by Jean Rabe
Darkhunter's icy dead fingers grabbed one arm. His father took the other. The power flowed into them, too, and they soaked it up like inky sponges.
"More!" Suddenly he felt as if his entire body were engulfed in flames. The sensation was too much for him to handle. The fire so hot. So…
He awoke on the ground at the base of the gossamer spiral, the blackness of his father and Darkhunter hovering over him.
We carried you here, Darkhunter explained. You would have fallen. We saved you from death. It is not yet your time to join us, Gair. You must make more of us first.
Many more. Enough to rule the island, the elder Graymist insisted.
Gair shook his head as if to clear his senses. A small part of himself was scrabbling for control, forcing the darkness back. "Why would I want to do that? It would be wrong, evil, to bring more spirits into this world. I have already done enough damage. It would be wrong. And—"
Don't you want us to rule the island? Darkhunter's redhot eyes bore into the elf's. At your behest? More powerful in death. Don't you want us to have power, Master? Don't you want us to serve you? Forever?
Master? Gair mouthed. For some reason, the word sounded good to the elf, and the red of Darkhunter's eyes was somehow warming and comforting. Master. The wraith of the long-dead Que-Nal seemed to make sense. "But Camilla—"
Will join us in death soon, Darkhunter continued. She will call you Master, too. She will be more powerful in death. >Don't you want her to be more powerful?
The elf nodded. Everything was clear again. He was more powerful, too, had pulled the energy from the Silver Stair. He knew he was weakening the steps. If he kept it up, perhaps he would destroy the thing. He'd have to take much more power from it before it collapsed, enough to raise the spirit of every man who died on this island and in the sea around it, perhaps the spirits of dragons as well. "If the stairs truly did collapse in the process?" he mused aloud. "It would only be fitting. It would be keeping the magical energy from Goldmoon, and then she would not have the power to stop me."
The spirits helped him to his feet.
"Goldmoon," he said plainly, "I will destroy your Silver Stair, step by step, and then I will destroy you." Goldmoon would die, as Camilla would die, and they would be with him forever.
He padded to the northeast, letting Camilla's long cloak drag on the ground behind him to wipe away his tracks. There was still a touch of darkness left this night-time to raise a few more spirits from his favorite Que-Nal burial ground before the spirits flew him back to Castle Vila.
Camilla stifled a yawn as she started toward the port just as the sun was rising. The snow had been beaten down enough into a trail now that it would not be difficult going. Four knights clanked along behind her, all on horseback, and behind them was a rustling sound that was out of place. The knight commander swiveled in the saddle to glance over her shoulder. She groaned softly. The gnoll was following them, running fast enough to keep up with the horses.
"Good morning, Orvago," she offered as the gnoll picked up his pace and made his way around the knights' mounts. He seemed to have little trouble keeping up with the horses.
The gnoll bobbed his head. He was dressed in a flowing yellow-orange cloak with a voluminous hood that covered up his hairy snout. Bright purple sleeves extended from its folds as he shook both her hands. He had on gloves, too, the first time she'd seen him wearing any. They were colored green, and they didn't at all match the baggy forest green trousers that clashed with everything. His feet were covered with a combination of heavy gray socks and brown boots with the toes cut out of them.
"So are you along because you think we need some extra protection, or because you want to see the town?"
The head bobbed vigorously.
"All right, but keep your head covered at all times."
Beneath the voluminous hood, the gnoll grinned.
The gnoll was dumbstruck when the entourage passed through the town's gate. He'd never seen anything like this, had only spotted towns from a distance when he was on the deck of the pirate's ship.
He stopped every few steps, ogling at the colorful buildings, sniffing the people passing by, growling appreciatively at the smells coming from the bakery and from all the chimneys that puffed away, sending a variety of scents into the air. It was fast approaching dinnertime, he could tell.
