruffy tents caught Tiphan’s eye. He leaned forward, saying, “Leave me at the wall.” The lead bearer grunted acknowledgment and steered his comrades to the open defile.

  To prevent enemies from simply storming the necessary openings in the wall, Amero’s builders created a low, extra wall in front of each opening. Those entering Yala-tene by these baffles had to zigzag around the short wall before they could enter. In times of trouble, heavy timbers or boulders could be set in the baffles to block them completely.

  The bearers lowered Tiphan’s chair to the ground. He rose with a musical clatter of bronze scales and stepped down. Moments later, his father’s litter arrived.

  “Why have you stopped, son?” Konza called.

  “I want to check the progress of the wall. You go ahead. Preparation of the offering must commence by midday. Will you see to it?”

  The old man blinked. “Gladly.” He sat back, plainly puzzled. “But I thought you were in a hurry to get back.”

  “I was.” To Konza’s bearers, Tiphan said, “Take my father to the Offertory.”

  With a concerted shout, they set off, giving Konza no chance to countermand his son’s command.

  Tiphan sent his own bearers away as well. He strolled along the outside of the wall, admiring the evenness of the stonework, the precision of the seams between the blocks. Amero’s masons had learned a great deal about laying stone in twelve years. This newest section of wall was their finest effort yet.

  Turning away from the wall, Tiphan walked down to the wanderers’ camp. Eyes watched him from scores of open tents, yet for all the roughness of the encampment, he had nothing to fear. The inhabitants might call their town Yala-tene, meaning “Mountain Nest,” but to outsiders such as these, it was known as Arku-peli, or “Place of the Dragon.” No one dared interfere with Tiphan. His dragonscale robe made it plain he had access to the powerful Duranix.

  Tiphan spied a tall, conical tent near the center of the camp. Bark walls meant the owner was too poor to have a tent made of deerskin. A flap of woven ivy hung over the entrance, reinforcing the image of poverty, yet on the leafy doorflap hung a bronze disk two handspans wide, embossed with an image of the sun. Bronze was rare and valuable, quite out of place on such a lowly shelter. It was this artifact that had caught Tiphan’s eye.

  The Sensarku swept back the flap with one hand. The interior was dark and smelled of sour mold and raw meat. He saw crossed feet, clad in bark sandals. They retreated from the shaft of light Tiphan let in.

  “May I enter?”

  “As you choose, but close the flap.” The speaker – his name was Bek – had an edge in his voice, the sharpness of danger and guile.

  Tiphan stepped in and let the mat of vines fall shut behind him. Darkness closed around him. Tiny points of sunlight pierced the interior through chinks in the bark shell. By these Tiphan could see Bek sitting on the far side of the tent. A few rough stones piled in the center of the floor served as a firepit. The rest of the tent was crowded with rattan baskets and bags of moldering leather.

  “What do you have for me this time?”

  “What you asked for,” Bek said.

  Tiphan’s eyes widened. “Show me.”

  “It wasn’t easy to come by and won’t be cheap.”

  “Show me!”

  The shadowy figure stood. Bek was little taller standing than sitting. As he slipped past, Tiphan caught only glimpses of his strange host: tattoos scrolling down his neck, a blue stone fixed in a pierced earlobe, a reddish pigtail hanging down his back. And what was hanging from the back of his belt? A panther’s tail?

  Bek knelt by a tall basket and pushed off the lid. The rattan container was crowded with cylinders of stiff white parchment. The tattooed man drew out one scroll, checked the glyphs on the butt of the wooden rod, and handed it to Tiphan.

  “Kinsheesus Talikanathor is its name, more or less. In the argot of Silvanesti priests it means ‘The Way to Bind the Sun.’”

  Tiphan parted the scroll. It was filled from side to side and top to bottom with Elvish script. Glosses on the black text were scribed in red. He was still learning the language, and the poor light did not make deciphering the ornate, feathery writing any easier.

  Tiphan let go of one side, allowing the scroll to roll itself shut. “What do you want for it?”

