by Dragonlance
Forlo looked up at the emperor and said nothing. He let his gaze speak for him, and it seemed to do the trick. Rekhaz’s expression grew even more fearsome. Barreth Forlo had loathed many in his day—Thenolite fanatics, murderous bandits, opportunistic officers, soldiers who betrayed their comrades—but he’d never felt the revulsion that boiled inside him now.
With effort, he struggled to his feet.
“Hult is no wretch,” he declared. “He chose not to kill me when he had the chance. There is more nobility in him than in all the lords I see arrayed before me.”
The magistrates growled and sputtered, uttering curses and pounding on the bench. Rekhaz’s massive hands clenched into fists, each the size of a man’s head. “You will not speak that way to this august assembly,” he said.
“I’ll speak however I choose,” Forlo replied, shrugging. “It makes no difference. There’s nothing I can say to sway you to my favor, and I know it. So hear this, Rekhaz—you keep me from my purpose. My wife and son are missing, abducted. The time I spend here is time I should be searching for them. Time I will never get back, thanks to you. If the gods are just, there will be a reckoning for it. And as to your august assembly … and your precious crown.…”
He paused, smiling a serpent’s smile, and spat on the floor.
The magistrates surged to their feet, raging, shaking their fists. One of the guards tried to seize Forlo again, but he turned and glared so ferociously that the warrior rocked back on his heels, then raised his spear to strike. Rekhaz raised a hand before he could attack, however, staying him.
“You have always been too bold for your own good, Barreth,” said the emperor. His words were glittering ice, his anger drained of all heat, and all the more dangerous for it. “You are right, though—you will not be found innocent. When this trial is done, you and your new friend will be morsels for the crows. But I will hear no more threats or insults from you.”
Forlo spat again. The magistrates snorted, looking to their leader.
“As you will,” Rekhaz declared. “If that is your answer, we will skip to the sentencing.”
“No,” Forlo said. “You won’t. I invoke my right, as a citizen of the League, to answer for my crimes upon the sands.”
The magistrates fell still.
“The sands?” Rekhaz asked. “You would fight as a gladiator?”
“It is my right,” Forlo answered. “And Hult will fight beside me. Let our swords declare our innocence, or the blades of our enemies our guilt.”
It was an ancient custom, one the minotaurs held with reverence above all others. Any citizen could choose to fight for his freedom in the arena, if he was willing to give up his right to trial. Rekhaz stared, stunned, and Forlo laughed out loud.
“Had you forgotten, Your Majesty?” he asked. “These are the laws of your realm. Will you follow them or cast them aside?”
Rekhaz’s eyes narrowed. He quivered with rage, his fangs tightly clenched. “Very well,” he said. “The sands it is. It matters little—your blood will flow just as red there as on the block.”
He gestured, and the guards took hold of Forlo and Hult. Forlo’s eyes locked with the emperor’s one last time, defiant, before they dragged him from the Hall of Laws.
Chapter
7
THE MARINERS’ CREST, ARMACH-NESTI
We are being watched,” Eldako said.
He leaned against the base of a moss-bearded pillar, one of more than fifty atop the ridge. Atop each column stood a statue of an elf: these were the original fifty sea captains who had brought the Silvanaes people to Taladas, nearly twenty-five centuries ago. Moss half-covered them now, and birds nested in the crooks of their necks and the folds of their cloaks. The beacons that had shone beside them had gone out. The only thing that lit them now was the red glow of Lunis, rising above the wooded hills.
Armach, the elf-home, was in trouble. Shedara had known this since the night on which she had last tried to communicate with Thalaniya, the Voice of the Stars, who ruled her people—and found, when she cast the speaking spell, only her queen’s corpse, slain by the same shadow-fiends who had stolen the Hooded One. From that day, she had known Armach would not be the same as before, but she had not tasted the reality until now. The sight of the First Mariners, dark on their perches, made her eyes sting and her throat tighten.
