The History of Krynn: Vol I

by Dragon Lance

He stepped closer and said privately, “I prefer you to stay here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. What could you have for me to do that’s more important?”

  He had no argument greater than hers. Voice tight with concern, Amero told her, “Be careful, girl.”

  “You too, old man,” she joked, and took her place with Paharo’s group.

  After a brief explanation of his plan, Paharo led them toward the river at a jog.

  *

  Zannian gazed up at the hulking gray mountains. He’d never seen real mountains before, but his expression did not show awe or fascination. Instead his youthful face was etched with deep frustration. Too many things were impeding his progress. Someone would pay, and pay in blood.

  Hoten rode up to his chief. “The trail goes straight in,” he reported. “It can’t be more than two days old.”

  Zannian scratched a newly sprouted patch of beard on his chin. “Straight in? The dragon too?”

  “Aye. The tracks run right down the center of the pass as far as we rode.”

  Zannian turned his horse to face the open country behind them. His men were strung out all the way to the horizon, still regrouping after their headlong flight away from the injured Sthenn.

  “We’ll hold here a while,” he said. “Some of those dogs won’t get here before sundown.”

  Hoten cleared his throat and spat. “Speaking of stragglers, where’s the Master?”

  Zannian eyed his lieutenant. “Those who speak that name lightly come to bad ends.”

  “I mean no disrespect,” said Hoten, his tone anything but respectful. “I only wondered where our mighty leader is now that we’re at the enemy’s throat.”

  “He’ll return when it suits him.”

  No one had seen Sthenn since he’d lost his claw to the villager’s spirit stones. Weeping acid tears of pain, the dragon had flown away, leaving the raider band in total disorder. Most of the men who’d ridden away from the green dragon’s torment slowly returned. Others never came back. Without Sthenn’s fearsome presence to stiffen their spines, they deserted for good. For a time it seemed the entire band might fall apart.

  It was Nacris who had acted swiftly to keep the raiders together. On her orders, the Jade Men captured ten deserters and put them to death. Lacking trees from which to hang them, Nacris had the men beheaded and their heads displayed on spears.

  Along with fear, she wielded another potent weapon – the power of greed. She reminded the men of the booty waiting in Yala-tene. She loudly scoffed at the notion Sthenn would not return. The desertions ceased, but it would be several days before the entire band was together again.

  The young raider chief yearned for battle. Slaughtering those fools in their fancy robes wasn’t fighting, merely killing. Daydreaming of past battles, he suddenly found his thoughts filled by the black-haired girl. Sthenn had promised she was in the valley ahead.

  Zannian licked his dry lips and wrapped the reins tightly around his left hand.

  Hoten noted his chiefs characteristic gesture. Zannian always did it before riding into battle.

  “Take a scouting party into the pass, Hoten,” Zannian said. “Leave your horses and go on foot, quietly. That narrow pass is perfect for ambushes. I want you to make sure the way is clear for the rest of us.”

  “We get to be the bait?” A warning glance from his chief made Hoten shrug and add, “As you say, Zan.” He rode away to cull a suitable patrol from the men on hand.

  Hoten found Nacris hobbling about on a crude crutch near the mouth of the pass, close to the stony banks of the Plains River.

  “Careful you don’t fall in,” Hoten said, dismounting.

  She laughed. “No water can harm me.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “My death’s been foreseen. The Master himself divined it. Neither water, nor fire, nor stone, nor metal shall kill me.”

  He left his horse cropping the sparse grass. “Do you really believe that?” he asked, putting a hand to her weatherworn cheek.

  She neither acknowledged his gesture nor pulled away, but said, “Why not? A dragon’s eyes see further than mine.”

  He took his hand away. “I see another way to interpret that augury – Sthenn himself will kill you one day.”

  Nacris laughed again, a short, harsh bark. “I’ve thought of that, too.”

  “How can you be so indifferent?”

  She hobbled a few steps away and looked into the pass, still misty in the morning light. “My life ended here twelve years ago,” she said flatly. “The man I loved died, the woman who killed him lived, and I was crippled. Since then, I’ve been waiting to take my revenge. When I have it, then I can rest what remains of my body.”

