The History of Krynn: Vol I

by Dragon Lance

  Karada had the water bearer put the bowl in front of Nacris, then the girl gave her a small nub of pumice for scrubbing.

  Nacris sat up, her chains clinking. She dipped both hands in and carried warm water to her grimy face.

  “So,” she said, rubbing loose droplets from her eyes. “Who wants to see me, if not Hoten?”

  “Zannian.”

  Nacris’s hands froze, pressed against her cheeks. “Don’t lie, Karada!” she said angrily. “If Hoten’s dead, how can Zannian still live?”

  “He does, and he’s asked to see you. I told him he could, so long as I remain in the tent.”

  Nacris resumed washing, though her hands shook visibly. “It can’t be,” she muttered. “It can’t be. My boy would not live with defeat and disgrace —”

  “He’s not your boy!” Karada shouted so loudly that Pakito, Nacris, and the water girl all jumped. Her next words seemed filled as much with disgust as with anger. “His name is Menni, and he’s the son of Oto and Kinar, as am I!”

  Nacris’s thin lips drew back in a wide smile. “So you know? I pieced the tale together a long time ago, I did. How does it feel, Karada, to know one of your brothers killed the other – killed the one you love?”

  The nomad chief stepped forward, fists clenched. Pakito put a broad arm before her to halt her advance.

  With a visible effort, Karada mastered her anger and said a few words in Pakito’s ear. His heavy eyebrows climbed his high forehead, but when his chieftain frowned emphatically, he nodded and went out.

  Karada dismissed the water girl, then called, “Send the raider in!”

  Two armed nomads guided Zannian into the tent. At the sight of him, Nacris gasped.

  “What have you done to him?” she said hoarsely.

  In answer, Zannian pulled the bandages from his head. His awful wounds spoke louder than any words. The puffiness around his ruined eyes had subsided somewhat, but the bruises were still dark and the red line of the sword cut was crusted and scabbed.

  “Poor boy, poor boy,” crooned Nacris. “Karada did this to you?”

  “No,” he said. “The elf lord, Balif, did it in a fair duel.”

  “Poor boy... come closer.”

  Karada ordered, “Stand where you are.”

  Zannian advanced no farther but, groping about, sat down cross-legged, facing the sound of Nacris’s voice. Nacris regarded his awkward movements with obvious dismay.

  “Why did you pretend to be my mother?” he asked quietly.

  “It was Sthenn’s wish. I could not refuse. Later... I did it because I wanted to. You were a bright boy, Zanni, a great warrior. I was proud to be your mother.”

  “Not a great enough warrior,” he said. Tilting his head toward the nomad chief, he added, “Karada says you must die. I wonder why she hasn’t killed you yet?”

  Nacris snorted. “She can’t kill me! Sthenn foresaw my fate. Neither water, nor fire, nor stone shall kill me, and no man living shall strike me down.”

  Zannian laughed, but the pain of his wounds cut his black mirth short. “All your stratagems were for nothing!” he hissed. “Now you are the prisoner of your mortal enemy! You’re just a crazy, hateful old woman. Better you had drowned years ago when the bronze dragon threw you in the lake!”

  “A touching reunion,” Karada murmured, lip curling in disgust.

  “You’re hardly any better,” Zannian sneered. “I know why you let Nacris live: The hate you share for each other is so strong, so much a part of your spirits that neither of you can bear to live without it!”

  “I’m destined to kill Karada!” Nacris declared, trying to rise. Her missing leg and the heavy bronze chain brought her up short, and she subsided.

  “You’re destined to feed worms,” the nomad chief shot back.

  Just then, a muffled voice came from outside the tent. Karada peeked through the flaps.

  “Ah! Good. Another visitor for the hag.”

  Pakito had returned with Amero, who ducked inside and stood beside Karada. Brother and sister stared down at Nacris without speaking.

  Nacris blinked rapidly. Her jaw worked, but no words came. Making strangled hissing sounds, she struggled again to stand.

  “Yes, he’s alive,” Karada said, pleased by the effect of her surprise. “Your green assassins failed. They killed the wrong man!”

  With a shriek, Nacris picked up the water basin and smashed it on the ground. She thrust a jagged shard at Amero. Though he was well beyond Nacris’s reach, Karada stepped between them, sword bared.

