“About time,” Tanis muttered. He had never much liked his brother-in-law. Tying his traveling cloak around his shoulders, he picked up a knapsack, then leaned over to kiss his wife’s cheek. “Good-bye, love. Don’t fret if we’re not back right away.”
“Oh, Tanis!” Laurana gazed at him searchingly.
“Don’t be afraid. The boy and I need to talk. I see that now. I should have done it a long time ago, but I had hoped …” He stopped, then said, “I’ll send you word.”
Buckling on his sword, he kissed her again, and was gone.
His son’s trail was easy to pick up. Spring rains had deluged Solanthus for a month; the ground was muddy, the horse’s hoofprints deep and clear. The only other person who had ridden this road lately was Sir William, delivering Caramon’s message, and the knight had ridden in the opposite direction, toward Solamnia, whereas the Black Swan was located on the road that led south to Qualinesti.
Tanis rode at a relaxed pace. The morning sun was a slit of fire in the sky, and the dew glittered in the grass. The night had been clear, cool enough to make a cloak feel good, but not chill.
“Gil must have enjoyed his ride,” Tanis said to himself. He remembered, with guilty pleasure, another young man and another midnight journey. “I had no horse when I left. I walked from Qualinesti to Solace in search of Flint. I had no money, no care, no sense. It’s a wonder I made it alive.”
Tanis laughed ruefully, shook his head. “But I was shabby enough that no robber looked twice at me. I couldn’t afford to sleep in an inn, and so I stayed out of fights. I spent the nights walking beneath the stars, feeling that at last I was able to breathe deeply.
“Ah, Gil.” Tanis sighed. “I did the very thing I promised myself a hundred times I would never do. I bound you and fettered you. The chains were made of silk, forged by love, but they were still chains. Yet how could I do otherwise? You are so precious to me, my son! I love you so much. If anything were to happen …
“Stop it, Tanis!” he sternly reprimanded himself. “You’re only borrowing trouble, and you know what the interest on that debt can cost you. It’s a lovely day. Gil will have a fine ride. And we’ll talk tonight, really talk. That is, you’ll talk, Son. I’ll listen. I promise.”
Tanis continued to follow the horse’s tracks. He saw where Gil had allowed the animal its head, saw signs of a mad gallop, both horse and rider giddy with freedom. But then the young man had calmed the horse, proceeded forward at a sensible pace, not to tire the animal.
“Good for you, boy,” Tanis said proudly.
To take his mind off his worry, he began considering what he would say to Rashas of the Thalas-Enthia. Tanis knew the elf well. Near the same age as Porthios, Rashas was enamored of power, enjoyed nothing more than political intrigue. He had been the youngest elf ever to sit on the senate. Rumor had it that he hounded his father until the elder elf finally collapsed under the pressure and relinquished his seat to his son. During the War of the Lance, Rashas had been a burr beneath the saddle of Solostaran, Speaker of the Sun. Solostaran’s successor, Porthios, was now having to cope with this irritant.
Rashas persistently advocated elven isolation from the rest of the world. He made no secret of the fact that, in his opinion, the Kingpriest of Istar had been right in offering bounties on dwarves and kender. Rashas would have made one change, however: He would have added humans to the list.
Which made all this completely inexplicable. Why was this cagey old spider trying to lure Gilthas, of all people—a quarter-human—into his web?
“At any rate,” Tanis muttered into his beard, “this will give me a chance to settle my own score with you, Rashas, old childhood friend. I remember every one of your snide comments, the whispered insults, the cruel little practical jokes. The beatings I took from you and your gang of bullies. I wasn’t allowed to hit you then, but, by Paladine, there’s nobody going to stop me now!”
The delightful anticipation of smashing his fist into Rashas’s pointed chin kept Tanis entertained throughout the better part of the morning. He had no idea what Rashas wanted with his son, but he guessed it couldn’t be anything good.