They were nearly at the Sentinel when the gnoll put a gloved hand on her knee. He pointed toward a row of businesses, all of which had the snow cleared away from the sidewalks, as if the merchants were refusing to accept the winter. A trio of Que-Nal barbarians was coming out of a limner's shop. They were chattering and pointing in windows. The tallest was admiring a decorative leather tunic.
The gnoll growled softly.
"I'm going to talk to them," Camilla said, sliding from the horse's back. "Maybe they know something about this Shadowwalker." She strode toward them, head high, the other knights holding their position, but Orvago following. The gnoll's paw drifted to the pommel of the broadsword in his belt.
"Sword Commander!" the tallest barbarian began. "Is not that a fine garment?" He hadn't turned to greet her. He saw her reflection in the window. "It would look good on me, but I have not the goods to trade for it today. Maybe my next trip."
"Do you know of someone called Shadowwalker?" She came right to the point. She wasn't about to engage him in pleasant conversation about clothes.
"Shadowwalker is an old man and would not look as good in that garment as I." His fellows sniggered. "Shadowwalker's face is full of wrinkles, and he is not handsome like me. My next trip, I will buy this, or one like it if it is gone."
"Are you with Shadowwalker's clan?"
He shook his head, the beads in his hair clacking together.
"But you know him?"
"Maybe the Sword Commander would like to buy me that garment. Call it a trade. Information for the leather."
"I haven't the steel."
He sighed and turned away from the window to finally face her. "Shadowwalker is old, Sword Commander, but he is full of fire. You ask about him because you protect the Que-Shu woman. The Que-Shu and Shadowwalker's clan are not friends."
"Do you know where I can find him?"
"If I did, I would not tell you. I do not like Shadowwalker, but I like the Que-Shu even less."
She carefully regarded him. The beads in his hair were carved in the shapes of owls and hawks. None were blood-soaked like the beads of the men who had attacked her.
"Is there anything else, Sword Commander?"
"No. Thank you for speaking with me."
"A pleasure, Sword Commander. When next we meet, perhaps I will be wearing a fine garment like this one."
She watched them stroll away, heading toward the northern edge of town. The tall barbarian pointed toward a tavern, and he and his fellows slipped inside.
Camilla returned to Orvago and escorted him into the keep. One of the knights took the horses to the stable.
"We'll leave in the morning," she told the gnoll. Softer, she said, "When I have another suit of armor, my brother's sword, and a good night's sleep."
Orvago took off his cloak just as Judeth walked by. The stocky servingwoman stared wide-eyed at the creature. He grinned at her, showing all of his teeth, and she promptly swooned.
"Sorry," the gnoll offered.
Camilla knelt to tend to the woman. "Please don't go out tonight, Orvago. I don't think it would be a good idea."
The gnoll sadly nodded his head.
15
Shadowwalker's Fire
The ruins of Castle Vila were tinged a burnt orange by the rising sun. Gair traced a deep crack that ran between the age-worn stones.
"The Que-Shu sheep must die!"
He turned to watch the barbarians gathered nearby.
"It is only one Que-Shu, Shadowwalker. Hardly worth your effort. Let her be."
The old Que-Nal shaman stomped and spat at the ground, beads clacking angrily as he shook his head.
"I decide if it is worth my effort, Windfisher. I decide!"
"You don't command the tribes, Shadowwalker. My brother does. He has made a truce with the elf Iryl Songbrook. You cannot command warriors to follow you on some foolish—"
"Your brother is not here."
"No. He would not dignify this gathering with his presence, but he has said the camp of the mystics is to be left alone. He gave his word."
Shadowwalker glared at the young Que-Nal, puffed out his chest, and again stomped in the snow. The pair was in front of a spirit pole, an old tree carved with oversized Que-Nal faces. The left half of each face was red, the right black. Four faces, one each facing east, south, west, and north. In decades past, the poles were believed to serve as homes for the spirits who watched over the village and who carried the shamans' prayers to the gods. Many of the barbarians believed the gods were still here but were turning a deaf ear.
