The History of Krynn: Vol I

by Dragon Lance

  Blinking hard against the rain, Amero turned to look for the rest of the raider patrol. He expected to see perhaps a score or so of riders. What he did see froze the blood in his veins.

  Hundreds and hundreds of men on horseback, heads bowed against the rain, filled the plain in a ragged line half a league long. On their heels came a sizable herd of oxen, and behind the cattle was a bedraggled, slow-moving mob of people on foot. On each side of these obvious captives were more mounted men. Some prisoners were laden with towering packs or harnessed to long travois heaped with bundled goods.

  In all, Amero estimated there were more than a thousand people crossing the plain. This was no scouting party, but the host Beramun had warned them about. She had greatly underestimated their numbers.

  A dark suspicion rose in Amero’s mind. Was her mistake genuine or part of some complex stratagem to catch Yala-tene off guard? Was Duranix right about her?

  Amero made himself small in the grass and tried to think what to do next. He had to get his people out of the raiders’ way, then they had to find Duranix and get themselves back to Yala-tene. All without being caught.

  The sky lowered further, and though it was early afternoon, the day grew as dark as evening. Rain pounded down like a waterfall. Muddy water cut shallow gullies in the sod. Amero had to crawl on his belly through this muck to get away from the wide-ranging outriders. He thanked his ancestors’ spirits for sending the rain to shield him and his companions.

  He barely managed to get out of the way before the main body of raiders rode by. He was close enough to hear voices calling out commands, complaints, and harsh jibes. He smelled the ox herd. An odd thumping noise he didn’t recognize at first turned out to be the sound of blows delivered to the backs of the raiders’ prisoners. Riders guarding the captives dealt these blows repeatedly, almost rhythmically, to keep the tired, reluctant mob moving.

  *

  Many paces away, behind and to Amero’s right, Beramun was hiding in the grass. She had upended the first rider because she thought they could steal his weapons, but he’d been seen by his comrades.

  Peering through the grass and pouring rain, she watched the sodden herd of prisoners stumbling by. She recognized the faces of many of her fellow slaves from Almurk. She thought of Roki and the screams of her murdered family, the memories bringing anger and filling her with determination. Armed only with a short flint knife, she crawled toward the marching mass of prisoners.

  As she slithered through the mud, Beramun came upon Paharo lying quietly in the weeds. She halted alongside him.

  “We must do something!” she hissed in his ear.

  “Against so many?” he replied. “What can we do?”

  “They mean to attack your village! Here’s a chance to strike a blow before they get there!”

  Rain streamed down Paharo’s dark face. Her words obviously struck a chord. He drew a knife from his waist and nodded. “We can free the prisoners. Some may be strong enough to help us. The rest can distract the riders long enough for us to get away.”

  Beramun gave a sharp nod of agreement. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, the two crawled toward the plodding mass of captives.

  A mounted man passed them, eyes averted to keep out the driving rain. Paharo dashed forward in a low crouch. Beramun followed. Prisoners on the edge of the crowd saw them but wisely kept silent. Another burst of speed, and the pair reached the slaves. They slipped into the slogging crowd, masked from view by the mass of captives.

  “Here, take this,” Beramun said, giving one of them her knife. “Cut your bonds.”

  “Free as many as you can, then wait for our signal,” Paharo added. “When it comes, everybody run for it!”

  The knife was passed quickly from hand to hand. The flint blade worked its way deeper into the crowd, but those already free milled around nervously. Most wanted to run immediately. Others ached to attack the nearest raiders. They made garrotes from their rawhide bonds and surreptitiously picked up stones from the ground.

  “Any sign of the green dragon?” Beramun asked, glancing around.

  Stark fear showed on every face, and a pale woman said, “Greengall’s probably in the rear.”

  Paharo was confused by the name, and the terrified prisoners explained. None of them had seen the dragon in either of his forms since yesterday.

  Relieved by this news, Beramun pushed through the line of freed slaves and walked deliberately into the open. She kept going, even when a guard rode up and shouted a challenge.

