“Kronn,” Riverwind said plaintively, “help me stand.”
It was difficult-Riverwind could barely bend his knee, and his numb foot had trouble supporting his weight-but Kronn took the Plainsman’s hand and pulled him upright. Plowing a furrow in the ash pile as he dragged crossed the cavern floor. He stopped when he reached the rope, then turned. The Plainsman still faced him, smiling.
“Goodbye, Riverwind,” Kronn said, his voice trembling.
“Farewell, Kronn-alin. You have been a good friend.”
Swallowing, Kronn turned toward the cavern wall. He slung his chapak across his back, grasped the rope with both hands, and began to climb.
Riverwind watched him ascend, his face grave. It took the kender several minutes to reach the ledge. Finally, Kronn scrambled nimbly onto the stone balcony, looked down at the cavern floor, and waved his arm above his head. Riverwind raised his hand in reply. Then Kronn was gone, walking swiftly back down the obsidian tunnel.
Sighing, the old Plainsman turned back toward the egg. He looked at it silently for nearly a minute, then crossed the warm ash pile, walking swiftly to its side. “Goddess give me strength,” he whispered. “Guide my hand.”
Slowly, deliberately, he raised Brightdawn’s mace high above his head. He held it poised a moment, then swung downward, striking the egg’s ruddy shell.
The Kenderwood was very close, only a few scant miles away. Malystryx glared down at it, her blood burning with hate. She could see Kendermore clearly now, still blazing brightly in the midst of the wide, lifeless meadow. Beyond it, still far in the distance, her keen eyes spotted the fleeing kender, shadows flitting westward through the skeletal woodland.
“You will not escape,” she hissed at them. “I will make this forest a holocaust. You will die screaming my name.”
Her wings pumping mightily, she began to rise, gaining altitude so she could swoop down on the Kenderwood and blast it with her breath. The ground fell away beneath her.
Then, suddenly, a violent shock jolted her, nearly knocking her from the sky.
She fell a thousand feet before she recovered enough to move, then struggled to keep herself aloft. Her wings strained, the membranes snapping taut, as the Desolation spun up toward her. Finally she arrested her fall, flapping to put empty air between herself and the ground. Blood pounded in her ears, and she screamed balefully, her head snaking about to gaze upon the burning mountain, many leagues behind her.
With great effort she focused her mind, reaching toward Blood Watch. Yovanna, she thought. Someone is with the egg. Protect it.
Yovanna’s mind eluded her, however. She reached out, searching, but she soon realized her servant was dead-and then she knew that the fire serpent she had set to guard her nest was dead too. The egg was unprotected.
Another shock hit her, and she dropped again. This time, however, she recovered quickly, then rose higher. A bright star of rage burning within her, she turned back the way she had come, streaking away from the tinder-dry forest. The kender fled behind her, forgotten.
The egg would not break. Again and again Riverwind struck it, Brightdawn’s mace rising and falling as he beat a cadence of frustration upon its shell. Though its surface looked and felt like stiff leather, it was as hard as iron, refusing to crack even when he swung the bludgeon with both hands. His arms blazed with pain from the exertion, and he fought valiantly to keep from losing his balance as his benumbed leg tried to give way beneath him. The mace’s flanges bent, and its head began to loosen as he pounded. A loud, thunderous boom sounded with every blow.
“Give, damn you!” he snarled through clenched teeth. He could sense Malystryx’s wrath bearing down on him, growing with every hammering stroke. She would be here soon, emerging through the rift, thirsting for his blood. If the egg didn’t break before then, he would fail.
He could not-would not-let that happen.
Shouting incoherently, he brought the mace up with both hands and slammed it down with all his might. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet, sending him sprawling. The mace flew from his hand as he fell, its haft splintered. He writhed on the ground, gasping for breath, for long moments before he found the strength to turn his gaze toward the egg.
A long fissure marred the shell. Thick green ichor seeped from it, darkening the ashes where it dripped.
Riverwind stared at the crack a moment, then heaved himself upright and stumbled toward the egg. Steel rang as he jerked his sabre from its scabbard. Carefully, he wedged the sword’s tip in the fissure and leaned upon it hard. The membrane within the shell resisted for a long moment, then yielded. His sabre slid into the egg.