“It’s too bad I didn’t tell Gil about Rashas,” Tanis mused. “Too bad I never told him much of anything about my early life in Qualinesti. Maybe it was a mistake to keep him away from there. If we hadn’t, he would have known about Rashas and his type. He wouldn’t have fallen for whatever clever scheme the senator’s plotting. But, I wanted to protect you, Gil. I didn’t want you to suffer what I suffered. I …”
Tanis stopped his horse, turned the animal around. “Damn it to the Abyss.” He stared down at the dirt road, cold dread constricting his heart.
He slid off his horse for a better look. The mud, now slowly hardening in the bright sun, told the tale all too clearly. There was only one creature in all of Krynn that left tracks like this: three front claws that dug deep in the ground, a back claw, and the sinuous twisting mark of a reptilian tail.
“Draconians … four of them.”
Tanis examined the prints. His horse, snuffling at them, shied away in disgust.
Catching the animal, Tanis held its head near the tracks until it became accustomed to the smell. Remounting, he followed the trail. It could be coincidence, he told himself. The draconians could merely be traveling the same direction as Gil.
But Tanis became convinced, after another mile, that the creatures were stalking his son.
At one point, Gil had turned his horse off the trail, led the animal down an embankment to a small stream. At this juncture, the draconians also left the trail. Tenaciously tracking the horse’s hoofprints down to the creek, the draconians trailed the horse along the water’s edge, followed the hoof marks back up to the road.
In addition, Tanis saw signs that the draconians were taking care to keep out of sight. At various points, the clawed footprints would leave the trail and seek the safety of the brush.
This road was not particularly well traveled, but farmers used it, as did the occasional venturing knight. If these draconians were ordinary raiders, living off the land, they would not hesitate to attack a lone farmer, steal his wagon and horses. These draconians were hiding from those who passed along the road; they obviously were on a mission.
But what connection could draconians have with Rashas? The elf had his faults, certainly, but conspiring with creatures of darkness wasn’t one of them.
Fearful, alarmed, Tanis spurred his horse. The tracks were hours old, but he wasn’t far from the Black Swan. The inn was located in the fairly substantial town of Fair Held. Four draconians would never dare venture into a populated area. Whatever their intention, they would have to strike before Gil reached the inn.
Which meant Tanis might well be too late.
He rode along the trail, traveling at a moderate pace, keeping his eyes on the prints—both the clawed prints and those made by Gil’s horse. The young man obviously had no idea he was being followed. He was riding along at an easy walk, enjoying the scenery, reveling in his newfound freedom. The draconians never deviated from their course.
And then, Tanis knew where they would strike.
A few miles outside of Fair Field, the road entered a heavily wooded area. Oak and walnut trees grew thick, their tangled limbs branching across the trail, blocking out the sunlight, keeping the road in deep shadow. In the days after the Cataclysm, the forest was reputed to have been a refuge for robbers and, to this day, was known unofficially as Thieves Acres. Caves honeycombed the hillsides, providing hiding places where men could hide and gloat over their loot. It was the perfect spot for an ambush.
Sick with fear, Tanis left off tracking, urged his horse forward at a gallop. He almost rode down a startled farmer, who shouted at him, wondering what was the matter. Tanis didn’t waste time bothering to answer. The forest was in sight, a long length of dark green banding the road ahead of him.
The shadows of the trees closed over him; day turned to dusk in the blink of an eye.
The temperature dropped noticeably. Here and there, patches of sunlight filtered through the overhanging tree limbs. Compared to the darkness around him, the light was almost blinding in its intensity. But soon even these few glimpses of the sun were lost The trees closed in.
Tanis slowed his horse. Though he grudged the wasted time, he dared not miss whatever tale the ground had to tell him.
All too soon, he read the story’s end.
He couldn’t have missed it, no matter how fast he was riding. The dirt road was churned and cut up to such an extent that Tanis found it impossible to decipher what exactly had occurred. Horse’s hooves were obliterated by draconian claws; here and there he thought he saw the impression of a slender elven foot. Add to this a strange set of claw prints. These looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t immediately identify them.