  “You! Get back in line!” the raider barked. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  She whirled and batted his spear aside. Repeating her earlier trick, she cupped her hands under his heel and upended the astonished raider. He splashed to the soggy turf. Before he could get up or call for help, freed prisoners fell on him, pounding him into silence.

  Paharo appeared. Beramun thrust the bridle of the fallen raider’s horse into his hands. “Go back to Yala-tene,” she told him. “Warn your people.”

  “I don’t ride very well.”

  “Learn fast!”

  He climbed on the animal’s back. “The Arkuden is here somewhere. I should find him!”

  “I’ll find him. You tell everyone Zannian is coming! They’ll be more likely to believe you than me.” Beramun ended further discussion by slapping the horse’s rump. The animal bolted, and Paharo had to give all his attention to staying on its back.

  The prisoners burst into action. Almost half were free, and they scattered to the four winds. Some put their heads down and ran for their lives, others remained to fight.

  Raiders on guard duty tried to summon help, but their rams’ horns were soaked and produced only mild bleating noises. They had little time to use the horns anyway before going down in a hail of stones. A few raiders charged the seething horde, spearing several prisoners. They too were dragged from their horses and beaten unconscious or killed. Smarter raiders wasted no time with either rams’ horns or resistance. They galloped away at once to get help.

  “Flee! All of you!” Beramun cried. “Go in every direction! Spread the word! Warn everyone about Zannian and his monstrous master!”

  As the lightning flared and thunder crashed, two hundred slaves took to their heels. Beramun watched them go with immense satisfaction, rain streaming across her broadly smiling face.

  She watched too long. The gray line of horsemen suddenly stopped receding and began to grow larger. Zannian was coming.

  Beramun armed herself with a stray spear. The only cover in sight was a stand of birch trees, their white bark visible through the downpour, perhaps a quarter-league west. Spear in hand, she raced for the trees.

  She’d gone fifty steps when someone popped out of the weeds in front of her. She lifted her spear to strike, then saw it was Amero.

  Dodging nimbly around him, she yelled, “Run! Zannian’s coming!”

  Together, they sprinted for the trees. The growing rumble they heard now wasn’t thunder. It was horses – many, many horses on the move.

  “We’re going to die,” Beramun gasped.

  Amero looked back quickly. “Yes, we are. Keep running.”

  The raider band spread out in a wide line to sweep up as many runaway prisoners as possible. It seemed to Amero that fully half the raiders were chasing him and Beramun, which hardly seemed fair. Was there no one else for them to run down?

  They reached the small copse of birch saplings and fell down behind them. Their pursuers saw them disappear into the stand of trees and galloped after them.

  Beramun took her eyes off the oncoming raiders long enough to see the Arkuden butt his spear in the ground and brace it with both hands. She imitated his position.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  Beramun glanced at the Arkuden, her face stiff with fear. “What?”

  “I’m stupid,” Amero muttered. “I’m too old for this! I should be home working in the foundry, bouncing my children on my knee.”

  “Yo
u have children?”

  He sighed and shook his head, eyes fixed on the oncoming horsemen. They were only ten paces away now.

  The raiders whooped and jostled each other. Many crowded in to reach Amero and Beramun, thinking they could ride through the slender birches. The springy young trees bowed, but did not break, tripping the horses. A dozen riders went tumbling in the mud.

  The riders behind them saw the danger and pulled up. Amero lunged through the press, spearing a raider in the chest and pushing him off his horse.

  Another rider impaled himself on Beramun’s weapon. The force of his fall tore the shaft from her hands. Disarmed, she ducked behind Amero.

  Amero recovered his spear and thrust at another rider. This fellow parried with his own weapon and jabbed at Amero. The flint point raked down Amero’s chest, slicing his leather vest but sparing his skin. He stumbled back out of reach.

  “Time to go!” he shouted to Beramun.

  Without a second glance, she ran. Amero tried to catch up, but she was half his age and toughened by life on the savanna. As he fell behind, he glanced back and saw more raiders coming. The ones tangled in the birch stand were also getting back on their horses.