And yet, some things didn’t change. Even though dire times had befallen the Silvanaes, they still kept watch over their borders. Even now, they kept outsiders from entering. She could sense the same thing Eldako did: unseen eyes, sighting along half-drawn arrows. Ready to kill, should the intruders prove not to be of pure elf blood.
“How many?” she murmured, not looking around. She didn’t want to act suspicious. It would be bad to get shot by an over-watchful sentinel in her own homeland.
Eldako glanced up at the stars. Ribbons of cloud stretched across the sky. “Six, perhaps more, deeper in the trees. They’re quite good at hiding themselves.”
The unspoken words: for civilized folk. No doubt, the elves of the Tamire could conceal themselves in their woodlands with skill even beyond this. At least, Eldako seemed to think they could. Shedara allowed that he might be right about this: she had only counted four watchers.
“Push your hair back from your ears,” she whispered. “Make sure they can see their shape.”
Eldako raised an eyebrow, as if wondering what kind of lunatic would think he was human, but he did as she bade, casually pushing his red locks—chestnut brown at the roots—back to reveal the sharp points of his ears.
“There are many shadows in these woods,” he said. “A great many, and some very close. They have overrun the Silvanaes.”
“I know.”
“What aid will your people be able to give us?”
Shedara shook her head. She’d been wondering the same thing. The Silvanaes were fighting for their own survival; why would they help her save two humans?
Because they had to. If the Hooded One was to be destroyed, if the shadows were to be stopped, they had to help. She only hoped she could make them agree. Not for the first time, she cursed Hult’s reluctance to leap out Coldhope’s window. That one moment’s hesitation had cost them.
A shrill noise rang out: a keening cry that was half eagle’s shriek, half horse’s whinny. She turned to gaze across the valley, the autumn-bronzed leaves dark under the red moon, and a smile touched her lips. There, skimming low over the treetops, was a winged shape, a creature with the golden head and foreclaws of a bird of prey, and the hindquarters of a white stallion.
“Tan-amat,” Eldako said in his native tongue, and bowed his head in reverence. “The Uigan hunted them out in the Tamire long ago.”
“Not here,” Shedara said, watching the great sky-steed, the hippogriff, approach.
The creature skirled again, then swept up and over the ridge, trailing a storm of red and golden leaves. Banking sharply, he spread his wings wide and landed at a trot, not ten paces away. He came to a halt, eyeing her shyly, then walked forward, bowing his head to nuzzle her. The hippogriff cooed as she stroked his feathers.
“I know, Falasta,” she said. “I know. It is hard for us all. But you must do this. It will help.”
The hippogriff looked up at her, his great yellow eyes glittering, full of intelligence. His hooves stamped the turf as he turned to stare at Eldako. The wild elf closed his eyes, touching his lips with both hands.
“I greet you, Noble One,” he spoke.
Falasta cocked his head, then glanced back at Shedara. Should I trust this one? he asked without speaking. Or tear his heart out?
Shedara smiled again. “He is a friend. He is elf-kind—not heerikil. Will you bear us both?”
The sky-steed considered this, then lowered his head again, wings spreading wide and low. A gesture of agreement. Eldako watched, his painted face blank. Shedara wondered, as she stroked Falasta’s powerful neck, if the merkitsa had ever flown before.
“My brothe
r,” she asked, then hesitated, biting her lip. “Does he … does he live?”
She dreaded the answer. Quivris had been warden-protector of Armach. There was every reason, given what had befallen the Voice, to believe he had died with her. But the hippogriff bobbed his head, and Shedara felt her heart lift for the first time since Coldhope—and not just because Quivris was her kin. Her brother knew of the statue, and of Maladar the Faceless. He knew the danger. He, of all people, would understand what was at stake.
“Can you take us to him?” she asked.
