Fistandantilus Reborn

by Douglas Niles

  Instead, Gantor was reduced to this, to shaking his fist at the distant mountain, crying out his frustration and rage, then turning away in defeat to continue shambling over the trackless, dusty plain.

  The dwarves of Thorbardin had equipped him with a meager pack full of provisions before they had summarily pushed him out of the South Gate of the great under-mountain fortress. Gantor was given a small hand axe and a bone-handled knife with a blade of black steel that served as a mocking reminder of his once-honorable namesake. In addition, he had several skins full of drinking water, a blanket, a net, and many cakes of the hard, nourishing bread that was the major foodstuff of the mountain dwarves. As a final insult, Thane Realgar had taken Gantor’s sword of black steel and snapped off the blade at the hilt, a further symbol of the disgraceful state to which he had fallen.

  For a long time Gantor Blacksword had been sustained by little more than his rage. He had plodded through the Kharolis foothills during the nights and sought whatever shelter he could find during the day. When the sun was high, the Theiwar’s eyes burned from the painful light, and when no cave or shady grove offered itself, he had been forced to pull his cloak over his head and lie, a huddled ball of misery, on the open ground until sunset.

  The early days of his exile had carried him through lands of plentiful water, and during the nights he had been able to find fungus in the deep, wooded groves. Sometimes he had caught fish, using the fine webbing of the net to pull trout and sunfish from shallow streams. He ate the scaly creatures whole and raw, as was Theiwar custom, and the meager feasts had provided the few bright memories of his recent existence. Gantor’s dwarf-cake bread had lasted him for several weeks, thus augmented by the food that he could gather for himself. And he had been sustained.

  But then his rambling course had progressed, coming all the way around the mountain dwarf kingdom until he had found himself on this trackless plain. There were no streams here, no groves wherein he could find the tender mushrooms. Worst of all, there were not even any caves, nor any tall features that would offer even minimal shade from the lethal sun. Day by day he had weakened, until his water was gone, and he shambled blindly onward, delirious and full of despair.

  Since beginning his trek across the plain he had survived by eating … what? Gantor knew he hadn’t killed anything, and there was nothing even remotely edible growing on the parched and arid desert. He had vague memories of carrion, rank and putrid meat surrounded by a maggot-infested pelt, but the gorging upon that foul meal had been a reflexive act, driven by mindless hunger.

  And afterward he had been sick, his gut wracked by spasms and cramps that had dropped him in his tracks. Now he lay where he had fallen on the cracked plain, in this place, for more days than he knew. Several times since, just when he thought that the merciless sun must at last kill him, must finally bring to an end the awful suffering, he had been spared by sunset.

  In fact, it had just happened again. Gantor’s tongue was thick and dry in his mouth, and his parched lips cracked and bled with every effort of movement. He pushed himself over to lie on his back, staring upward at the vault of sky, seeing the pale wash of illumination, so cool and distant, that characterized the heavens on clear nights such as this. He had no knowledge of stars—Theiwar vision was far too imprecise to pick out the distant spots of illumination—but he knew there was something bright up there, something aloof and mocking.

  He wanted only to die, but it seemed that Krynn itself conspired to keep him alive.

  “Hey, fellow? I don’t want to be rude, but that’s an odd place to make a camp.”

  At first Gantor thought the words to be the products of another feverish dream, an attempt to drive him still further into madness. Yet he forced his aching tongue to move and parted his blistered lips enough to articulate a reply.

  “I sleep where I will! I am dwarf, master of all beyond Thorbardin!” he boldly proclaimed. At least, he tried to boldly proclaim; the dryness of his throat reduced the proud boast to little more than a prolonged croak.

  “Wait. I can’t understand you. Do you want something to drink?”

  Gantor couldn’t reply, and in fact wondered why anyone who possessed such a magical voice would have trouble understanding his own profound response. Yet before he could voice his question, he felt a warm trickle over his lips. Reflexively he swallowed, and the water sent a jolt of pure pleasure through his parched body.