Not Shadowwalker. He and his fellows were confident the gods were still here and very much attentive. "The Que-Shu sheep who leads those people has wronged us by her very presence! The gods would be happy if we killed her. The spirits will rejoice."
On the far side of the spirit pole were more than five hundred barbarians, nearly the entire village of Que-Jotun, and they were clearly divided. The youngest, by their murmurs and raised fists, sided with Shadowwalker, eager for a confrontation. The older villagers stood with Windfisher. All of them carefully regarded the two men as they shivered in the morning cold. Like the adults, the few children present were lean and muscular. Even the eldest looked graceful. All of those assembled had olive skin, which had not lightened despite the winter, and their dark hair was decorated with beads and feathers.
"You are mad, Shadowwalker. No one will rejoice if you try to kill the Que-Shu and her people." Windfisher squared his broad shoulders and ground his slippered heel into the snow. He had an impressive array of beads, easily more than Shadowwalker, each one from a kill accomplished during a special hunt or given for some act of courage, but they were not soaked in blood like the older man's. "Our fight with the Que-Shu was a long time ago, Shadowwalker, and it was based on an argument about the gods. Those years are gone. Let it rest."
"Rest. Pha!" Shadowwalker spat at the younger man's feet. "The gods care! The Blue Phoenix, Habbakuk, Zeboim, and Zebyr Jotun are still here watching over us. The shamans said Habbakuk and Zebyr Jotun would have washed away all of Abanasinia if everyone on the land did not fall down and worship them, but not all of the Que-Shu would revere them so. The fools! Perhaps they will wash away Schallsea if we do not slay the mystic."
Windfisher narrowed his eyes. "Abanasinia was not washed away, old man. Schallsea Island will not be washed away either. The Que-Shu—"
"The sheep waged war on us."
"After our ancestors attacked them! Our ancestors thought war would force them to worship our gods."
"They drove us off Abanasinia!" Shadowwalker was red-faced with anger. "Threw us to the mercy of the sea."
"And to the mercy of the gods our ancestors tried to ram down the throats of the Que-Shu."
"I have not forgotten that our people were driven from their homeland!"
"You should not, Shadowwalker. It is part of our history." Windfisher circled the spirit pole, scrutinizing the faces of those barbarians closest to him. The youths were angry, infected by Shadowwalker's fiery speech. His own words had done little to calm them. "Goldmoon, the Que-Shu sheep as you call her, did not drive us out of Abanasinia. She had done nothing to you, Shadowwalker, and you will do nothing to her."
Shadowwalker whirled on the balls of his feet, sending a shower of snow at the younger man. He stomped through the assembly toward the wall of Castle Vila, where Gair stood alone.
"One madman running to another," Windfisher said softly.
The air around his head was buzzing with questions. Could Windfisher's brother—Skydancer, the leader of all the Que-Nal—stop a war against the settlement?
Yes. Skydancer and he would stop Shadowwalker, as they had stopped his other foolish plans through the years.
Did he think the gods would swallow Schallsea Island if Goldmoon stayed?
No. There is a place for mysticism. There is a place for everything, and there is a need for such magic on Krynn.
And Shadowwalker? Could Skydancer stop him from acting alone?
The young Que-Nal paused at this question, running his fingers over his smooth chin. Behind him, Shadowwalker and Gair held a whispered conversation.
Windfisher turned to address the assembled Que-Nal. "Shadowwalker says whatever Goldmoon and her followers are building is a blight on the face of this island. Some of you obviously agreed with him and helped him set the fire at their camp. He says that Goldmoon's very presence is a slap in the face of all the villages. Yet the magic she practices is not so different from that commanded by Shadowwalker himself. Perhaps he is jealous of her and is trying to stir up all of you just for his own benefit.
"I cannot stop how he thinks," Windfisher added, "but my brother and I will stop him from provoking a senseless fight. There is room for the Que-Nal and for one Que-Shu on this island."
