On the far side of the cavern, across the soot-choked chasm, yawned a dark tunnel mouth, twin to the one where Riverwind and his companions stood. Stretching across the gulf, joining the two passages, was a crude bridge. It was made mostly of thick rope, tied fast to stone outcroppings on either end. A series of wooden planks were lashed to the span, but the companions could tell the purchase they provided was precarious at best: scorched by the baking heat from below, they looked fragile as eggshells, and there were several ominous gaps where boards had fallen away. As Riverwind watched, a glowing cinder landed on the bridge, burned brightly for a moment, then went out, leaving behind a charred, black spot where it had been.
“Whoa,” Kronn said, and meant it.
Suddenly, Brightdawn made a small choking sound. Riverwind glanced at her sharply, but she said nothing, only raised a trembling finger and pointed up the cavern’s far wall. The others followed her gesture, squinting against the stinging smoke. When they spied what she had seen, they caught their breaths, paling with horror.
“Sweet Mishakal,” Riverwind gasped.
On a broad ledge, high above the bridge, stood a pile of dragon skulls. There were dozens of them, bleached bones and teeth glowing hideous orange in the firelight. They had been carefully arranged, one on top of the other, into a pyramid fifty feet high. Looking at it, they could count the different types: the long-fanged maw of a black dragon, the ram’s horns of a brass. White and green, blue and bronze, copper, silver and gold, even a lone sea dragon skull-every breed of wyrm was represented in the gruesome shrine. At the top of the pile, staring down at them with sightless eyes, was the massive skull of a red.
“That’s her mate,” Kronn whispered. “Isn’t it?”
Riverwind had come to the same conclusion. He nodded.
“Can you feel it?” Brightdawn asked faintly. “The power…”
The others closed their eyes, their faces pinching. Riverwind slumped against the wall of the cavern, sweat streaming down his face. “Magic,” he said. “It’s coming from that totem. It must be what she uses to fuel her sorcery-to shape the land.”
“That thing killed the Kenderwood?” Kronn asked, his eyes glinting angrily. He studied the far wall. “Maybe I can climb up to it and knock the skulls off the ledge.
Riverwind, however, shook his head. “No, Kronn.”
The kender regarded him in disbelief. “No?” he exclaimed. “She laid waste to my home with that thing, Riverwind! It needs to be destroyed!”
“I said no,” the Plainsman replied firmly. “We can’t afford to waste time here. We have to get to Malystryx’s nest.”
Kronn shook his head stubbornly, his cheek braids swaying. Brightdawn laid a hand on his shoulder. “Father’s right, Kronn,” she said. “Destroying that totem won’t bring the Kenderwood back or make you forget your fear. Your people are counting on us to destroy the egg.”
In the shadows behind them, a black-swathed figure stiffened, then slowly relaxed and began to creep forward. The soft scuff of its boots against the obsidian floor, the whisper of its dark cloak, and the faint hiss of its breath were all lost in the rumbling of lava and crackle of flames that filled the cavern. If any of them had turned, they might have caught a glimpse of movement, but their eyes were all fixed on the skull totem, and so they did not notice Yovanna’s approach.
“I’ll go first,” Kronn said, forcing his gaze back to the smoldering bridge. “Don’t follow me right away.”
Swallowing, he stepped off the ledge, onto the first blackened plank. Gripping the hand ropes to either side, he eased his weight onto the board. Behind him, Riverwind and Brightdawn held their breaths. The plank creaked and groaned, but it held. Kronn lowered his other foot onto it, then walked forward, stepping carefully, never too hard. When he was twenty feet out-less than a quarter of the way across the span-he glanced back at the Plainsfolk, flashing a smile full of clenched teeth. “It’s not that bad,” he lied. “Just don’t look down.”
“Thanks,” Brightdawn said dryly, as she started across after him. “I’ll try to remember that.”
Riverwind watched, his stomach a leaden knot, as his daughter crept along behind Kronn. He wanted to follow right behind her but knew that would only put her in more jeopardy. It would be dangerous to strain the bridge with too much weight in any one place. Far below, a bubble of magma burst, sending flames blossoming upward and spattering the cavern walls with globules of molten rock that quickly dimmed from golden yellow to black-crusted red.
