Spirit of the Wind bot-1

by Chris Pierson

  On a low rise that once had been an islet in the middle of the stream, a large, lichen-crusted rock split down the middle. With a soft click it swung open, revealing a shaft and earthen staircase that led down into the ground.

  Swiftraven emerged stealthily from the rock, an arrow nocked on his bow, and quickly looked around. As Kronn and Giffel climbed out of the shaft behind him, the young warrior’s gaze focused on the fawn. It looked at him, quaking, but did not flee. Instead, it kept its head low, bleating softly.

  Without hesitating, he pulled back his bowstring and shot the fawn through the heart. It groaned thankfully for the end to its pain, slumped to the ground, and died.

  Kronn looked at Swiftraven and nodded silently. Behind them, Giffel bent down by the false rock and pushed it shut. It clicked closed, once more nothing more than another boulder in the increasingly barren, rock-strewn landscape. He hurried over to the others, pulling his battak-a studded dub with a short blade at its tip-from his belt. “All right,” he whispered. “In case… well, just in case, there’s a small stone next to the boulder there. Twist it to open the shaft.”

  Swiftraven had another arrow ready. His eyes flicked from tree to tree, constantly searching for movement. “Where did you find my brother?”

  “This way,” Giffel answered. “It’s not far.” He crossed the ruins of the creek, and the others followed, tense and alert. They moved through the dead forest like ghosts, making no more sound than the wind. Giffel threaded through the barren undergrowth for five hundred paces, then stopped and pointed.

  A small clearing lay before them, with a worn, exposed rock in its midst. Beside the stone, the dark stain of Stagheart’s blood lingered on the ground.

  Slowly, Swiftraven crept toward the stain. He crouched down beside it, examining it, then looked back at the two kender and jerked his head for them to come forward.

  Moonsong’s abductors had been ogres, and they had not been concerned about hiding their passage, so it only took him a minute to find their spoor. Branches had snapped off trees, and bushes were uprooted. There was blood, too. At least one of them had been wounded, most likely by Stagheart before he fell.

  The track led back toward Kendermore. Toward the camps of the ogre horde.

  Swiftraven looked at Kronn and Giffel. Both kender nodded silently. The young warrior pointed forward with his readied arrow; then the threesome started forward. They stayed off the ogres’ trail, keeping a dozen paces to the side. They walked a league, neither stopping nor talking. Then suddenly Swiftraven stopped, hunkering low. Behind him, the two kender also drew to a halt.

  “What?” Giffel hissed.

  “Ogres,” Swiftraven said. He pointed.

  Peering ahead, the kender saw dark shapes among the trees, barely fifty yards in front of them.

  “Guards,” Kronn said. “Two of them. We must be very close.” Moving quickly, he started taking apart his chapak.

  “What are you doing?” the Plainsman asked.

  Kronn didn’t answer. He unscrewed his weapon’s axe head, removed the plug from the butt of its handle, and dumped out the coiled rope inside. Then he gave the haft a twist, and a metal plate covered the insides of the flute’s fingerholes, locking in place. “Let me take care of them,” he said, setting aside the haft and fishing in one of his many pouches. “I can do it neatly and quietly.”

  After a moment’s digging, he pulled out a long, thin wooden box and opened its hinged lid. Inside were a dozen slender darts. He removed two and clamped them between his teeth as he returned the box to his pouch. Then, carefully, he pulled out a small, dark vial. Smiling grimly, he unstopped it and dipped one of the darts into it. The dart’s needle-sharp point came away coated with glistening, black fluid. Then he did the same with the second dart.

  Clutching the blowgun, he crept forward on his haunches, through the undergrowth. Giffel and Swiftraven watched him go. Kronn crossed half the distance to the ogres, moving from cover to cover in quick, silent bursts. At last he stopped behind a low, brown-needled shrub. He set down one of his darts, slid the other into the blowgun, and raised the weapon to his lips. Lining up his sights with the farther of the two ogres, he drew in a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks, and blew.

  The dart hissed through the air, striking the ogre in the neck. The creature swatted at it irritably, as if it were a mosquito. Then it blinked twice, fell to its knees, and slumped limply to the ground.