  Amero...

  At first he barely heard it over his own ragged breathing, but it came again, this time very clearly.

  Amero.

  Duranix!

  Amero exulted, even as he sent his thoughts to his friend. Duranix, where are you? I need you!

  I am near, but I’m hurt, Amero.

  Tell me where you are!

  The dragon’s instructions filled Amero’s head. While running, he searched for the landmarks Duranix was using to guide him. Ahead on his left, at the edge of a storm-washed ravine, he saw a solitary gray boulder protruding from the grass.

  “Beramun!” he yelled. “This way!”

  Despite the fifteen raiders at her heels, she swerved immediately toward the Arkuden.

  You’re near, Duranix said in Amero’s head. I can smell you even in the rain. Look for the stump of an ash tree with red toadstools growing on it.

  Amero swiped rain from his eyes and searched. He saw the stump on the crest of a small rise, ten paces distant.

  Beramun overtook him. “Where are you going?” she panted.

  He wasted no breath on a reply, just grabbed her arm and dragged her onward.

  The raiders hurled short, flint-tipped spears at them – missiles the length of a man’s forearm. Though small, they arrived with great force, burying themselves in the mushy turf. All missed, but the sight of them gave extra strength to the fleeing couple’s tired legs.

  When the ash stump was close enough to touch, Amero planted his feet and spun. Not expecting his sudden stop, Beramun blundered past, crashing into the old tree.

  The ground between Amero and the raiders erupted. A massive horned head, gleaming dull bronze, rose from a hole artfully dug in the sod. Cursing, the pursuing raiders hauled back on their reins. It was too late.

  Duranix’s jaws gaped, and a bolt of fire erupted from his throat. It wasn’t his usual blue-white lightning, but a glaring orange-yellow flare. It sufficed for the purpose. In two blinks of an eye, the raiders were consumed.

  “Duranix!” Amero cried, running to greet his mentor. The great reptilian head turned toward him, and Amero halted in shock. Duranix’s eyes were dull and yellowed. He was holding himself up with both front legs, while his back legs sprawled uselessly in the hole beneath him.

  “Don’t just stand there like a fool,” the dragon snapped. “Get in!”

  Amero waved to Beramun. “Come on!”

  She balked, and Duranix snarled, “Leave that creature outside. Better yet, kill her where she stands!”

  “If I come in, she comes in, too!”

  There was no fire in the ailing dragon’s eye. His mighty head hung low as he gasped, “Hurry then. I can’t hold this up much longer.”

  Beramun still hesitated, so Amero yanked her arm roughly and snapped, “Do you prefer to be found by Zannian?”

  She let him pull her into the pit.

  Duranix’s head sank, allowing the sod on his back to fall into place, covering the opening.

  Chapter 15

  As had been his habit for many years, Konza walked home carrying supper in a wicker basket. Unlike his son, he did not rely on the acolytes to collect his necessities. Old as he was, he preferred to go out among his fellow villagers and collect his own victuals.

  Nearing home, he saw smoke rising into the leaden sky over the Offertory. Though Duranix had been gone six days, Tiphan insisted the offerings be made as usual. Konza deplored the waste. All that good meat burned to cinders, sustenance for no one.

  At home he found the door flap down with three sturdy poles pegged in place, barring the entrance. The ground floor window flaps were pulled down tight as well. Puzzled, Konza set down the heavy basket.

  “Tiphan!” he called. “Tiphan, why is the door barred?”

  There was no response. It was late, and he was hungry. When his son did not answer a third time, Konza got down on his knees and pushed the flap inward. There was just room between the ground and the lowest guard pole for him to pass. Konza wormed his way inside and stood up triumphantly.

  His victory vanished when the unnatural chill inside hit him. His breath formed mist in the air. Then he noticed the light.

  The single-room house was divided by partitions made of wooden poles and rattan mats. The partitions formed a wall between the two beds. Behind the wall, on Tiphan’s side, a strange, greenish light shone, brighter than any lamp or torch.