Swallowing repeatedly in a vain effort to moisten his parched throat, the old Plainsman finally stepped onto the bridge. By far the heaviest of the three, he winced when he heard the soft sound of splintering beneath his feet. Somehow, though, the board did not break. Gripping the hand ropes with sweaty fingers, he inched along behind Kronn and Brightdawn, toward the impossibly far tunnel at the span’s other end. Waves of broiling heat washed up from below.
When they were halfway across, the bridge began to shake. The companions didn’t notice at first-the movement was slight-but with each passing heartbeat the ropes swayed more and more violently until the entire span was swinging. Brightdawn cried out in alarm, and the companions stopped, grasping the ropes tightly as a massive tremor rocked the whole cavern. More planks fell from the bridge, knocked loose by the quake, and burst into flames before they vanished into the seething, churning magma.
The tremor lasted nearly a full minute, but it seemed an eternity At last, however, the swaying grew less violent, the planks’ creaking less strained. The companions relaxed, sucking in deep breaths of scalding, smoky air and leaning weakly against the hand ropes.
With a loud snap, the rope on their right gave way.
All three somehow managed to keep from falling. Kronn stumbled, and Riverwind dropped to his knees; one of the boards beneath him snapped in half, and his left leg dropped through the opening.
Brightdawn, however, remembered the lesson Catt had taught her aboard Brinestrider. She found her sea legs immediately, then turned around. “Father!” she shouted as Riverwind struggled to pull himself back onto the bridge. She started toward him, gripping the remaining rope with both hands. “I’m coming,” she said. “Hold on-”
Then her eyes focused on something behind him, and she screamed. Kronn looked up, and Riverwind craned, trying to see what she had spotted.
A black-cloaked figure stood upon the ledge they had come from, naked steel in its gloved hand. It stood by the frayed remnants of the severed hand rope, then began to move to the other side. As they watched, Yovanna touched the edge of her dagger to the remaining hand rope and began to saw the blade back and forth.
Acting on instinct, Brightdawn dashed back across the bridge, heedless of the planks’ protesting groans. Riverwind stared in mute astonishment as she charged toward him; she was past him before he knew what she was doing.
“Brightdawn!” he shouted as she ran away from him.
Yovanna continued to cut through the rope for a moment, then glanced at the onrushing Plainswoman and stepped back, her dagger poised. Brightdawn didn’t slow, however; she leapt onto the ledge, at the black-cloaked figure. She grunted with pain as the knife plunged into her side, but her momentum knocked Yovanna into the wall, driving the air from both women’s lungs.
Riverwind watched in horror as his daughter and Malys’s thrall grappled on the ledge. Straining mightily, he pulled his leg back up through the hole in the bridge, then started back after Brightdawn.
Then another tremor struck, nearly pitching him off the bridge. The cavern lurched wildly, sending showers of scree plunging into the molten pool. Brightdawn and Yovanna stumbled sideways, toward the edge of the ledge. They teetered on the brink for a moment, then overbalanced and toppled into the void.
“No!” Riverwind bellowed.
For a moment Brightdawn was free, falling toward the hungry, waiting magma. Then she caught the lip of the ledge with her hands and held on with an iron grip. Yovanna grabbed her about the knees, arr
esting her own fall, and Brightdawn groaned as their combined weight began to loosen her grip on the stone. The muscles in her arms strained, and she ground her teeth with effort and agony.
Regaining his balance as the tremor subsided, Riverwind heaved himself toward the ledge, trying to reach her. “Child,” he gasped helplessly, “I’m coming…”
Brightdawn kicked and thrashed, trying to knock Yovanna loose, but the black-cloaked figure held her tight. Yovanna’s hood fell back from her head, revealing the tortured ruins of her face. Her lipless mouth twisting into a snarl, she grabbed the back of Brightdawn’s tunic and began to climb.
“Please,” Brightdawn sobbed. The sharp obsidian dug into her palms, drawing bright blood. “Father…”
Riverwind moved as quickly as he could, but he could see his daughter’s grip faltering and knew he wouldn’t be fast enough. Another board gave way beneath him, and he nearly fell, clutching the weakened hand rope. Tears of frustration crawled down his cheeks.