Green, sticky albumen spewed forth, soaking his anus. It stank of brimstone and putrescence, but he fought back his rising gorge and kept his grip on the hilt of his sword. Singlemindedly, he sawed the blade back and forth, slitting open the egg along the length of its shell. Then, weakened by his efforts, the shell burst, breaking open and drenching him from the chest down in slime. The ichor poured over the ashes, soaking them. Riverwind’s sabre trailed strings of albumen as he jerked it out of the egg.
Then, ulcerating out of the ruined egg like suppuration from a festering wound, the embryo slid free. It landed with a wet smack at his feet.
He stared at it, gagging with disgust. The baby dragon was nearly four feet long, from nose to tail, but it was completely helpless, not yet fully formed. Its body was shriveled and dark, shaped like a tadpole that had just begun to turn into a frog. Its legs and wings were useless stumps; its eyes were large and dark, covered by thin, ruddy membranes; its mouth gaped wide, revealing a single, barbed egg tooth. The baby wyrm twitched wretchedly, fighting to stay alive. Riverwind sank to his knees beside it, his guts wrenching with nausea.
At that moment, a deafening scream rang out from beyond the shaft in the cavern’s ceiling.
Red fury filled Malys’s mind as she dove toward Blood Watch. The last shock had wracked her body, filling her mind with pain. The egg, she knew, was destroyed. Her child was dying, helpless, and she couldn’t save it.
But she could avenge.
The volcano loomed before her, incredibly close. She spread her wings wide, slowing her descent slightly. Then the stone trembled as she landed next to the entrance to her nest. Moving with crazed purpose, she climbed into the shaft and began to wriggle through it toward her lair. Scales tore from her body as she slithered, ripped loose by jagged stones, but she ignored them, pulling herself along with claws that shredded the rock like loose earth. She heaved herself forward until she saw the dim orange glow of firelight beneath her. Snarling, she took the last fifty yards to the end of the shaft at a single lunge.
She caught herself at the lip of the shaft, talons driving like pitons into the stone. Her head snaked downward, her golden eyes flaring with rage as she stared down at the floor of her nest, far below. She saw the ash pile, stained green by the egg’s juices. She saw the egg, split nearly in half and dripping with slime. She saw the embryo, quivering miserably on the ground. And then she saw the old Plainsman, kneeling beside the baby dragon’s side, sword in hand. He looked up at her, his lips curling into a victorious smile.
Malystryx shrieked, shaking Blood Watch to its very roots.
Riverwind only heard the first few seconds of the dragon’s screech, then the noise burst his eardrums, deafening him. Pain roared in his head, but he kept his eyes fixed on Malystryx. She clung to the rocks high above, her mouth open wide. An avalanche of stone showered out of the rift as the shaft behind her collapsed from the force of her rage.
I was wrong all those years ago, Riverwind thought as he stared up at her. Death’s wings aren’t black at all. They’re red as the vanished moon.
Suddenly, the dragon’s mouth snapped shut. The mountain continued to tremble beneath Riverwind for a long time. Malys glared at him, unreasoning hatred in her eyes. The dragonfear was horrifically intense, clawing at his sanity. He swayed as it beat down upon him but fought it off valiantl
y. Glaring up at the enormous wyrm, he reversed his grip on his sabre so its blade pointed downward, then raised it high in both hands. He held the sword poised for an instant, then drove it downward, through the helpless embryo’s breast. With one last, miserable shiver, the baby dragon died. He let go of the sabre, leaving it buried in the embryo’s stilled heart.
Her eyes shining ferociously, Malystryx hunched her shoulders and sucked in a long, deep breath. Not taking his eyes off her, Riverwind reached beneath his fur vest and locked his fingers around the Forever Charm. He yanked, and the medallion’s chain snapped as he pulled it from around his neck. He squeezed its two interlocked circles, feeling their steel edges cut his flesh. Blood welling between his fingers, he thrust his fist above his head.
“Goldmoon,” he whispered as flames surged up the dragon’s throat.
