“This may seem like a game,” Riverwind added, “but it’s not. You’ve got to do things right, or you’ll end up dead when the ogres attack.”
The kender stared at their shoes. Beside Riverwind, Brimble groaned in exasperation. The Plainsman rested a silencing hand on the old veteran’s shoulder.
He waved his arm behind him, out across the meadow. “All of Kendermore is depending on you to stop that horde out there. There’s no room for mistakes or sloppiness. Now, everyone can rest for an hour, and then we’ll do this again.”
Exhausted groans rose all around him as Riverwind turned and strode away along the battlements, following the catwalk to where Kronn and Paxina stood. He was pale and haggard, his white hair pasted to his forehead with sweat. Involuntarily, he pressed his hand against his stomach.
“Are you all right, Riverwind?” Paxina asked.
The Plainsman looked at her sharply, moving his hand away from his belly as he drew up to them.
“I’m fine,” he murmured.
Concern flashed in their eyes, and he looked away irritably, staring out toward the Kenderwood. Across the meadow, the towering figures of the ogres moved restlessly about their camps. Their snarling, bestial voices carried across the field.
“They’re certainly taking their time,” Kronn observed. “Are all sieges this blasted boring?”
“Most of them,” Riverwind replied, smiling. “The battle was over quickly at Kalaman, but I’ve heard of sieges that lasted for months-even years.”
“Years,” Paxina echoed, wondering. “We can’t hold out that long. We’ve barely enough food stocked to last us the winter, even if we ration.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that too much,” Riverwind replied. “I doubt the ogres have that kind of patience. They’ll come soon enough. I just hope there’s enough time to get ready.” He turned, glancing back along the wall. Brimble Redfeather was berating the other kender, trying to get them to set up for the next drill. Riverwind heaved a leaden sigh.
“They’ll be ready,” Kronn told the Plainsman. “I’ve been watching them, especially the past few days. They really are improving-just not very quickly, is all.”
“Plus those drills you’re doing aren’t completely fair,” Paxina chimed in. “The melons make good rocks, and the water in the cauldrons is all right, but we’ll have them, too.” She nodded down toward the base of the wall, where a makeshift archery range was set up. Kender took turns firing arrows at straw dummies. More often than not, the shafts struck them in places that would kill a man-or an ogre. Watching them shoot, Riverwind marveled at the archers’ skill.
Down a few blocks, a second group of kender stood in line, facing a row of catapults. Riverwind watched as they loaded slingstones into the pouches of their hoopaks, then held them poised. A moment passed, then the catapults’ arms sprang forward, launching a volley of clay discs into the air. One by one they swung their hoopaks forward, flinging their stones at the discs. The targets shattered, raining down on the ground in pieces.
The old Plainsman nodded pensively, watching the slingers whoop in exultation as the catapult operators prepared their engines for another volley. “True,” he said. “The archers and slingers will kill many ogres before they even get near the wall. But even so…” He shrugged, looking away toward the Kenderwood once more.
“You don’t think we can hold them back?” Kronn asked.
Riverwind didn’t reply. He gazed out across the meadow. “The forest will be dead soon,” he observed.
Over the weeks since his arrival, the weather had continued to worsen. The heat had become even more intense and dry as an oven. The winds that swept over the town were much closer to the siroccos that scoured the sands of Khur than the damp, rainy gusts Paxina said were normal for autumn in Goodlund. Last year, she had said, it had rained for two-thirds of the month of Bleakcold, including a stretch of nine days without sunshine. Now, though, Bleakcold was nearly done, and not a drop had fallen.
Gradually, as the drought continued, the grassy meadow beyond the wall had turned from golden to the gray-brown hue of ashes. Then the grass had withered, leaving behind nothing but bald, barren earth. Stones pushed up through the soil where none had been before. Once the grass was gone, the trees had begun to change. Silver and green leaves had changed color-turning not red and gold, as was normal for autumn in the Kenderwood, but rather becoming brown and shriveled, many of them crumbling to dust before they had a chance to fall. Now many trees stood bald and gray, dead or nearly so.
And the stench of brimstone was stronger than ever.