Windfisher led the way back to the village, unaware that several of the youngest warriors slipped away and headed to the ruined castle. Shadowwalker and Gair welcomed them inside.
There Shadowwalker continued to fume. "Skydancer could not dignify the gathering with his presence," he snarled. "He sent his brother instead. Both of them are soft."
The young warriors gathered close and hung on the old shaman's every word, cheering when he repeated that the Que-Shu and her followers must die.
Gair edged away from them. The shadows were thick inside what was left of Castle Vila, since the narrow windows on the first floor let in little of the morning light. The stone walls were covered with dirt and the remains of moss that had died when the cold weather set in. His fingers brushed at the dead moss, crumbling it.
"Everything dies," he whispered.
There were bolts in the wall where the elf imagined grand paintings once hung, images of the wealthy people who built this place overlooking the sea. There were thick, rusting chains hanging from the ceiling from which the remnants of wrought-iron chandeliers dangled. In the center of the room, a great, rotted rug spread, and atop it were splintered chair legs. A large piece of wood, oval-shaped and molded by exposure to the salty air, had a hint of beveling at the edges; it might have been an impressive table decades ago. There was a lone chair still intact, far from the windows. Rickety, it was nevertheless still sturdy enough to hold the elf. He'd cleaned the dirt off it on a previous visit, and he eased his lanky frame into it now as he continued to listen to the barbarians.
"Skydancer is a weak chief," Shadowwalker snarled. "He does not respect our heritage. If he did, he would be ordering the deaths of the Que-Shu sheep and her blind followers."
"Perhaps he should not be chief!" one of the young warriors shouted.
"Shadowwalker!" another cried.
Gair listened another few minutes, then slipped from the room and followed a winding staircase up to the second floor. There had been a carpet running down the center of the steps, thick and undoubtedly expensive. Gold and silver threads remained in the remnants of the age-worn nap. He paused on the landing, listening to the warriors swear to follow Shadowwalker to the death.
"Everything dies," the elf repeated as he was swallowed by the shadows of the level above.
And in death becomes stronger. Darkhunter waited for him.
The elf decided that decades ago this must have been a music room. The stone walls had been painted, and curled chips of pale yellow—had they been white?— clung here and there. He stared at strings lying amid a jumble of rotted wood. Strings from a harp, he guessed as he imagined a beautiful woman playing exquisite music to which others danced.
"A place of ghosts," he whispered.
In the center of the room lay the bodies of five knights and one of Goldmoon's studen
ts—the final of the three search parties sent after Gair. Darkhunter had promised to teach him a new trick with them.
Shadows separated from the wall—Gair's father, and the wraiths of Roeland and the other Solamnic knights. They floated forward slowly, and Gair fancied that they moved to the bygone music of this place. The air around the elf grew colder as the creatures came closer. Gair inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. He loved Castle Vila. It was as dead as its occupants.
What do you wish of us, Master? It was Roeland's spirit.
"At the moment, nothing, but soon I will need all of you—and more. With our living friends below, we will journey to the settlement."
And drink of the sweet life there, Roeland said.
"Yes," Gair replied. The elf padded from the chamber, retracing his steps to the lower level.
It was shortly past dawn, the Silver Stair invisible in the pale light, yet Goldmoon stood on the bottommost step. She'd found the relic by touch, and she did not want to wait until evening to climb it. She wanted to tax herself physically to reach the top—and hope that she did not plummet off, since she could not see a single step. She needed the ruin to help her find Gair. Perhaps a vision might provide a clue to his whereabouts.
She had to find him soon, before he hurt more people. Through the link she shared with him, and which she still could not fathom how she was so tied to him, she knew he was pulling energy from the ruin and that he was bent on some dark purpose. She'd discovered the cracked steps—eighteen of them—and she knew if he kept it up, he would destroy the thing. The knights posted nearby last evening to prevent him from using the stair were nowhere in sight, but less than an hour ago a soldier had spotted their tracks heading to the north. Goldmoon suspected that Gair had the knights and wanted her to know that.