Kronn-alin Thistleknot waited for hours, crouching low on the ridge opposite Blood Watch. The mountain shook again and again as Malystryx thundered her rage, deep within its heart. A gout of smoke spewed from the volcano’s caldera, and rivers of glowing lava poured down into the valley below. Sheets of stone broke loose from its sides, smashing to pieces as they struck the ground.
Finally, around dusk, the noise and the tremors died away. Blood Watch fell silent. The dragon did not emerge.
Kronn stayed where he was a short while longer. Then he rose and walked away, toward the setting sun.
Epilogue
A cool breeze blew through Solace Vale, soughing through the branches of the vallenwoods and rustling their blue-green leaves. It was late summer, with a fortnight still to go before the Harvest Come festival, and the weather had begun to slide toward autumn. The front door of the Inn of the Last Home stood wide open, as did its stained glass windows, allowing the gentle wind to blow the taproom.
This afternoon, the tavern was more or less empty. It was market day in Solace, and the Inn’s patrons had gone down to the town square to shop, gossip, and enjoy the pleasant weather. Tika and her daughters were also at the market, buying food to stock the Inn’s larders.
Thus it was that-with the exception of Clemen, Borlos and Osler, who sat where they always sat, playing cards and swearing at one another-Caramon found himself left alone for a while. He took the opportunity to drag an armchair over to a spot where the breeze was particularly pleasant, sit down, and take a long, leisurely nap. He did not sleep alone, however; in his arms, he held Ulin, his grandson.
Usha’s child had arrived right on time, not quite a year ago. He had been born strong and healthy, and no one-not even Palin, who’d been beside himself with joy-had been quite as proud as Caramon. In the best grandfatherly tradition, he’d spent the past year fawning over Ulin, much to Palin and Usha’s chagrin. Tika often quipped that Caramon spent more time with the baby than he did with his own wife, but she was no one to talk. She spoiled Ulin rotten too.
Today, as with all market days, Caramon had volunteered to take care of the child, giving his mother and father an afternoon to themselves. And today being a particularly lazy day, both Caramon and Ulin were content to snooze quietly, listening to the orchestra of muttering leaves and twittering birds outside the Inn. They were both sound asleep, then, when the tromp of feet sounded on the stairs far below.
As the footsteps drew nearer, Clemen, Borlos and Osler set down their cards and glanced across the tavern. “Hey, big guy!” Clemen shouted across the room. “Company coming!”
Caramon answered with a cavernous snore. In his arms, Ulin made burbling sounds but didn’t wake. The footsteps were close now, nearing the balcony that surrounded the Inn.
“Whose turn is it this time?” Osler asked.
“Bor’s,” said Clemen.
Borlos groaned, then set his cards face down on the table. He rose and walked over to Caramon, then reached out and tapped the innkeeper on the shoulder. “Wake up, you old lummox,” he said, not unkindly.
Caramon’s eyes blinked open, and he peered up at Borlos. “You’re lucky I’ve got the kid here,” he grumbled, nodding at the baby in his arms. “What have I told you about waking me up?”
Just to be safe, Borlos took a quick step back from the chair. “Don’t matter what you’d do to me,” he replied. “Tika said she’d do worse if we let you sleep when guests showed up.”
Caramon’s brow furrowed. “What’d she do, threaten to take away your cards?”
“Well, uh,” Borlos answered, flushing with embarrassment, “actually, yeah.”
Caramon snorted with mock disgust, then shook his head groggily, clearing out the cobwebs. “You said something about guests?”
“Outside,” Osler called from their table. “You can hear them, can’t you, big guy? Haven’t up and gone deaf in your old age, have you?”
Scowling sourly, Caramon strained to listen. Hearing the footsteps-they were on the balcony now-he heaved himself to his feet, Ulin in his arms. Before he could move any farther, though, a shadow stepped into the doorway. Caramon stepped back, fighting to focus against the glaring sunlight that streamed through the door. The visitor was a young woman, clad in a Plainsfolk dress. She walked with a limp, favoring her right leg. Her face…
Caramon caught his breath as he finally made out the woman’s features. She had been truly beautiful, once. On the right side she still was, her strong face framed by long, golden hair shot with strands of silver. The left side, however, was a horror. From forehead to chin, and on down her neck, her skin was red and puckered-a large, glistening scar. Her left eye was seared shut, her left ear a gnarled stub. The golden hair had been scorched away on that side, laying bare her burn-ravaged scalp.