“The dragon’s magic,” Paxina murmured, her face dark with emotion as she regarded the wasted husk of the Kenderwood. “I’ve heard the Dairly Plains became like this, when Malystryx started attacking the humans there. Now, from what I hear, there are no Dairly Plains any more-just mountains and badlands.”
“Desolation,” Riverwind murmured.
Kronn nodded, his eyes grim. “Even if we do beat the ogres when we attack, how can we stop this?”
“Defeat the dragon,” the Plainsman said.
“But how?” Paxina said. “You told Kronn that you never slew a dragon in your life!”
“And Malys is more than ‘just another dragon,’ you know,” Kronn put in. “I saw her when she burned Woodsedge-and killed our father. She’s incredibly huge.”
“From the stories told by Weavewillow survivors,” Paxina added, “she’s almost four hundred feet long. How can we hope to slay any creature that big?”
“I didn’t say ‘slay,’ ” Riverwind answered, his brow furrowed with thought. “I said ‘defeat.’ There must be some way to beat her even if we can’t kill her. We just need to discover her weakness.”
“Oh,” Kronn said. “But how are we going to figure out what-”
Before he could finish his question, though, a commotion rose in the courtyard below. Someone was running toward them, waving his arms. Looking down, the Plainsman and the Thistleknots saw it was Giffel Birdwhistle.
“Riverwind!” the tall kender shouted, his pouches flapping with every loping stride. “Kronn! Pax!” He sprinted toward the wall and bounded up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time.
“Giff?” Kronn asked. “What’s the matter? Has something happened in the tunnels?”
“No,” the tall kender replied, puffing with exertion as he finally reached the top of the stairs. He leaned heavily against a merlon. “I mean, yes. Something’s happened.” He looked at Riverwind, with a pitying expression that made the white hairs on the Plainsman’s arms stand on end. “You’ve got to come to Arlie’s place,” he said.
Riverwind walked so swiftly through Kendermore’s twisty streets that the kender had to jog to keep pace. For every step he took, they took three. The crowds of kender, who usually made it so hard to move quickly through the city, hurried out of his way to keep from getting trampled. Somehow, though he was still unfamiliar with the tangled layout of the city, Riverwind made his way without having to stop or double back even once. Mere minutes after leaving Brimble to oversee the next wall-defense drill, the Plainsman strode up the path to Arlie Longfinger’s house, past the parched earth that was all that remained of the herbalist’s garden. He stepped up onto the porch, pushed past several kender who waited outside the shop, and pounded on the door with his fist.
For a moment, no one answered. Then, as Riverwind tensed to knock again, the door swung open. Catt stood inside. Her injured arm was still in its sling, but the bandages that had covered her head were gone. She looked up at the Plainsman, then quickly stepped aside.
“That was quick,” she said as Riverwind and the others hurried in.
“What’s going on, Call?” Kronn asked.
“Is it Brightdawn?” Riverwind demanded impatiently, giving voice to the terrible fear that had been welling inside him since they had left the battlements. “Has something happened to her?”
“No,” said another voice.
The
y all looked down the dimly lit hallway that led into the depths of Arlie Longfinger’s home. Swiftraven stood in the passage.
“It isn’t Brightdawn,” he said. “It’s-”
“There you are!” snapped Arlie Longfinger. The old herbalist shoved past Swiftraven and marched straight up to Riverwind. “He’s been asking for you. He has a message.”
“Message?” Kronn echoed, confused. “Who has a message?”
At last, Riverwind’s frayed patience snapped. “Would someone tell me what in the Abyss is going on?” he shouted.
Arlie blinked at him, startled, then turned and headed down the hallway, beckoning with his hand for the others to follow. They did, Riverwind at the fore. The herbalist reached a door-it led to the same room where Call had lain, while she’d recovered from her head wound-and gently pushed it open.
The room was dark, but it was not empty. From the bed, the sound of ragged breathing mixed with moans of pain.
The tang of fresh blood hung in the air.
“What is this?” Riverwind demanded as he entered.
Arlie pushed past him and went to an oil lamp that sat, flickering faintly, upon a small table by the bed. He turned its key, and the lamp’s light rose to a lambent, ruddy glow.
When Riverwind saw the man who lay upon the bed, he blew out his breath and staggered as though he’d been punched in the stomach. Swiftraven was at his side in an eyeblink, taking the old Plainsman’s arm and leading him to a low stool beside the bed. Riverwind sat down heavily and stared in mute horror.