  Hoten knocked her crutch aside and caught Nacris in his arms. Bitter and hard as she was, he cared for her.

  “If I threw you in the river and held your head under, what would you do?” Hoten whispered.

  “Drown.”

  Her lack of fear infuriated him. “That’s all?”

  “I’m not strong enough to fight you.” She looked him squarely in the eyes. “If you want a struggle, wait till we capture Arku-peli. There are many women there who can gratify you.”

  Disgusted, he released her, picked up her crutch, and thrust it at her.

  “Now I know why the Master gave you command of the Jade Men,” he said. “You’ve become as soulless as they are.”

  In a cold fury, he left and rounded up the first twenty men he found idling by the water. He had each arm himself with a throwing stick and bundles of missiles. They left everything else behind – horses, food and water, heavy spears, and shields. Bait they might be, but Hoten saw no reason to weigh his men down. If the villagers were waiting for them, speed would be more valuable than armament.

  They tromped past Zannian. The chief was listening with ill-disguised annoyance as his mother lectured him on tactics. Hoten acknowledged his leader with a nod. Mother and son both ignored him.

  The outer pass was wide, with the river flowing down the middle. Heavy sandbars and tumbled gravel filled the floor of the ravine, tufted here and there with knifegrass and brittle scrub. The pass was twelve paces wide at this point, but the frowning cliffs and lofty slate peaks beyond made it feel much narrower. The men kept bunching up as the burden of the surrounding heights bore down on them. Time and again Hoten had to give the same warning.

  “Stand apart, louts! You want some mud-toe villager to drop a stone and get six of you at once?”

  The tracks, human and dragon, led unequivocally forward. Hoten followed them for three leagues, then the prints abruptly vanished. The tracks didn’t lead off in other directions. They simply disappeared. The gravel ahead was free of marks.

  “Did the dragon pick them up and fly away?” wondered one of the raiders.

  “Maybe,” Hoten said, but he wasn’t convinced. He squatted to study the ground more closely.

  “It’s spirit power again,” said another man uneasily. The men muttered among themselves, clearly not finding such a thing hard to believe.

  “There are no spirits at work here,” Hoten said harshly. “Not unless spirits use pine boughs to sweep tracks away.” He held up several loose pine needles, still sticky with sap. “This happened not long ago.”

  Behind Hoten a voice called out, “Someone’s coming – many, and on horseback!” The raider was kneeling on a patch of rock, his hand pressed flat against it. Hoten did likewise and also felt the heavy vibrations. The strength and rhythm of the pounding could mean only one thing.

  “It’s our own people,” Hoten announced. “It’s too soon. I’ll have to head them off.”

  He ordered his men to hold where they were, then ran down the stony slope.

  He soon spotted the outriders of the main band. Standing atop a convenient outcropping, he waved his hands over his head. The horsemen stopped. Zannian emerged from the ranks and rode to meet his lieutenant.

  “What news, Hoten?”

 
“You came too soon, Zan. My men are only a hundred paces farther on. The bronze dragon himself could be hiding in the cliffs above us, and we wouldn’t know it until it was too late.”

  “You give the mud-toes too much credit,” Zannian scoffed. “The ones who escaped us on the plain are probably home by now, and the rest are wetting their breechcloths just thinking about our coming. We should attack before they have a chance to regroup.”

  “I think that’s unwise, Zan.”

  The chief shrugged. “Then argue with my mother. It’s her idea.”

  Hoten looked for Nacris, but she wasn’t to be seen. “We’re going,” Zannian announced. “Find a horse.”

  One of the lead riders shouted a warning. Hoten pushed through the standing horses to the water’s edge, and Zannian followed him on horseback. They soon saw what had made their man cry out: a body, floating facedown in the river. From his clothing, it was clear he was a raider.

  At Zannian’s command, two men waded into the stream, snagged the drifting corpse, and hauled it back to shore. Hoten turned the man over. His forehead bore a terrible wound.

  “It’s Besh – one of my scouts,” Hoten said, frowning.