Yovanna continued to pull herself up Brightdawn’s body, growling like a wild animal. Her hand clawed up, reaching for the Plainswoman’s collar.
Then a tiny dart hissed through the air, striking the back of her neck. Reflexively, Yovanna swatted at it…
And lost her grip on Brightdawn.
As she fell, the glittering cruelty faded from Yovanna’s eyes. A look of relief took its place. Then the heat of the magma ignited her robes, and she plunged, burning like a torch, into the molten rock.
Brightdawn sobbed, her fingers slipping. Recklessly, Riverwind charged the last dozen paces back along the bridge, threw himself flat on the ledge, then reached back and caught her wrists. Groaning mightily, he pulled her up, out of the abyss. They lay sprawled together on the stone for a moment, shuddering, then Riverwind pushed himself weakly to his knees. His face was ashen as he beheld his daughter’s body. Yovanna’s dagger was still buried to its cross-guard in her side.
The Plainsman glanced back across the bridge, seeking Kronn. The kender stood still, holding the haft of his chapak in his hands. Pieces of the weapon protruded from his pouches and pockets: while Riverwind had striven to reach his daughter, Kronn had dismantled it, turned it into a blowgun, and fired the dart that had felled Yovanna. Now he slid the haft into his belt and dashed back along the bridge to help Riverwind and Brightdawn.
She rolled onto her side, the dagger’s hilt sticking up into the air, and looked at them both with bleary eyes. Her tunic was dark with blood. “I don’t think I can make it… on my own,” she hissed.
Riverwind’s jaw tightened; his face might have been carved of granite. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m here, child. I’ll help you.”
Somehow, using the remaining hand rope to guide them, he and Kronn carried her across the bridge. When they finally reached the far side, the kender and the Plainsman sank down on the stone, exhausted. For a long time, none of them could do anything but gasp for breath. Then Brightdawn stirred. “Father?” she asked in a small voice. “Why is it so cold?”
A spike of horror drove itself through Riverwind’s gut, paralyzing him. Wearily, Kronn crawled over to Brightdawn and inspected the dagger lodged in her side. He dabbed at the wound, and his fingers came away with blood-and something else. Something black and oily.
He looked at Riverwind, shaking his head.
His face constricted with anguish, Riverwind lifted his daughter and rolled her over, resting her head in his lap. She was shivering, and her lips were blue. Her eyes gleamed feverishly in the fireglow.
“Oh, child,” he said. “My sunrise.”
“She would have killed us all, Father,” Brightdawn hissed. “She would have cut the rope, and we would have fallen. I had to stop her. I had … to save you.”
“Oh, gods.” Riverwind’s voice was ragged with tears. “Child, you cannot save me. You cannot.” He hesitated, summoning strength from within. “I’m dying, Brightdawn.”
Kronn choked suddenly and turned away.
Brightdawn smiled, however. “Then,” she breathed, “you’ll see me again soon…”
Helplessly, Riverwind bowed his head.
“Father?”
“Yes, child?”
“Do you remember, when Moonsong and I were young, how sometimes we’d cry until you came to kiss us good-night?”
He nodded. “I remember.”
“You used to sing to us…” A shudder ran through her body, and she groaned.
“Shall I sing it for you, child?”
She nodded, smiling weakly. Her eyes fluttered dosed. Riverwind took several long, slow breaths to calm himself. Then, with grieving effort, his baritone voice rose softly, singing an old Plainsman lullaby.
Hush baby, sleep baby, nighttime is here
And the moons circle round up above in the skies.
The evening is calm and the blanket is soft,
Time to rest, time to sleep,
close your eyes.
So hush baby, sleep baby, don’t stay awake,
Let your dreams
carry you to a world far away.
A world that is peaceful, a world filled with love,
Where all
children share laughter and play.
So
sleep till the dirk fades away.
Sometime, while he was singing, Riverwind’s daughter died.
He held Brightdawn tight, stroking her golden hair. Kronn walked a short distance down the dark tunnel, partly to leave the Plainsman in peace, partly so he could cry alone. When he returned, Riverwind was still holding her. The Plainsman seemed very old and frail.