  For the first time the little man looked his customer in the face. Both his eyes glowed in the dark, and in different colors. His right eye was cool, greenish blue, like the belly of a carrion fly. The left eye was yellow, like the stars in the constellation of Matat, the dragon.

  “Give me your robe,” Bek said.

  Tiphan laughed. “This robe is worth more than your life!”

  “This book is worth more than both our lives.” Bek removed the scroll from the Sensarku’s hand and carefully returned it to the basket with the others. “You can’t walk into a scribe’s shop in Silvanost and ask for these tomes, you know. They’re forbidden! I took many chances getting it.” He drew a stubby finger across his throat. Tiphan ignored the ugly gesture. Bek continued, “This book has commentaries by Vedvedsica himself. Did you see the passages in red ink? His hand, his wisdom.”

  Tiphan knew the fame of the elf priest Vedvedsica. For many years he’d been the first sage of Silvanos’s realm. Then, a few years ago, rumors had reached Yala-tene of his downfall. It was said the wily Vedvedsica had been exiled to an island far away in the southern sea.

  “I’ll give you four pounds of bronze,” Tiphan told him. “Or six pounds of copper. I also have some gemstones.”

  Bek shook his head. His eyelids closed for the space of two heartbeats, and when they opened again, his irises had switched colors – now the right one was yellow, and the left blue.

  “I want the robe off your back, nothing less,” Bek said, grinning. His teeth were uncommonly long and pointed.

  “There’s ten pounds of bronze in this robe!”

  “With this book you can command the elements!” The little man held the lid poised over the basket. “Last chance. What say you?”

  Tiphan’s hands positively ached to hold the manuscript again. Jaw clenched, he unclasped the buckle of his belt and let it fall to the dirt. Dropping his arms, he shrugged the heavy robe off. It piled around his feet like musical, golden snow.

  The little man handed Tiphan the scroll. “Wise choice, my friend. Knowledge is much more valuable than bronze,” he said. To Tiphan’s amazement, the panther tail attached to the back of the man’s belt moved, lashing once from side to side.

  “You seem to crave bronze well enough,” Tiphan said, slipping the parchment roll inside his white doeskin shirt.

  “A fella’s got to eat. While you’re here, can I interest you in another book? It’s also from Silvanost, very rare, suppressed by five priesthoods.” In answer to Tiphan’s questioning look, Bek elaborated. “Girthas Laka Morokiti, ‘Dialogue of the Courtesans.’ It tells of the amorous doings of highborn Silvanesti ladies.”

  Tiphan sneered. “Keep it. I seek wisdom, not lechery.” He picked up his belt, raised the door flap, and added, “But if you find more like this, contact me in the usual way.”

  “Good fortune to you, excellent Tiphan!” Bek called cheerfully. “Always a delight to serve you.”

  The Sensarku walked away. He glanced back once and regretted it. The bookseller stood partially concealed in the door of his tent. Where sunlight fell on him, the illusion of humanity failed utterly. One leg, one arm, and his shoulder were covered by charcoal fur. A single yellow fang protruded from his whiskered upper lip. The supposed panther’s tail curled around Bek’s ankle, twitchi
ng with feline amusement.

  Chapter 2

  At long last the screaming stopped. The blazing tents collapsed in a shower of sparks, and the night grew dark again. Laughing and talking loudly, the raiders drifted back to the despoiled camp. Having chased down and killed the last of their terrified victims, they fell to looting the camp.

  There was little to be had. The only livestock were four goats and six oxen. No more than twelve plainsmen had been in camp when the raiders struck. All were now slain. All but one.

  The girl pressed herself into the grass close beside a speared ox, using the fat beast for cover. Her tangled, waist-length black hair screened the pale oval of her face from view. She held her clenched fists to her mouth to keep from making a sound. Tears streamed down her cheeks. When the screams of her kinsman stopped, she heard one of the raiders tell another to start butchering the animals.

  A rider approached at a canter. She prayed to her ancestors to let the darkness shield her, to let the rider go to another beast. The carcass shifted slightly as he prodded it with his spear.