  Losing her balance, Nacris fell over Zannian, knocking him onto his back. The clay shard cut his cheek. He wrenched the fragment from her hand, and they rolled over several times, winding the chain around them both. Nacris seemed oblivious, howling her hatred for Amero and Karada all the while.

  “Pakito, separate them,” Karada said, appalled.

  “Stay back!” Zannian shouted, gritting his teeth as he fought to pin the raging woman beneath him. To Nacris he said, “Be still, mother, and I’ll put you out of your misery!”

  “No!” shouted Karada and Amero in unison. Both moved toward Zannian.

  But before they could reach them Nacris had worked loose the stake holding her chains to the ground. With a shrill cry, she whipped the heavy wooden peg into her free hand and smashed Zannian in the head. His body went slack. Nacris heaved herself to one knee, facing Karada and Amero in triumph.

  Pakito had his stone mace in his hand, but Karada ordered him back.

  “Give me a true weapon,” Nacris demanded, panting. “Let me die like a warrior!”

  Karada’s features twisted. “You’re not a warrior,” she said coldly. “You’re the mother of three dozen and one snakes!”

  The bronze blade went up. Nacris had her fetters clutched to her chest, protecting her. Karada turned her blade and brought it down with all the rage and pain of her lifetime. When it ceased its shining arc, Nacris’s head fell from her shoulders.

  Nomads summoned by the shouting burst into the tent. They saw their chief, the Arkuden, and Pakito standing over the erstwhile leader of the raiders. The headless body of the prisoner Nacris lolled at their feet.

  Amero knelt by Zannian and reported he still lived.

  Pakito said, “Take him to Karada’s tent. Bind him, but not too harshly.” Two men took Zannian by the hands and feet and carried him out. Pakito went with them.

  Alone with his sister, Amero stared at the dead woman, shattered by what he’d heard and seen.

  Tearing his gaze away – and forcing himself not to look on Nacris’s severed head – he whispered to his sister, “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am.” Karada bent and cleaned her bloody blade on a fold of Nacris’s shift. “There’s one problem solved.”

  Amero was shaking. “How can you be so hard? Does life mean nothing to you?”

  Karada slammed the sword back into its scabbard. “Pity can get you killed,” she told her brother. “I have none for her, and neither should you. How many times will you let a mad dog bite before you strike it down?”

  He couldn’t answer. He could only regard her in silence with wide, shocked eyes.

  Her voice softened. “She mentioned a prophecy, an augury made by the green dragon. He told her neither water, nor fire, nor stone would kill her, and no man living would strike her down.”

  Amero looked down at his feet, his buckskins splashed with blood. “How did he know?” he asked. “How did Sthenn know Nacris would die at the hands of a woman with a bronze sword?”

  “He was a dragon,” Karada replied, shrugging. “Dragons know too much.”

  *

  Late in the night, a log raft pushed out from shore. Two people stood on it. The taller one gripped a long pole, with which he propelled the raft out into the lake. His companion stood on the other side. Between them lay a long, hide-draped bundle.

  No stars could be seen through the rushing clouds, but the last flickers of the Ember Wind provided a
pulsating light to guide them away from shore. When the raft neared the center of the Lake of the Falls, the man stopped poling. The raft drifted slowly under the momentum of his last push.

  “This is good,” said Karada.

  “How deep is the lake here?” asked Harak.

  “Deep enough.”

  He hadn’t asked a single question, not even when Karada, cloaked and hooded, had arrived at the prisoners’ pen and bade him come with her. A simple job, she’d said. A special task she didn’t want her band to know about.

  She threw back the hide cover. Underneath lay Nacris, gray hair combed and face washed, wrapped up tight in a fine white doeskin. Only the pale oval of her face showed.

  Harak gave a surprised exclamation. He knew he’d helped load a body on the raft, but he didn’t know whose.

  “Shut up.”

  Karada moved the body to the edge of the raft. Leaning on his pole, Harak heard the clink of metal. It was then he saw the heavy bronze chain wrapped around Nacris’s waist.

  “That’s a lot of bronze to throw away,” he remarked.