“Riverwind,” Kronn said.
“It should have been me,” Riverwind whispered. “First Swiftraven, now…” He bowed his head, shuddering.
The Plainsman removed Brightdawn’s mace from her belt and tied it to his own. Then he dug in his pack and took out a woven blanket. His hands trembling, he folded it about his daughter’s motionless form, then rose and lifted her in his arms. He walked to rim of the ledge and paused there.
“When you return to your people, Kronn,” he said, “tell them how she died. Tell Moonsong.”
The kender nodded sadly. “I will.”
Riverwind kissed Brightdawn’s forehead, then dropped her from the ledge. Her body spun slowly through the air, then vanished into the magma.
They turned and walked away, deeper into the mountain.
Chapter 25
Moonsong groaned loudly and stumbled, nearly falling, as she dashed down Tornado Alley. Stagheart, running beside her, caught her arm. She doubled over, gasping desperately for breath that wouldn’t come. Her face grew deathly pale, seeming to age before Stagheart’s eyes. Kender surged all around them, fleeing from the toppled walls toward the center of Kendermore.
Nervously, Stagheart looked over his shoulder. The ogres’ bloodthirsty shouts were growing louder all around as they swarmed into the city He tightened his grip on Moonsong’s wrist. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Brightdawn…” Moonsong sobbed, her shoulders heaving. She looked up at him, her blue eyes brimming with anguish. “Stagheart, she’s dead. My sister’s dead.”
He swayed on his feet, his chest tightening, then forced himself to swallow the acid taste in his mouth. “You’re sure?” he asked gently.
“I know!” she cried. “Stagheart. She’s gone.”
The roars of the ogres were very near now; the mobs of running kender were thinning.
“And your father?” Stagheart pressed urgently.
Moonsong shook her head. “I don’t know. Oh, goddess. What if they’ve failed?” She sucked a shuddering breath through her teeth, shivering convulsively.
Stagheart could see the ogres now, at the far end of the broad, straight street. They were moving swiftly, chasing a mob of shouting kender. He drew his sabre and pulled her away. “Come on,” he told her. “We have to keep moving. Paxina’s waiting for us.”
The sharpness of his voice reached her. Swall
owing her grief, she started to run.
The Black-Gazer’s horde spread into the streets of Kendermore, pursuing the retreating kender. Their quarry led them on, running hard to gain ground, then waiting for the ogres to catch up, always keeping maddeningly just out of reach. Each time they stopped, the kender turned around to mock their foes, pointing and laughing, their voices rising in a chorus of sweet-sounding derision.
“Do the lice ever complain about how bad you smell?” they shouted gleefully.
“What are you, nine feet tall?” asked others. “I didn’t know they piled dung that high!”
“Do ogre women really like men whose teeth look like smutty corn cobs?”
“Say, you’ve got a great big boil right-oh, sorry that’s your face.”
“Wow! A five-hundred-pound walking wart!”
“Hey, liver-brain! I’ve seen things living under rocks that could outwit you!”
“So, when did you find out your sister and your grandmother were the same person?”
“Great Reorx, you’re ugly. One look at you would make Lord Soth cry for his mother! What are you, part troll or something?”
“Scumlickers!”
“Pigspawn!”
“Overgrown, dimwitted, bandy-legged, slack-jawed, dirt-sucking heaps of rotten goblin excrement!”
Already enraged by the deaths of their comrades, the ogres went utterly berserk. Howling with mindless fury, they charged blindly down the streets after the jeering kender. The kender ran onward, shouting a constant stream of insults as they led the ogres through the confusion of Kendermore’s streets.
Gradually, deliberately, the kender broke up the horde. They split at each fork or intersection, drawing their pursuers in every direction. The ogres surged along the tangled avenues, running as fast as their tree-trunk legs would carry them.
The kender knew where the trip wires were. They saw them as they ran, and hurdled nimbly over them. The ogres, however, could see little but their own crimson rage. They hit the wires, stumbling and falling headlong onto the cobblestones. All over Kendermore, the same thing happened. Hundreds of ogres died, their bodies crushed by the weight of those who came after them.
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