He dismounted, searched the area, and forced himself to be patient, not to overlook the slightest detail. What he discovered brought him no comfort, only increased dread. From the point beyond the churned up mud, no tracks proceeded onward down the road.
Gil had made it this far, and no farther.
But what in the name of all that was holy had happened to him?
Tanis went back over the ground, expanded his search into the trees. His patience was rewarded.
Horse’s hooves had been led off the main road and into the woods. The hooves were flanked by the draconian claw marks.
Tanis swore bitterly. Returning to his own horse, he tethered the animal on the roadside, then removed his longbow and quiver of arrows from his saddle. He slid the bow over his shoulder and slung the quiver on his back. Loosening his sword in its sheath, he entered the woods.
All his old skills in hunting and stalking came back to him. He blessed the foresight—or had it been that vision at Storm’s Keep?—that had prompted him to wear his soft leather boots, bring along the bow and arrow that he rarely carried in these days of peace. His gaze swept the ground. He moved through the trees and brush without a sound, treading lightly, careful not to snap a stick, cause a branch to rustle with his passing.
The woods grew deeper, denser. He was a long way from the road, tracking four draconians, and he was alone. Not a particularly wise move.
He kept going. They had his son.
The sound of guttural voices, speaking a language that made flesh crawl and brought back unpleasant memories, caused Tanis to slow his pace. Holding his breath, he crept forward, moving from tree trunk to tree trunk, nearing his prey.
And there they were, or most of them, at least. Three draconians stood in front of a cave, conversing in their hideous tongue. And there was the horse, Gil’s horse, with its fine leather trappings and silken ribbons tied in its mane. The animal was shivering in fear, bore marks of having been beaten. It wasn’t a trained war-horse, but it had apparently fought its captors. One of the draconians was cursing the animal and pointing to a bleeding slash on a scaled arm.
But there was no sign of Gil. He was probably in the cave with the fourth draconian. But why? What terrible things were they doing to him?
What had they done?
At least Tanis could take cold comfort from the fact that the only blood visible on the ground was green.
He chose his target, the draconian standing nearest to him. Moving more silently than the wind, Tanis lifted his bow, fitted an arrow to it, raised the bow to his cheek, and pulled. The arrow struck the draconian in the back, between the wings. The creature gave a gurgle of pain and astonishment, then toppled over dead. The body turned to stone, held the arrow fast. Never attack a Baaz with a sword if you can help it.
Swiftly, Tanis had another arrow nocked and ready. The second draconian, its sword drawn, was turning his direction. Tanis fired. The arrow hit the draconian in the chest. It dropped the sword, clutched at the arrow with its clawed hands, then it, too, fell to the ground.
“Don’t move!” Tanis ordered harshly, speaking the Common language he knew the creatures understood.
The third draconian froze, its sword halfway drawn, its beady eyes darting this way and that.
“I have an arrow with your foul name on it,” Tanis continued. “It’s pointed straight at what you slime call your heart. Where is the boy you took captive back there? What have you done to him? You have ten seconds to tell me, or you meet the same fate as your comrades.”
The draconian said something in its own language.
“Don’t give me that,” Tanis growled. “You speak Common better than I do, probably. Where is the boy? Ten seconds is almost up. If you—”
“Tanis, my friend! How good to see you again,” came a voice. “It’s been a long time.”
An elf, tall, handsome, with brown hair, brown eyes, wearing black robes, emerged from the cave.
Tanis fought to keep the bow raised and aimed, though his hands trembled, his fingers were wet with sweat, and the fear tore him up inside.
“Where is my son, Dalamar?” Tanis cried hoarsely. “What have you done with him?”
“Put the bow down, my friend,” Dalamar said gently. “Don’t make them kill you. Don’t make me.”
Blinded by tears of rage and fear and helpless frustration, Tanis kept the bow raised, was ready to loose the arrow, not caring what he hit.
Clawed fingers dug into his back, dragged him to the ground. A heavy object struck him. Pain burst in Tanis’s head and, though he fought against it, darkness closed around him.