  “A big one here!” he shouted. “Gunsa, bring a hatchet!”

  With that, the girl sprang to her feet and bolted. The ox was between her and the rider, and he was slow to react. She ran for her life, bare feet pounding in the dry grass.

  “Ai, Zan! Another dove!” the raider cried. Two-score throats, all yelping with delight, answered him. The rumble of many hooves filled the night behind her.

  As long as she had room to run, she kept to a straight line. Soon enough the horses would outpace her, and she would use her greater agility to dodge them. That was her plan, anyway. There was no cover in the tall grass, just open ground in all directions. Tonight the endless plain seemed more endless than usual.

  She caught sight of raiders to her left and right, cantering along, just keeping pace with her. They were at least twenty paces away. A single glance over her shoulder revealed ten riders trotting behind her in very leisurely fashion. Puzzled, she slowed a bit. The raiders reined in. Her puzzlement grew. Why didn’t they try to take her?

  All of a sudden there was a loud neigh, and a large horse reared up in front of her. It was so close its forelegs struck her in the ribs, sending her sprawling. Where had he come from? She could have sworn the way ahead was clear.

  She rolled to her knees, wincing from the horse’s kick. The animal towered over her, and she felt a cold flint spear tip, already wet with blood, pressed against her throat. Bracing herself for death, she closed her eyes.

  The point moved away. A stern voice commanded, “Stand up.”

  She opened her eyes and got a good look at the rider for the first time. He was dressed in a cloak the same dark gray color as his horse. No wonder he’d been hard to see. The rider’s head was covered by a grotesque hood, made from the skull of some horned beast and embellished with leather flaps and paint. To a more ignorant victim, he could have been taken for a spirit.

  The girl rose, clutching her bruised ribs. The rest of the raiders arrived, forming a ring around her and the hooded man.

  “Kill her, and let’s be off,” said one of the new arrivals, barely giving her dirty face a glance. There was silence as the hooded man continued to regard her.

  “What’re you waiting for, Zan? Let’s —” the fellow began again.

  With no word of warning, her hooded captor swung his spear in a wide arc, catching the protesting raider on the jaw. His hands flew up, and the man toppled backward off his mount. No one else said a word or moved to help.

  The hooded man called Zan dismounted. He took a length of rawhide rope from his belt and said to the girl, “Put out your hands.” When she did not comply, he barked, “This can go around your hands or your neck!”

  Reluctantly she presented her wrists. He cinched the hide strap around them tightly.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Beramun, daughter of —” She couldn’t finish and couldn’t stop the tears from welling up in her dark eyes. Her parents were dead. All her kin were dead.

  “You’re mine now, Beramun,” the man said, heedless of her suffering. He remounted, keeping the end of the hide rope in his left hand. “Try to run away, and I’ll have you hamstrung.”

  He snapped more orders to his men, sending half back to the camp to butcher the fallen animals. He led Beramun and the remainder of his hand across the dark plain to a dry ravine. There, a few bored-looking raiders guarded a collection of terrified captives kneeling in the dirt, hands tied like Beramun’s. At Zan’s command, the prisoners stood. Beramun’s rope was secured to the others.

  After a satisfied survey of the prisoners, Zan said, “Back to Almurk. We’ve meat for us and captives for the Master.”

  The prisoners were driven forward in a stumbling, weeping mass. More riders joined the loose column. Beramun, who was good with numbers, counted three times twenty warriors on horseback. In addition to their twenty-seven captives, the raiders had taken eight live oxen, sixteen goats, and a pile of lesser booty. This was heaped on captured travois, drawn by stolen oxen.

  Beramun could hardly believe what had befallen her so suddenly – her family killed and she taken captive. Yet, she was young and strong, and so she kept going even as three of her fellow captives fainted. Those who collapsed met quick fates. Speared, their corpses were cut loose and left by the wayside. Shocked, the remaining prisoners began to carry or drag any who fell.