The man on the bed was badly injured. He had been stabbed in the gut, and even though the bandages Arlie had used to bind the wound were fresh, they were nonetheless dark with blood. Despite the seriousness of his wound, however, the man stirred when he saw Riverwind and even tried to sit up. Swiftraven rushed to his side and eased him back again, whispering soothing words and mopping the man’s sweat-soaked brow.
“I don’t understand,” Paxina said, staring at the injured man. “He looks like one of your people, Riverwind-but what is he doing here? Who is he?”
Riverwind opened his mouth, but could say nothing. He bowed his head, overcome. Swiftraven turned toward the Lord Mayor, his face contorting into a grimace of pain.
“It’s Stagheart,” he said. “My brother… and Moonsong’s beloved.”
Chapter 19
“My chief,” Stagheart of Que-Teh, moaned, through teeth clenched with pain. He clawed for Riverwind with a strong, sweat-soaked hand. The old Plainsman gripped it tightly, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Oh, my chief.”
Riverwind forced himself to speak calmly. “Be easy, Stagheart,” he said. “Still yourself, then speak.”
Stagheart relaxed, slumping back in the bed and breathing heavily. It was a long while before he could summon the will to speak again. When he did, his terse words sent a chill through the old Plainsman.
“They took her,” Stagheart gasped. “I tried to stop them, but-” He stiffened, grimacing as the wound in his belly wracked him with pain. “They took her… Moonsong…”
Riverwind jerked away from Stagheart’s touch as though the younger man had stung him. Shakily, he rose to his feet and backed away from the bed until he bumped into the wall. His face was as pale as a corpse, his eyes wide with horror.
The old Plainsman said nothing. He only stared at Stagheart, scarcely even breathing, his lips moving soundlessly.
Paxina nodded to Catt, who slipped out of the room. Paxina followed her, casting a troubled glance at the old Plainsman before she stepped out the door.
Riverwind raised a shaking hand to his head. “What happened?” he asked. “How did he get here?”
“I was leading a scouting patrol out beyond the ogres’ camp,” Giffel answered. “Down by Chesli’s Creek. We found him, unconscious and covered in blood. We bound his wound as well as we could, and brought him to Kendermore through the tunnels. It took eight of us to carry him here.”
“They took her,” Stagheart wept as Swiftraven smoothed back his damp, brown hair.
Drawing a long, slow breath to calm himself, Riverwind knelt by the bedside. “Stagheart,” he said, at once gentle and insistent. “What happened?”
Stagheart’s eyes rolled, showing nothing but white, then his gaze settled on Riverwind. “My chief,” he breathed. “I have failed you.”
“Tell me,” Riverwind said.
The two men held each other’s gaze for an excruciating moment, then Stagheart grew calm. Drawing upon some deep well of strength within himself, he began to speak.
“We left Que-Shu a month ago,” he said. “Moonsong had a… a nightmare. She dreamt that Brightdawn was in danger, that she needed her, so she pleaded with Goldmoon to let us go after you. We rode south to New Ports, found a ship to bear us across the New Sea-”
“Then crossed the desert in Khur, crossed the Bay of Balifor, and headed inland, toward the Kenderwood,” Kronn finished proudly. “The same route we took.”
“Kronn,” Riverwind snapped.
“No, he’s right,” Stagheart said. A smile flickered across his face, then vanished. “When we reached the Kenderwood, though, it had been burned. Whole towns destroyed.”
“You should have turned back,” Riverwind said.
“I told Moonsong just that,” Stagheart agreed. “But she would hear nothing of it. She wouldn’t leave….”
His voice broke, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Riverwind laid a hand on his arm, and after a time Stagheart grew calm again. He went on. “We’d bought a map in Port Balifor. It showed the way to Kendermore. We followed a trail, and as we neared Kendermore we reached a firebreak. Beyond, the forest was untouched by fire-but it was ailing, brown, and foul. Still we went on. We were so close-even I didn’t think of turning back.