  “Looks like he fell. Clumsy idiot.” Zannian turned his horse around and called to his men, “Forward!”

  “Zan, wait.”

  The chief rode away. Fuming, Hoten stared at the body. What was Zannian thinking? He was always bold, but never so rash. What was wrong with him?

  A horse was brought, and Hoten mounted. He took a spear from the hide scabbard draped over the horse’s neck. Still filled with misgivings, he joined the stream of riders filing into the shadowed depths of the gorge.

  The column strung out as the raiders thinned into a narrow line just two riders wide. Hoten made his way forward until he was riding alongside his chief. He remained watchful until they came to the spot where he had left his scouting party. His men were nowhere in sight.

  “What trickery is this?” Hoten growled. He dismounted and searched the stony riverbank. Not a trace of his nineteen men remained.

  A figure suddenly appeared out of the scrub a hundred paces upriver. Several raiders yelled to alert their leader.

  Zannian shaded his eyes to see who it was. There was no mistaking the mane of jet hair, the slim shape, and insolent stance.

  “Beramun!” Zannian drew his bronze sword and brandished it above his head. “My elven blade to the man who takes that girl alive!” he cried.

  The raiders cheered, urging their horses forward. The girl awaited their rush, hands on her hips.

  Hoten grabbed the bridle of Zannian’s mount, shouting, “It’s a trap! Can’t you see that?”

  “Let go!” the chief shouted, shoving Hoten away with his foot. “I swore to have that black-haired girl, and have her I will!”

  With a hundred raiders well ahead of him, Zannian charged down the canyon at the unmoving figure. Hoten’s frantic warnings were lost in the din.

  When the horsemen were sixty paces away, Beramun turned and sprinted up the ravine. The men followed, whooping and brandishing their spears, each believing he’d be the one to win the fine elven blade.

  As the foremost riders passed a twisted cedar tree, Beramun scampered up a sloping heap of rocks by the south wall of the gorge. From behind this mound a dozen armed villagers appeared, spears ready. The raiders slowed, saw how few of the enemy stood before them, then charged onward, laughing.

  Hardly had the triumphant shouts left their throats than a hail of heavy stones, some as large as a man’s head, rained down on them. Horses and raiders toppled.

  Zannian, held up by the flailing mass of fallen men and animals in front of him, turned his horse this way and that, dodging missiles. He caught sight of Beramun again, standing with her comrades. The sight of his men being routed by a bunch of dirt-scrabbling farmers filled Zannian with fury. He drove his heels hard into his mount’s flanks. Riding over his own fallen men, he closed within thirty paces of Beramun.

  “Give yourself up, and I will spare your life!” he shouted.

  She did not move. “I won’t ever be your slave again!”

  Zannian notched a dart into his throwing stick, but before he could fling it, a block of red sandstone grazed his horse’s neck. The startled animal bucked, forcing Zannian to drop his weapon and hold on with both hands to avoid being unseated. While the gray stallion danced and twisted, more stones flew down. One struck Zannian squarely in the chest, and he fell into the mob of fallen raiders.

  Hoten saw his chief go down. He took command, calling for darts. This forced the villagers to quit their place atop the rocky mound. They fled up the gorge on foot. The raiders couldn’t pursue because of the continuing barrage of stones and spears.

  Hoten ordered half his men to dismount and scale the cliffs. They ascended steadily, protected from projectiles by the overhanging peak. Moments after they reached the top, the bombardment ceased.

  After sending the unconscious Zannian to the rear, Hoten led fifty mounted warriors after Beramun and her comrades. They quickly caught up to the fugitives. Spurred by their chiefs promised reward, the raiders concentrated on Beramun. Her companions dueled with the raiders until their backs were quite literally against the canyon wall.

  “Slay all but the black-haired girl!” Hoten roared.

  The raiders closed in. Their reluctance to harm Beramun bore against them. With no such compunction staying their hands, the villagers drove back the first wave of raiders. Hoten called for darts, but his men feared hitting Beramun and losing the bounty, so their attack came to naught.