Chapter Five
Gil was riding through a particularly dark and gloomy portion of forest, thinking, uncomfortably, that this would be a perfect place for an ambush, when a griffin sailed down through an opening in the trees and landed on the road directly in front of the young man.
Gil had never before seen one of the wondrous beasts, who were friends to the elves and no other race on Krynn. He was alarmed and startled at the sight. The beast had the head and wings of an eagle, but its rear portion was that of a lion. Its eyes were fierce; its wickedly sharp beak could—according to legend—rip through a dragon’s scales.
His horse was terrified; horseflesh is one of a griffin’s favorite meals. The animal neighed and reared in panic, nearly throwing its rider. Gil was a skilled horseman; such exercise having been advocated as good for his health, and he immediately reined in the horse and calmed it down with soothing pats on the neck, gentle words of reassurance.
The griffin’s rider—an elder elf clad in rich clothing—watched with approval. When Gil’s horse was under control once again, the elf dismounted and walked over. Another elf—one of the oddest-looking elves Gilthas had ever seen—waited behind. This strange elf was clothed in practically nothing, leaving bare a well-muscled body decorated with fantastic, colorfully painted designs.
The elder elf introduced himself.
“I am Rashas of the Thalas-Enthia. And you, I believe, must be Prince Gilthas. Well met, grandson of Solostaran. Well met.”
Gil dismounted, said the polite words as he’d been taught. The two exchanged the formal kiss of greeting and continued through the ritual of introduction. During this proceeding, the griffin glared around, its fierce-eyed gaze penetrating the forest shadows. At one point, it gnashed its beak, its claws churned the ground, and its lion tail lashed about in disgust.
The elf accompanying Rashas spoke a few words to the griffin, which twisted its head and flexed its wings and seemed to—somewhat sullenly—settle down.
Gil was watching the griffin, trying to keep his horse calm, casting oblique glances at the painted elf servant, and attempting, at the same time, to make the correct, polite responses to the senator. Small wonder he became confused.
Rashas noticed the young man’s difficulty. “Permit me to apologize for frightening your horse. It was thoughtless of me. I should have realized that your animal would not be accustomed to our griffins. The horses of Qualinesti are trained to be around them, you see. It never occurred to me that the horses of Tanthalas Half-Elven were not.”
Gil was s
hamed. The griffins had long been friends of the elves. To be unacquainted with these magnificent beasts seemed to him tantamount to being unacquainted with one’s own kind. He was intending to stammer an apology for his father, but to his astonishment found himself saying something quite different.
“Griffins come to visit us,” Gil said proudly. “My parents exchange gifts with them yearly. My father’s horse is well-trained. My own horse is young—”
Rashas politely cut him off.
“Believe me, Prince Gilthas, I do understand,” he said earnestly, with a glance of cool pity that brought hot blood to the young man’s face.
“Believe me, sir,” Gil began, “I think you mistake—”
Rashas continued on, as if he hadn’t heard, “I thought it might be enjoyable, as well as enlightening, for you to take your first glimpse of Qualinesti from the air, Prince Gilthas. Therefore, on impulse, I flew to meet you. I would be greatly honored if you were to ride back with me. Don’t worry, the griffin can easily carry us both.”
Gil forgot his anger at the insult. He gazed at the wondrous beast with awe and longing. To fly! It seemed all his dreams were coming true at once! But his elation quickly evaporated. His first concern must be for his horse.
“I thank you for your kind offer, Senator—”
“Call me Rashas, my prince,” the elf interrupted.
Gil bowed, acknowledging the compliment. “I could not leave my horse alone, unattended.” He patted his horse’s neck. “I hope you are not offended.”
On the contrary, Rashas appeared pleased. “Far from it, my prince. I am glad to see you take such responsibilities seriously. So many young people do not, these days. But you won’t have to miss out on the trip. My Kagonesti servant here”—Rashas waved a hand in the general direction of the strange-looking elf—“will return the horse to your father’s stables.”
Kagonesti! Now Gil understood. This was one of the famed Wider elves, fabled in legend and song. He had never seen one before.
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