  Its fellow stared at it in shock. By the time it realized what had happened, Kronn had fired his second dart, hitting it in the leg. It took a moment longer for the venom to work its way through the second ogre’s veins, but it was still dead before it could do more than grunt in surprise.

  Kronn crept back to the others and swiftly reassembled his chapak. “I doubt they posted more guards than that,” he murmured. “They won’t be expecting anything to come from this direction, really. Our way should be clear from here.”

  Moonsong drifted along the shores of consciousness. Her head lolled from side to side, and she moaned in pain. Her right cheek was badly bruised, and blood was drying on her bottom lip. Her ribs ached fiercely, too. She had dim memories of an ogre’s booted foot slamming into her side. Worst of all, though, was the burning in her wrists.

  The ogres had bound her hands tightly with coarse rope, then had hung that rope from a stake in the middle of their camp. She had tried to fight them, but one had punched her, and her world had fallen into blackness. Now, as she fought her way back toward lucidity, she could no longer feel her fingers, and her wrists blazed with agony where the ropes had chafed them raw.

  At long last she opened her left eye; the right was swollen shut. For a moment, she could see nothing, and the afternoon sunlight filled her aching head with fire.

  She counted eight ogres before her and heard what sounded like two more behind. Some of the brutish creatures stood at the edges of their simple camp, watching the dying forest around them. Another tended a fire, carving strips of flesh off what looked like a scrawny, dead boar, and setting them on hot stones beside the flames. The meat’s rancid stink made Moonsong’s gorge rise.

  The two largest ogres were also the ones closest to her. They were arguing, barking viciously at each other in their harsh, guttural language. She didn’t understand the words, but she didn’t have to. Shuddering, she realized they were arguing over her.

  The argument grew more fierce, becoming a shoving match. At last, one of the ogres backhanded the other across the face. The second ogre stumbled back, then wiped blood from its mouth and balled its hands into fists. The first one-a tan-skinned, fur-clad monster with a pockmarked face-snarled, and the second stayed where it was.

  The pockmarked ogre turned to face Moonsong, leering cruelly, then walked toward her.

  “No,” Moonsong pleaded. Loathing choked her.

  She tried to struggle. Fresh blood ran down her arms as the rope rubbed against her wrists. The pockmarked ogre only chuckled, though, reaching for her with a filth-smeared hand. Its sour breath watered her eyes, and she gasped in disgust as its greasy fingers touched her face.

  “Pretty,” it growled.

  Moonsong tried to scream, but the only sound that escaped her fear-tightened throat was a thin, shrill wail. The pockmarked ogre threw back its head and laughed.

  Then, abruptly, it fell silent. Eyes widening with shock, it fell forward against her, then toppled sideways onto the ground. A white-fletched arrow quivered in the back of its neck.

  The other ogres gawked at his body, stunned. A second arrow struck one of them in the chest, punching through its leather breastplate and burying itself in its heart. The monster clutched feebly at the feathered shaft, then fell. A third shot grazed the arm of the one tending the fire, drawing a line of blood.

  The ogres started shouting, grabbing up clubs and axes. They cast about madly, trying to find the archer among the trees. Another arrow hit one in the eye, killing it-but the shot gave away the archer’s position. Growling with
rage, they started toward the arrows’ source.

  As they charged, however, slingstones started to rain down on them from behind. Two more ogres fell beneath this new bombardment. The others looked around in amazement, unsure of what to do, then scattered as more stones fell among them. Two charged into the woods after the archer. Another pair went the other way, trying to find the slinger. The last one stayed in the camp, moving to stand by Moonsong’s side. Its face was livid with fear and rage.

  The thrum of the bowstring and whistle of the slingstones stopped, then the sounds of fighting rang out on either side of the camp, steel clashing against steel as the ogres fell upon their attackers. Voices grunted in pain, and metal sliced through flesh. The ogre beside Moonsong stared around the camp in indecision, its spear quivering in its grasp.