  “Shut up.”

  Harak sighed.

  Karada eased the body into the water, and it sank without a sound. Immediately, she ordered Harak to take them back to shore.

  Nothing else was said until the raft bumped into the pebbled shallows. Stepping off, Karada reminded Harak of his oath to say nothing of what they’d just done, and without a backward glance, she walked quickly up the stony hillside. She disappeared in the deep shadows of the cliffs.

  Harak jumped down into the water and dragged the log raft higher onto the beach. It was very late, and everyone in the valley seemed to be asleep. He wondered where the villagers stowed their stock of wine.

  Wandering up the hill toward the village, he heard a faint clang of metal and stone. Off to his right, outside the village wall, Harak saw a bright orange light flaring at the base of the cliff. Muffled voices accompanied the sounds of work. He ambled that way. It seemed more interesting than returning to the prisoners’ pen.

  The light turned out to be a fire, burning inside a broken-down structure built hard against the base of the mountain. Four or five figures were silhouetted against the glare. Unlike an ordinary fire, this one didn’t waver or flicker; it burned steadily. Harak made out a new sound he couldn’t place: a regular, deep panting, like a bull ox gasping for air after a long run.

  Closer to, he spotted the Arkuden in the group. The rest were Silvanesti, including the elf lord Balif. What were they up to? Was this some arcane elven ritual to call up spirit power at the Arkuden’s request?

  “See that?” one of the elves said, pointing into the fire. “That’s the red stage. Now it’s ready to pour!”

  “Stand back!” said another, but the Arkuden shook his head.

  “Let me do it,” he insisted. He and an elf inserted forked wooden poles into holes in the sides of a heavy clay pot. They hoisted the pot out of the fire, sidled sideways, and poured the contents into an unseen container. Lapping over the rim of the pot was a brilliant orange-red fluid. Harak’s eyes watered just looking at it. The fiery liquid hit its destination, and a loud hissing resulted. Steam filled the air.

  Balif glanced away and saw Harak highlighted by the glow of the burning liquid. “Who’s there?” he said sharply.

  Caught, Harak stepped up boldly and announced himself. Balif drew his sword, though he kept the point down.

  “Do prisoners have the run of the valley now?” asked the elf lord.

  “Your presence here seems to say so,” Harak replied genially.

  Amero and the other elf put the hot pot back on the fire. “Never mind!” said the Arkuden, his voice full of excitement. “Come here, you. See what we’ve done!”

  Harak had no idea what to expect. Upon reaching the scene of the strange ritual, he saw they’d poured the brilliantly hot liquid into a rectangular box on the ground. The box was made of wet clay, bolstered by a few wooden planks. A hole in the top, about the size of Harak’s thumb, plainly showed where the fiery substance had been delivered.

  “I’ve just cast my first bronze!” Amero exclaimed. “Farolenu showed me how. The secret is forcing air into the fire to melt the copper and tin together – but not too much air.”

  “You made bronze?” Harak was interested. Here was a task much more rewarding than summoning spirits.

  Amero nodded vigorously. “We melted down some scrap and poured it in that mold. When it cools, it will be a sword.”

  Harak regarded the unlikely looking wooden box with great respect. Like many plainsmen, he had handled bronze, but he had no idea how it was made. Some mysterious process of the Silvanesti, it was said. Now he was seeing it for himself.

  He turned to Balif. “Why are you showing a human how to do this? Aren’t you afraid we’ll make weapons to fight you?”

  Amero suddenly looked distressed. It was plain he hadn’t thought of that.

  “Bronze is a secret humans are destined to learn sooner or later,” Balif said, “and though I am loyal to the Speaker of the Stars, I have my own views on the policies of my nation. There are those in Silvanost who want to spread our hegemony from the southern sea to the capes of the north, westward to the Edge of the World and east to the ocean of the rising sun. I do not agree. I believe the true realm of the Silvanesti is what we have now, the forest sacred to us, and continued aggression outside our natural homeland will only result in needless bloodshed.”

  Balif gave a small, tight smile, adding, “Endless conquest is like burning down a forest to stay warm; it works for a little while but is short-sighted. So no, I’m not worried about giving away the secret of bronze. If the war-minded lords in Silvanost see a bronze-equipped army of plainsmen opposing them, they may recognize at last the wisdom of peaceful neighboring.”