Behind him, Borlos swore softly and hurried back to join the other card players. Caramon took no notice; for a time, he could do little but stare.
“Moonsong?” he breathed.
The right side of her mouth curled into a smile. “Caramon.” She nodded at Ulin. “Your grandson?”
“What?” he asked, stunned. “Oh. Yes.” He continued to look at her, not believing what he saw. “Moonsong… what happened?”
“In good time,” she replied. “We will tell you.”
Caramon’s brow lowered. “We?”
A second woman stepped into the Inn, leaning on a plain staff. She was older, but her face still retained the beauty that once had been Moonsong’s. Caramon recognized her immediately, a sharp ache in his heart.
“Goldmoon,” he said.
The older woman regarded him kindly. “My friend,” she said. “It is good to see you.”
For a moment, Caramon couldn’t think of anything to say. “Why-why are you here?” he asked lamely.
“We come bearing news you should hear,” Goldmoon replied. “My husband is dead-and Brightdawn, Swiftraven, and thousands of brave kender with him.”
Folk who came to the tavern at the Inn of the Last Home that night found it dark and locked. Handpainted signs were posted at the front door and at the bottom of the long flight of stairs that wound around the vallenwood tree.
Closed tonight in memory of Riverwind of Que-Shu.
Guests, please use the back door to go to your rooms.
We will reopen tomorrow.
— Tika and Caramon Majere
Inside, the taproom was almost empty Clemen, Borlos and Osler had gone home shortly after Tika and her daughters returned. Little Ulin had started to cry when he woke and saw Moonsong’s scarred face, and Laura and Dezra had offered to take him home. The girls stayed at Palin and Usha’s house that night, knowing their parents would want to be alone.
A few lonely candles glowed in the tavern, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Caramon and Tika sat at a table by the darkened fireplace, across from Goldmoon and Moonsong. The old Plainswoman sat quietly, her eyes shining in the flickering light, as her daughter told of Riverwind’s last quest and the fall of Kendermore. As she spoke, Caramon bowed his head sorrowfully. Tears crawled down Tika’s cheeks.
“When the house collapsed on top of me, Staghear
t pulled me from the rubble. We escaped into the tunnels,” Moonsong said. She paused, taking a sip from a glass of wine Caramon had poured for her. “The fire left me as you see me now. I would surely have died, but the kender saw to my wounds and carried me away through the forest. I remember nothing of that journey, save the kender’s cries when they saw Malystryx on the wing. They were terrified. But she turned back when she was nearly upon us, and I knew Father had succeeded.
“The next thing I remember, I awoke in Balifor, in the kender camp. We had made it safely out of the Kenderwood. Stagheart was with me-he had stayed at my bedside for days, waiting for me to wake. Later, Catt came to visit me. I didn’t understand her pity when she looked at me… not until I asked her to bring me a mirror, and I saw what I had become…
Moonsong’s voice broke, the right side of her face creasing with bitterness. She looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. Goldmoon rested a gentle hand on her arm. For a time, the Inn was silent, then Moonsong shook her head, angry with herself, and lowered her anguished gaze back to Caramon and Tika.
“Stagheart didn’t look at me that way, though,” she said softly. “Looking in his eyes, I could almost believe I was whole again-at least in my body. Nothing can make me forget the hole inside me where Brightdawn used to be.
“We stayed in the camp for two weeks. I must have been visited by a dozen healers. They treated me with poultices and salves, herbal draughts and vapors. Slowly I recovered, but I knew it would still be some time before I was well enough to walk.
“Then one day I heard shouting outside my tent. At first, I thought the dragon had returned-we were not far from the Kenderwood, and I feared she would fall upon us and burn us for spite. But I soon realized the kender were crying out not in fear or panic, but with joy. I asked Stagheart to go find out what was happening. I thought, maybe, that somehow Father had survived, and had finally caught up with us.
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