  It jerked suddenly, its body going rigid as something hit it from behind. It swayed unsteadily for a moment, then crashed headlong to the ground.

  Behind it stood a tall, stout kender with short-cropped, yellow hair. In his hand he held a metal-studded club, tipped with a long knife blade. The blade gleamed with the dead ogre’s blood.

  “Who-” Moonsong began to ask.

  The kender shook his head and started toward her. “Later,” he said. He swung his club at the stake, and the knife-blade cut through the rope. Moonsong dropped to her knees with a groan, then struggled to rise.

  “Giffel!” shouted another voice. A second kender dashed into the clearing, a bloody axe in his hand.

  Seeing his chestnut cheek braids and green clothes, Moonsong gasped in recognition. “Kronn?” she breathed.

  “Hi, Moonsong!” the kender said. He waved to her as he hurried over. “Can you walk? No, on second thought, can you run?”

  The Plainswoman regarded him blearily, then nodded.

  “Good.” Kronn looked across the camp, toward the direction the arrows had come from. “Swiftraven should be about done with the others.”

  “Swift-Swiftraven?” Moonsong gasped confusedly.

  “Right here,” said a voice as the young warrior strode into the clearing. He held his sabre in one hand, a knife in the other. Both dripped crimson. He smiled when he saw her. “Stagheart told us what happened,” he explained. “We came after you.”

  “Stagheart…“ she murmured. “He’s still alive?”

  “And safe in Kendermore,” Kronn averred, “which is where we’re taking you.”

  New sounds rose around the camp. More ogres were crashing through the trees, shouting in their guttural tongue. Swiftraven glanced around sharply. “Damn,” he swore. “They were faster than I’d thought. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Back west!” Giffel shouted, waving his bladed club. “To the creek!”

  He dashed off into the forest. Kronn grabbed Moonsong’s hand and dragged her after them. Her legs burned as she ran, but fear kept her on her feet. Swiftraven came last, watching their backs as they fled.

  The sounds of pursuit dogged them as they dashed through the woods. Glancing back, they saw the dark shapes of their pursuers. A dozen more ogres had picked up their trail, howling with battle lust as they crashed through the forest.

  They gasped and wheezed, leaping over rocks and fallen trees as they ran. Their pursuers paused when they found the guards Kronn had shot with his blowgun, but soon they were running again, weapons held high.

  “How much farther?” Swiftraven panted. The ogres were less than two hundred yards behind them. He could see the fury in their eyes.

  “Two miles,” Giffel answered breathlessly.

  Kronn and Swiftraven exchanged looks, sharing the same dire thought. The ogres would catch them before they made it another two miles. They ran faster, Kronn pulling Moonsong along with him. She sobbed incoherently, tears streaming down her face, as she stumbled after the kender.

  They ran another mile, then Moonsong stumbled over an exposed root and fell. Kronn jerked to a halt, and he and Swiftraven tried to drag her to her feet. The pounding of the ogres’ footsteps grew closer with every exhausted heartbeat.

  Swiftraven didn’t hear the faint hum of the javelin flying through the air. It struck him in the back of his knee, impaling his leg. He fell to the ground with a cry.

  “No!” Kronn cried.

  Swiftraven reached back and pulled the spear from his leg. Bright blood coursed from the wound, and he ground his teeth together and struggled to his feet. When he tried to take a step, though, his knee buckled and he nearly fell again. He groaned with pain. The charging ogres heaved more javelins, which fell all around them.

  Swiftraven looked at Kronn, then, his eyes like stones. “Go,” he said.

  Kronn’s face was also hard. “Swiftraven…”

  A spear hit the ground at Moonsong’s feet. She stared at it dully, uncomprehending.

  “Go!” Swiftraven bellowed. “Get back to Kendermore! I’ll try and slow them. Now, Kronn!”

  Obediently, Kronn grabbed Moonsong’s hand and ran to catch up with Giffel.

  Swiftraven watched them go, then turned, dragging his injured leg, to face the onrushing ogres. He raised his arms, drawing their attention. “Here!” he shouted.