  “How’s that? More?”

  Now the dwarf could see a dim shape, a shadow outlined against the glow of the sky. Close before him, wonderful wetness dripped from the end of a waterskin. With a reflexive grab, fearful that the precious nectar would be snatched away, Gantor reached up with both hands, tearing the skin out of small fingers, thrusting the nozzle to his lips.

  Water gushed into his mouth, soaking his bristling beard, causing him to choke and sputter—but still he guzzled desperately.

  “Hey, don’t drink it all!”

  Gantor felt those small fingers touch his hands, and he growled a wet, splattering exhalation fierce enough to drive the figure of his rescuer hastily back a couple of steps.

  “Well, I guess you can drink it all if you want,” said that same voice, with a sigh of resignation. “Still, we might be better off saving a little for later—that is, if you want to. Well, I guess you don’t.”

  Gantor, in any event, needed no permission. Indeed, he would have been halted by no command. When the skin was empty, he sucked on the small spout, chewing frantically, as if he would devour the very vessel itself.

  “Wait! Don’t wreck it!” Insistent now, the small hands came out of the darkness, seizing the drained waterskin and pulling it away.

  The dwarf made an effort to resist, but his gut was taken by an abrupt spasm that wrenched him into a ball, then threatened to send all that precious water spuming back out of him. Clenching his jaws, tightening his gorge, Gantor resisted the nausea with the full strength of his will, forced the life-giving sustenance to remain in his belly. Gradually, over the course of minutes, he felt the water seep into his limbs, his brain, invigorating his thoughts, restoring some measure of acuity to his eyes, his ears, and his skin.

  Finally Gantor Blacksword took note of his companion. The stranger was traveling light and alone, so far as the dwarf could see. The fellow was not as tall as—and far more slender than—a dwarf. His face had high cheekbones and was narrow and weathered, lined now by furrows of concern as the twin eyes regarded the dwarf cautiously. He had a great knot of hair tied atop his head, a sweep that extended in a long tail across his shoulder. That mane flipped gracefully as the visitor looked to the left, then the right, then back down to the dwarf.

  “What are you?” Gantor Blacksword demanded, fingers instinctively inching toward the bone-handled knife concealed at his belt. His voice was still a rattling croak, but at least his tongue and lips seemed to move.

  “Emilo Haversack, at your service,” said the fellow, with a bow that sent the topknot of hair cascading toward the dwarf.

  With a whimper, Gantor recoiled from the sudden attack, until he realized that it wasn’t an attack at all. His blunt fingers firmly clasped around the knife, the Theiwar tried again. “Not who—what are you?”

  “Why, I’m a traveler,” said Emilo. “Like yourself, I guess—a traveler across the Plains of Dergoth. Though I must say that I’ve traveled to a lot of different places, and every one of them was more interesting than this. Most of them a lot more interesting.”

  The dwarf growled, shaking his head, sending cascades of water flinging from his bristling beard. His eyes, huge and pale by normal standards, glared balefully at his diminutive rescuer.

  “Oh, you mean what, like in dwarf or human!” declared Emilo with an easy smile. “I’m a kender. And pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Once again the stranger made a threatening gesture, thrusting a hand forward, palm perpendicular to the ground, fingers pointing toward the Theiwar’s chest. This time Gantor was re
ady, and the knife came up, the black steel carving a swooshing arc through the air.

  “Hey! You almost cut me!” cried the kender, whipping his fingers out of the path of the assault. “Haven’t you ever shaken hands before?”

  “Keep your hands away from me.” Gantor’s voice was a low growl, barely articulate, but apparently impressive enough to deter the menacing kender, who took a half step backward and cleverly regarded the dwarf behind a mask of hurt feelings and morose self-pity.

  “Maybe I should keep all of me away from you,” sniffed the long-haired traveler. “I’m beginning to think it was even a mistake to give you my water. Though I guess you would have died here if I hadn’t. And anyway, I can always get more.” Here the kender shivered slightly, looking nervously over his shoulder. “But I guess I’ll have to go back to those caves to find it again.”