  The eastern sky brightened behind them. Beramun glanced back at the coming dawn. They were marching due west. West of the plains lay a mountain range called the Limbs of the Sky, and south of that was the Edge of the World.

  Daylight did little to allay Beramun’s fears. Frightening as the raiders were by night, by day they were worse. All were hard, rangy men, hungry-looking as wolves. They wore their long hair loose and decorated themselves with paint, bones, and sparkling stones. They rode bareback with only a thong bridle and reins to control the animals. Perched on their shoulders was their principle weapon: a flint-headed spear. The shafts were so long that a mounted man could impale his target even if it was flat on the ground.

  The band never stopped moving. Plainsmen all, the captives were accustomed to long days afoot, but it was still a hardship to move at such a pace with no food and only a little water doled out grudgingly when the leader, Zan, ordered it.

  To distract herself from her misery, Beramun studied Zan. He’d shed his fearsome hood when the sun warmed the air. He was young, only a few seasons older than she, making him about twenty. His hair was light brown, parted in the center and drawn back into a thick hank. Remarkably fair-skinned, he had a surprisingly childlike face with a boy’s downy cheeks. There was no mistaking the hard set of his hazel eyes though. For all his boyish looks, Zan was no innocent.

  After marching all day, they came at last to a swiftly flowing river, running south to north. Beramun wasn’t familiar with the land this far west, but some of her fellow prisoners told her the river was called the Wildroot. Its racing current meant the captives couldn’t cross on foot, and it was too swift for the horsemen to ford. Beramun expected the raiders would turn north or south to find a likely crossing, but Zan ordered the band to halt.

  The captives sank gratefully to the dusty turf. Beramun’s well-callused feet were burning, and her ribs still ached from the kick Zan’s gray stallion had given her. She was also monstrously thirsty. Not until after the raiders and their horses had drunk did two men bring hide buckets of water to the captives.

  Hands still tied, Beramun and a woman named Roki held one bucket steady so the older prisoners could drink. Then she and Roki shared what was left. Roki was short and sturdy, with big hands and a pleasant, strong face.

  “Wonder what they’ll do with us?” she said in a husky whisper.

  Beramun shrugged. She’d heard tales of clans who stole young women to be mates, hut Zan’s raiders had taken men and women, young and old alike.

  “Some of the riders called us ‘sl
aves,’” she offered, “whatever that means.”

  “It means we work for them, do whatever they say.”

  “For how long?”

  “Till we die.”

  Beramun stared. “They can’t do that!” she exclaimed. “We’re plainsmen too!”

  “Doesn’t matter to the likes of them.”

  Zan and several of his lieutenants rode by. He stopped short when he spotted Beramun among the others.

  “You there,” he said. “Stand up.”

  Dazed by thirst and fatigue, Beramun didn’t realize he was speaking to her until a fellow captive prodded her sharply. She got to her feet.

  The raider on Zan’s right, a balding man wearing an elaborate collar of bear and panther teeth, looked her over. One eyebrow climbed his high forehead.

  “You’re right, Zannian. You have an eye, don’t you?” he said.

  “It’s just a girl, Hoten,” said the man on Zan’s left, a dirty fellow with deep-set eyes. “Close your eyes, they all look alike.”

  “You’re a pig, Kukul.” Zannian said. “You know nothing about beauty.”

  Beramun was only distantly aware they were talking about her. She’d lived her whole life among kinsmen too close in blood to be considered possible mates. She had little idea what strangers would make of her looks.

  “Will you keep her for yourself?” asked bald Hoten, smiling.

  Kukul snorted. “Only if his mother approves!”

  Zan turned on him. “Hold your tongue, you scab! I am chief of this band, and I answer only to the Master!”

  Kukul held his hands up, palms out. “Peace, Zannian, peace! I jest!”

  The raider chief twisted his horse’s head around. “You’d be wiser to obey more and joke less!”

  He trotted away. Hoten called, “Zan, the girl – do you want her culled out?”

  Zan gave a quick shake of his head. “All captives belong to the Master. If he allows it, I’ll take her, but not until then.”