  The appreciative silence that greeted his thoughtful words was disrupted by Harak. “Faw, they call me a talker!” the ex-raider said. “I’m as tight-lipped as an oyster compared to you!”

  The mold had cooled enough to be opened. Amero fidgeted about, nervous as a newly mated man. Farolenu and his helpers slipped hardwood wedges into the seam and, in unison, tapped them with mallets. With a slight hiss, the mold split apart lengthwise, falling into two halves. The crudely formed sword, still glowing faintly with heat, lay in the right half of the mold.

  “Let it cool thoroughly,” Farolenu said. “When cold enough to handle, free it from the mold. Then you can begin filing it to shape and giving it a sharp edge.”

  “Can you use water to speed the cooling?” asked Amero.

  “For short, thick blades, yes. For swords, no. Quenching will make the sword brittle. At the first stroke, it may snap off at the hilt.”

  The elves and the Arkuden plunged into a deep discussion of metal-working, leaving Balif and Harak far behind. The elf lord yawned and excused himself. Harak took the opportunity to depart, too.

  As they walked across the slate-strewn ledge toward Yala-tene, Harak said, “I hear Karada intends to leave in three days’ time.” Balif nodded, and the ex-raider asked, “What will your people back home make of all this?”

  The elf lord’s face was unreadable. “Some will hail me for escaping the clutches of barbarians. Others will condemn me for aiding enemies of the Speaker.”

  He turned away to enter Yala-tene through the south baffle. Harak watched him go, wondering what the Silvanesti was really thinking. Would a noble elf warrior really give away the secret of bronze for such high-sounding, unselfish reasons?

  A wide yawn interrupted Harak’s cogitations. The doings of chiefs and lords was beyond him, he decided, shaking his head. He went back to his pen to sleep.

  Chapter 18

  The Ember Wind increased in fury in the days that followed. Vast clouds of dirt were scoured off the windward side of the mountains, darkening the sky and drifting into the valley. Landslides shook the upper passes as the hard-driven dust loosened boulders. To many, it seemed the mountains the
mselves would tumble down and fly into the air. Amero consulted Duranix, who circled the valley at great height, above the Ember Wind. The dragon reported the brown river of air stretched away far to the north, but it did not extend more than a few leagues east or west of the valley. The Ember Wind would blow itself out, Duranix reassured Amero, though it always worsened before ending. The stronger the wind blew, the sooner it would end.

  Beramun found herself helping a band of village women bathe the children. Long lines of yelping youngsters wound down to the lake, where each child was scrubbed head to toe by mothers, aunts, and older sisters. Pumice removed dirt and sometimes a little skin, too.

  Talked into the duty by Lyopi, Beramun discovered she enjoyed it. Her hands grew raw from washing, and she stayed wet all morning from wrestling with balky and rambunctious children. After so much fighting and cruelty, it was good to exhaust herself in such an ordinary, useful job.

  When the last child was scrubbed clean, the tired women trudged ashore. Hulami the vintner sent skins of wine retaken from the raiders, and never was the drink better appreciated. Loud laughter echoed against the walls of Yala-tene, bringing curious villagers to the parapet to see the cause of so much merriment.

  “There’s a happy sound,” said Jenla, watching from the wall.

  “Happy but dangerous,” opined Tepa. He looked ten years younger since Jenla had returned alive.

  “Dangerous? How?”

  “There’s a hundred women down there, all made merry by Hulami’s good wine. I would sooner cavort with centaurs than try to cross that crowd!”

  Jenla laughed. “You’ve learned a few things in your long life, haven’t you?” She left her old friend on the village wall and went down to join the women by the lake.

  Preparations for the coming feast were well underway in the nomad camp. Three firepits were dug, and more wood was gathered for the bonfires. The raider prisoners who remained were set to digging the holes and gathering wood. They gave the nomads little trouble. The worst of Zannian’s horde were either dead or had escaped with Muwa. Karada, having no desire to shepherd a bunch of prisoners around the plains, wouldn’t let Bahco track them down. The sooner the ex-raiders were gone, she said, the better.