  “Caves?” One word from the kender’s ramblings penetrated the Theiwar dwarf’s lunatic mind. “There’s a cave? Where?” Gantor tried to scramble to his feet, but his legs collapsed and he fell to his knees. He reached forward to seize the kender, but the little fellow skipped back, causing the dwarf’s hands to clasp together in an imploring posture.

  “Why, over there. In the big mountain that looks like a skull. The one they call Skullcap.”

  “Take me there!” Gantor screamed, lunging forward. The promise of darkness, of shade from the merciless sun, was a more enticing prospect even than the thought of more water.

  “I’m not sure I want to go anywhere with you,” declared the kender, his narrow chin set in a firm line. “Didn’t you just try to kill me? And after I saved your life, to boot. No, I don’t think—”

  “Please!” the Theiwar croaked the unfamiliar word, a reflex action that achieved its purpose: For the time being, the kender stopped talking about leaving the wretched dwarf here in the middle of the plain.

  For his own part, Gantor Blacksword tried to force his newly revitalized mind through some mental exercise. This was a foreign creature, more dangerous by far than the hated Hylar and Daewar of the other mountain dwarf clans. Every enraged fiber of his being, every treacherous and double-dealing experience from his past, told the Theiwar that this kender was a threat, an enemy to be defeated, one whose valuables rightfully belonged to the one who killed him.

  Yet right now the greatest of those valuables was knowledge, an awareness of a place where a cave, and water, could be found. And despite the dark dwarf clan’s propensity for torture, for theft and illicit acquisition, no Theiwar had ever figured out a way to pry knowledge from a corpse.

  And so, for now, the kender would need to stay alive. That settled, the dwarf tried to focus on the current of prattle that seemed to issue from the kender’s mouth at such an impossibly high speed.

  “It was awfully nice meeting you and all, I’m sure,” Emilo Haversack was saying. “But now I really must be going. Important wandering to do, you understand … have to see the coast, as a matter of fact. Do you know which way the ocean—oh, never mind! Actually, I’m sure I can find it myself.”

  Gantor croaked a response that he hoped was friendly.

  “Anyway, I can see that you have matters of your own to keep you busy. As I said, it really has been pleasant, at least by the standards of a chance meeting during the dark of night in the middle of a desert.…”

  “Wait!” The Theiwar articulated the word with a great effort of will. “I—I’d like to talk to you some more. Won’t you join me here in my camp?”

  He gestured to the featureless, cracked ground around him. It was the place in this gods-forsaken wasteland where he had collapsed, nothing more, and yet the kender beamed as if he had been invited into a grand palace.

  “Well, I don’t mind if I do, really. It has been a long walk.…” Emilo shivered suddenly, looking over his shoulder again, and the dwarf wondered what could make this clearly seasoned wanderer so nervous. “And I could use some company myself.”

  The kender crossed his legs in a fashion no dwarf could hope to mimic as he squatted easily on the ground. “I hope you’re feeling a little better after the water. You know, you really should carry some with you. After all, a person can die of thirst out here.”

  “I wanted to—” Gantor started to speak in his habitual snarl, to tell this kender that he had desired nothing but death.

  Yet now, with the wetness of water soothing his throat and the knowledge that there was a cave somewhere, perhaps not terribly far away, the Theiwar admitted to himself that he did not want to perish here. He wanted to survive, to go on living, even if not for any particular reason that he could name at the time.

  “That is, I wanted to bring enough water to drink, but the desert was bigger than I thought it was,” he concluded lamely, looking sidelong at the kender to see if he would swallow the lie.

  “I see,” Emilo Haversack said, nodding seriously. “Well, would you like a little hardtack?” He offered a strip of leathery meat, and the dwarf gratefully took the provision, chewing on the tough membrane, relishing the feel of saliva once again wetting his mouth.