“By the time I saw the ogres, it was too late to run. They came out of the forest on all sides. I tried to protect her, my chief. I swear. I must have slain half a dozen of them. I did everything I could to keep them away from her-but it wasn’t enough. Then one of them stabbed me.” He gestured feebly at the bloody bandages girding his stomach. “It is… hard to remember everything that happened after that. I fell, and they left me for dead on the ground. Then they took her. She tried to run, but they were all around her. I tried to rise, but my wound… I no longer had the strength. I lay on the ground, calling her name. I don’t know how long. Then I gave in to despair and blacked out.”
He paused, drawing a deep, shaking breath. “When I woke again, I was here, in this room, and Swiftraven was with me. I asked for you so I could tell you of my failure before I died.”
“You’re not going to die,” Swiftraven said firmly. He looked to Arlie, silently beseeching.
“He’s right, actually,” the old herbalist agreed. “I’ve looked at the wound. It’s grievous but not fatal. You must rest and heal, but you’ll live, Plainsman.”
“No!” Stagheart shouted. His body jerked with the force of his rage. When he calmed down, he looked directly at Riverwind. “I have failed, my chief. Your daughter is lost, and I am to blame. Bring me a dagger, and let me end my shame.”
Riverwind, however, was staring into the distance, thinking. His grip tightened on Stagheart’s arm, his knuckles whitening. He looked at Arlie Longfinger. “How old is his wound?” he asked.
“Only a few hours.”
A fire kindled in Riverwind’s gaze. He rose and started toward the door. “There’s still a slim chance,” he said. “Giffel, where did you say you found Stagheart?”
“Chesli’s Creek,” the tall kender answered. “Why?”
Kronn gasped suddenly, his eyes wide. “You’re not going after her-”
“You’re damned right, I am!” Riverwind snapped. “She might still be alive. Giffel, I need you to take me to Chesli’s Creek. If I can locate the ogres’ trail…”
“Okay, then I’m going too,” Kronn declared. He rose.
“Very well,” Riverwind agreed. “Come. There’s no time to lose.”<
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Kronn, Giffel and Riverwind started toward the door. Before they could leave the room, however, Swiftraven rose from his brother’s side. “No, my chief!” he called.
The old Plainsman stopped, his hand on the latch of the door. He turned to glower at Swiftraven.
The young warrior did not quail. He stood firm, his head upraised. “Do not go, my chief,” he said. “The kender need you here to help prepare for the siege. You cannot risk your life this way.”
“Boy, you presume too much,” Riverwind growled. His eyes blazed. “Moonsong is my daughter. Would you have me do nothing, knowing those beasts out there have her?”
“No, my chief,” Swiftraven replied gravely. “But you do not need to go. I can follow the ogres’ trail as well as you. Better, perhaps. Let me go in your place.”
Riverwind and Swiftraven looked at each other. With a great effort of will, the old Plainsman nodded. “Very well, Swiftraven. Go. Find my daughter.”
“Brightdawn should know about this,” Kronn said as Swiftraven strode toward the door. “She’s at your house, Riverwind. Pax and Catt can go get her, bring her here before we leave.”
Swiftraven, however, shook his head. “No, Kronn. We’ve lost enough time-we can’t afford to lose any more.” He paused, though, then reached over his shoulder and slid an arrow out of his quiver. He offered the shaft to Riverwind. “It is the way of the Que-Teh to leave a token for those we love when we go to war,” he said. “My chief, will you give this to Brightdawn after I have gone?”
Nodding, Riverwind accepted the arrow. “I will.”
Beaming with pride, Swiftraven turned back to the sickbed. “Farewell, my brother,” he said. “I will bring Moonsong back to you.”
Moving with swift purpose, he marched out of the room, Kronn and Giffel on his heels.
Chesli’s Creek had been a clear, babbling nil five miles west of Kendermore. It had been a popular picnicking place among the kender, and its bed had been covered with smooth, round stones, perfect for hurling from hoopaks.
The blight Malystryx had brought upon the land had changed the clear waters to a narrow, brown drizzle that trickled from one stagnant pool to another. The greenberry bushes that grew along its grassy banks were leafless skeletons that rattled in the hot wind. A fawn, scrawny and shivering with sickness, dipped its head to lap at the fetid water. Warped by the dragon’s curse upon the Kenderwood, it was blind in one eye and barely had the strength to stand.
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