  “Son?”

  Still no answer. Vexation gave way to concern.

  Ever practical, Konza unpegged the poles on the door flap and brought in his basket, setting it on the table by the hearth. He picked up a thick, ironwood walking stick and walked slowly around the partition. The air grew even colder. Goose bumps rose on his arms.

  There was Tiphan, seated cross-legged on a mound of furs, surrounded by his Silvanesti scrolls. Eyes closed, hands cupped together at his chest, he did not appear to be breathing. Floating in the air above his hands was a sizable chip of spirit stone. The bright greenish light emanated from the levitating stone.

  Konza was dumbstruck for a moment. Gathering his scattered wits, he breathed, “By all our ancestors! What are you doing?”

  The floating stone wobbled, as though reacting to his voice. Konza held out his walking stick, meaning to knock the hovering stone away. Before the wood touched the stone, Tiphan’s eyes sprang open.

  Konza cried out. His son’s eyes were no longer blue. They were ice-white from corner to corner.

  “Beware, old man.” The voice came from Tiphan’s lips, but it was not his son’s. Deeper, more powerful, it resonated strangely inside the stone house, sounding like several voices speaking in unison.

  Konza lowered the walking stick with a shaking hand.

  “Who are you? What have you done to my son?”

  “We are many, old man. Fear not. Your son is with us.”

  “Are you the spirits held captive in the stone?”

  “That is as good as any explanation.”

  “Give me back my son!” Konza demanded.

  “We hold him not. He is here because he sought us. Through him we shall find release from our prison.”

  “Liars! Deceivers! You tricked him! Restore him to me!”

  He – they? – laughed, a low chuckle, arid with the dust of bygone ages.

  Konza gripped the sturdy walking stick in both hands and shouted, “Tiphan! Son, if you can hear me, hold fast! I shall release you!”

  He brought the knurled ironwood down hard on the hovering spirit stone. The instant the wood came in contact with the shard, a silent blast of light filled the small house.

  *

  Hundreds of eyes watched Tiphan. Nothing was clearly visible, just the suggestion of forms and shapes beyond the boundaries of his sight. They spoke in whispers or shouted in uni
son, a chorus of a thousand separate voices, which he understood despite their numbers. They were calling him by name.

  Join us, they said. Be our gateway to the world we once knew, the world of light and color. Do this, and we will share with you power undreamed!

  The words sent a thrill of exultation through Tiphan, and he eagerly consented, yet even as the spirit host enfolded him, a fragment from his newest scroll flashed through his mind.

  The Way to Bind the Sun contained a gloss by a sage named Kerthinalhest, who had lived many hundreds of years ago. According to Kerthinalhest, not all the spirits who fought in the great war had gone into captivity voluntarily. Some had been imprisoned by still greater spirits, forced into silent oblivion after ferocious resistance. Kerthinalhest believed minions of Evil were present in the stones in equal numbers with spirits of Good and Neutrality. Great care must be taken, he wrote, to choose stones containing only beneficent spirits.

  The spirits sensed his doubts. We are Good spirits, they told him, unjustly imprisoned in this shell of unfeeling rock. Free us! Lend us your mind and body. Great will he your reward! We, the Many, shall favor you above all mortals.

  Tiphan’s mouth opened. He was ready to agree when he heard his name being called. This voice was very different from the others. It sounded frightened, then angry. The Many tried to drown out the new voice, but no matter how much they whispered, screamed, and teased at his senses, the voice succeeded in reaching him.

  “Give me back my son!”

  It was his father’s voice, and he sounded terrified.

  Tiphan turned toward a slim column of light. He held out his hand —

  A thunderous explosion struck him, and all the voices cried out as one.

  *

  Tiphan opened his eyes. His sight returned slowly, and he found he was lying with his back against a cold stone wall. Every muscle in his body ached, as though he’d been flung against the wall.

  The house was dark, but he could make out familiar shapes. He took a deep breath and sat up, cradling his throbbing head in his hands.