  “I meant to ask you,” the kender continued, speaking around a tough mouthful of the jerky, “why doesn’t your sword have a blade?”

  Gantor gaped in astonishment, which quickly exploded to rage as he saw the kender examining the broken weapon. “How did you get that?” the dwarf demanded, making a clumsy lunge that Emilo easily evaded.

  “I was just looking at it,” he declared nonchalantly, allowing Gantor to snatch the weapon back.

  Suspiciously the dwarf patted his pouch, finding flint and tinder where it was supposed to be. As he did, he remembered some of things he had heard about kender, and he resolved to be careful of his possessions.

  “If you feel well enough, perhaps we should get going,” Emilo suggested. “I’ve found that it’s best to do my walking at night, at least here in the desert. If you want to come with me, I think we can get back to Skullcap—er, the caves—before sunrise.”

  Once again the dwarf heard that tremor in the kender’s voice, but he took no note. The promise of a cave over his head before cruel dawn! The very notion sent a shiver of bliss through the dark-loving Theiwar, and he pushed himself to his feet with a minimum of pain and stiffness. Again he felt alive, ready to move, to fight, to do whatever he had to do to claim the part of the world that was rightfully his.

  “Let’s go,” he said, making the unfamiliar effort to make his voice sound friendly. “Why don’t you show me where those caves are?”

  Chapter 7

  Skullcap

  251 AC

  Third Adamachtis, Dry-Anvil

  “There—didn’t I tell you that it looked like a skull?” asked Emilo Haversack. “And doesn’t it make you wonder how it got to be this way?”

  Gantor leaned back, allowing his pale, luminous eyes to trace upward across the pocked face of the mountain, past the eye sockets and mouth that gaped as vast, dark caves. The visage did indeed look ghastly, and so realistic that it might have been the work of some giant demented sculptor.

  “It might,” the Theiwar said agreeably, “except I’ve heard a lot about this place, and I know how it was made. It serves as a monument to ten thousand dwarves who died here and an emblem of blame for the mad wizard who brought them to their doom!”

  “Really? That sounds like a great story! Won’t you tell me? Please?”

  The kender all but hopped up and down beside the Theiwar, but Gantor brushed him away with a burly hand. “Time for stories later. I think we should head inside before the sun comes up.”

  They had plodded steadily through the remaining hours of darkness, with the kender claiming that he could see the pale massif of the garish mountain rising against the dark sky. This had been the first clue to Gantor that creatures on the outside world had much farther-ranging vision than did the Theiwar dwarves. Of course, even under the moonless skies, the under-mountain dweller had been able to make out every detail of his companion’s features, and h
e had realized that his own eyes seemed to have a greater affinity for the darkness.

  In fact, to Gantor, the ground underfoot had been clearly revealed. The dwarf had once pointed out a shadowy gully that the kender had almost rambled right into. Without missing a beat in his conversation, which consisted for several uninterrupted hours of preposterous stories of wandering and adventure, Emilo had hopped down into the ravine and scrambled up the other side. Still overcoming his stiffness and fatigue, Gantor had followed, pondering the difference between Theiwar and kender, not only in perceptions but in balance and movement as well.

  Now, however, they stood at the base of the white stone massif, and Gantor did not need the slowly growing light of dawn to reveal the skeletal features, nor the gaping black hole—the “mouth” of the skull—that offered protection from the imminent daylight.

  “Well, this is it,” Emilo announced, drawing a slightly ragged breath. “Though I’m not sure that we have to go in. In fact, I’m pretty certain we can find water around here somewhere else, if we look hard enough. Now that I mention it, it might even be better water. I don’t know if you noticed, being so thirsty and all, but the stuff I got in there was kind of bitter.”

  “I’m going in,” Gantor announced, with a shrug of his shoulders. Faced with the nearby prospect of shade and water, he didn’t care whether the kender came with him or not.

  But then his thoughts progressed a little further. No doubt the kender knew his way around in there. And the place was certainly big, there was no denying that. Who knew how long it might take him to find the water once he started looking?