  Many of the villagers had lost their spears in the previous attack and were reduced to throwing stones at the enemy. The youth on Beramun’s right went down, felled by a spear in his chest. Two raiders jumped off their horses and tried to grab her. She hit one on the head with the shaft of her spear. The pole snapped, but the man went down. The second raider caught her by the wrist and delivered a vicious backhand blow.

  Beramun slammed into the canyon wall and slid to the ground, dazed. The raider who’d felled her reached down to claim his prize. His triumph was short lived. A deafening roar filled the tight confines of the gorge. Rocked by the terrible sound, Hoten and his men looked up to see Duranix hovering over the gorge, his wings flapping hard to keep his enlarged body aloft.

  The bronze dragon roared again. As one, the raiders dropped their weapons and leaped on their horses to flee. Duranix lowered his head and blasted them with a bolt of lightning. The ground shattered beneath them, dust and rocks flying in all directions. Most perished, and the few survivors raced down the canyon on foot. The dragon landed in front of them. Jaws gaping, he incinerated them, one after another, until not a man or horse stood upright.

  Beramun pushed herself onto her hands and knees. A weight on her arm turned out to be the raider’s hand still gripping her wrist. It had been burned off above the elbow. Paharo helped her pry the dead fingers loose.

  The smell of singed flesh filled the air, and the view downstream was obscured by drifting smoke and dust. The surviving villagers approached the dragon.

  Beramun called, “Well timed! Another ten heartbeats, and we’d have been done for!”

  Duranix whirled, his burnished scales flecked with soot and blood. The swiftness of his movement and the ferocity of his expression caused them all to shrink back in alarm.

  “I don’t want your thanks!” he snapped. “Do you think I enjoy slaughtering Sthenn’s worthless slaves? Do you?”

  “We’re grateful you saved us,” Paharo said humbly.

  “Amero asked me to. Thank him. Now get back to the bridge. He’s waiting for you there.”

  The villagers started back to Yala-tene. Duranix remained, staring at the empty vista before him. Seeing him linger, Beramun turned back and said, “What are you waiting for?”

  Duranix looked down at her. “Sthenn is near. I feel him. Don’t you?”

  She touched the front of her tunic, fingers rest
ing atop the green mark on her chest. “I’m not his creature,” she insisted. “I’m a free woman.”

  “Go, before I forget Amero’s wishes and kill you right here!”

  Infuriated, she yelled, “Stupid beast! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  Duranix lowered his huge head until it was only a handspan from her face. “Perhaps you don’t know the evil Sthenn has planned for you,” he said. “But anything is possible – sedition, betrayal, murder. I won’t let you harm Amero.”

  Beramun’s back was against the cliff wall. She could only stare into those huge green eyes, her throat too dry to speak.

  Suddenly the dragon whipped his neck around, head thrusting skyward. Mouth gaping, Duranix roared.

  Beramun dropped to the ground, clapping her hands over her ears in a futile attempt to block the powerful sound. The rocks beneath her resonated with the endless roar.

  Through a red haze of agony, Beramun saw a winged shape fly overhead. She knew that shape and why the bronze dragon roared. Sthenn had returned.

  Duranix continued to bellow a challenge to his ancient nemesis. Stones cascaded down both sides of the canyon, plunging into the river and piling up along the canyon walls. The terrible sound grew so unbearable that Beramun screamed. She couldn’t hear her puny cry over the omnipotent voice of the dragon, but she screamed and screamed until her throat was raw.

  The thunderous roar finally ceased as Duranix spread his wings. With two running steps, he vaulted into the air. The tips of his wings scraped the walls on each side of the canyon, but he cleared them and soared aloft.

  Breathless, Beramun forced herself to her feet, her back braced against the canyon wall. She was surprised to see another figure rising from the debris some paces away. One of the raiders had survived: the bald one, Hoten.

  Looking fully as battered as she, Hoten regarded Beramun blankly for a moment. In unison they turned their faces skyward, where Duranix was climbing to meet his enemy in a final duel. Soon the paths of both dragons took them out of sight.

  Without a word or sign of acknowledgment, Hoten and Beramun stumbled away: he, back to his chief, and she, to the Lake of the Falls.