  The monsters threw the last of their javelins, but their shots went wild. Then they stopped, all twelve of them, and stared at the wounded Plainsman. They circled around him warily, starting to laugh.

  “Damn the lot of you,” Swiftraven snarled, brandishing his sabre. “Who’s first?”

  A hulking brute strode forward, chuckling darkly. In his meaty paw he held a sword that a human would have needed both hands to wield. His face twisted into a sneer, revealing a mouthful of black teeth.

  “Come on,” Swiftraven growled.

  Crossing the distance from his fellows to the young Plainsman in two long strides, the ogre raised his sword and slashed downward in a vicious arc. Swiftraven lifted his sabre to block the blow, and the crash of blade against blade numbed his whole arm. He stumbled back, nearly falling as his bleeding leg faltered under him, then regained his footing and lunged. He thrust upward with his sabre, seeking to pierce his opponent’s scale armor. The ogre swatted the blow aside with his blade, then struck Swiftraven across the face with his free hand.

  A bright sun exploded in the Plainsman’s head, but stubbornly he spat blood and teeth on the ground.

  “You’ll have to do better than that, you bastard,” he growled.

  The ogre raised its massive sword above its head a second time. Again, Swiftraven raised his sabre to parry Steel met steel.

  Then the Plainsman’s blade was spinning through the air shorn off by the might of the ogre’s attack. Swiftraven felt the monster’s weapon bite into his right shoulder, cleaving through his collarbone. He heard something heavy-some distant part of his mind told him it was his sword arm-drop to the ground.

  He fell, Brightdawn’s name on his lips.

  In his sickbed, Stagheart was weeping. Catt and Paxina’s faces also shone with misery. Riverwind stood very still, his face ashen, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Kronn bowed his head, sucked in a deep breath, and blew it out again through tight lips.

  “We waited at the entrance to the tunnels,” he said quietly. “I don’t know-I thought maybe, somehow, he might make it. But when we saw the ogres coming through the woods, Giff had to close up the rock, and we headed back to Kendermore.” He raised his gaze from the floor, turning his head to look at a chair by the window. “Brightdawn… I’m sorry.”

  She sat rigidly, her blue eyes vacant. The only parts of her that moved were her hands, which twisted around the arrow Swiftraven had left for her.

  She did not cry.

  When Riverwind had come to her and told her where Swiftraven had gone, and why, she had been furious-at her father, at Swiftraven, at Moonsong, at herself. In her anger, she had nearly gone down into the tunnels after him, but Riverwind had held her until some semblance of calm returned to her.

  “He sacrificed himself for us,” Kronn stated. “If he hadn�
��t distracted them, the ogres would have caught us before we made it to Chesli’s Creek.”

  “It should have been me,” Riverwind said dully. “Oh, Mishakal-he took my place…”

  “It’s my fault,” Kronn disputed. “I’m the one who left him there.”

  “No.” Brightdawn’s voice was as brittle as old parchment. She stood, numb with anguish. “He chose to go. Don’t blame yourselves-either of you.”

  The old Plainsman looked at his daughter and saw the void in her gaze. His eyes gleaming in the lamplight, he reached out to her. With an inarticulate sound, Brightdawn shook off his gentle touch. She turned and walked out the door, which slammed shut behind her.

  It was almost sunrise when Riverwind found her, standing atop Kendermore’s western wall. She stared intently at the dark line of the forest as the sky behind her turned gold with the promise of dawn. She still held the arrow in her hands.

  “Brightdawn,” the old Plainsman said softly, walking toward her along the battlements.

  She didn’t answer. He opened his mouth to say her name again, but before he could speak, she bowed her head, and her knees gave way beneath her. Riverwind was at her side before she could fall, though. He caught her up in his arms and held her close. She sobbed in agony as the tears she’d been holding back all night came all at once.

  “Brightdawn,” the old Plainsman murmured, stroking her golden hair. “My child. My sunrise.”

  “He didn’t say goodbye,” she moaned. “That’s the worst part. That and knowing Moonsong would be dead now if he hadn’t done what he did. Now I’ll never see him again.”

  “You will,” Riverwind said solemnly. “Someday.”