Falasta nodded again. Shedara almost wept with relief. She looked to Eldako, who pushed away from the pillar. His arrows rattled in his near-empty quiver. There hadn’t been time to make new ones during the long, hard trek from Coldhope. There’d barely been time for sleep. Now, she hoped, they would find both … and friendly faces, besides. Her smile broadened at the promise of seeing Quivris again. Soon, soon.
As she climbed onto Falasta’s back, the watching elf-wardens withdrew, melting away into the forest. The sky-steed would never allow an enemy of the Silvanaes to ride him. Eldako mounted up behind, taking care not to touch her. She glanced back, shaking her head.
“This is no time for modesty,” she said. “If you don’t hold on, you’ll get blown off.”
He hesitated, then nodded. She noticed his lips: they were pinched tight, whiter than usual. So he hadn’t flown before. She managed to keep her satisfaction from showing as he slipped his arms around her waist. His grip was firm, strong. Shedara felt her face flush at the thoughts that flashed through her head.
The sky-steed looked back, one huge eye gleaming, and let out a whickering cough. Shedara nodded, patting his neck again.
“Ready, my dear,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Coming around, the hippogriff broke into a canter, then a gallop, the pillars of the Mariners flashing past. Ahead, the crest ended at a jagged cliff, dropping sharply away to pines and talus a hundred feet below. Eldako saw it, and his grip tightened; Shedara only smiled as Falasta hurtled closer and closer to the precipice, gaining speed with every stride, then leaped into nothingness.
Golden wings spread wide, catching the night wind. They dipped a little, then rose, up and over the trees, banking to the south and away over the whispering leaves of Armach.
It was nearly morning when they landed, the sky purple and beginning to swallow the stars. Solis’s thin crescent hung over the hills to the east. The sea stretched out before them, dark waves breaking against tall, white cliffs. The wind carried the smell of salt, richer than at the Run. This was true ocean, which did not empty at moonrise.
The woods stood dark, still. Ominous. The Silvanaes had never been a raucous people, preferring to live in peace among the trees. Besides the spires of New Silvanost, which the elves had built in vain hope of recapturing the glory of their homeland across the sea, nothing they built rose above the canopy of leaves. Their homes were hidden among the woods and valleys and brooks. But to Shedara’s eye, a deeper quiet had fallen over Armach. The darkness here was greater, the shadows thicker. The fiends, the twisted things that once had been kender, had conquered these parts, not far from where the Voice had held court. From the feel of the place, they still ruled. Falasta hadn’t made a sound in nearly an hour.
Of course Quivris would be here somewhere. Her brother would be in the thick of the fight against their enemies, not hiding where it was safe. He was that kind of leader. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Eldako behind her, pale but composed. He deliberately was not looking down. She didn’t blame him: the first time she’d ridden a sky-steed, she’d shut her eyes for most of the flight.
Falasta wheeled, gliding up over a hilltop and down into a ravine pierced by a silver ribbon of a stream. Large, white rocks lined the water’s edges; the hippogriff arrowed toward one of these, spreading his wings to slow his descent. He landed, hooves clattering, then leaped as momentum carried him past it, and landed on the floor of the woods. Branches whipped by; Shedara and Eldako had to duck to keep from getting lashed in the face. Spruce needles flew. Finally, the sky-steed came to a halt beside the stream. In the distance, a waterfall murmured.
Shedara swung off the hippogriff’s back and hopped down onto the grass. She drew her sword and a dagger as Eldako dismounted behind her.
“Where is this brother of yours?” the wild elf whispered. He slid his own blade from its scabbard, eyeing the trees. He had dwelt in the Dreaming Green, to the north of the Tamire, for much of his life. He was woods-crafty, and immediately he could sense a wrongness in this place.
“He’ll come,” Shedara said. She looked to Falasta and nodded. “Go. I will call if I need you.”
The sky-steed stared at her with his golden eyes, pawing the turf, then vaulted into the air without a sound. In a flurry of wings, the creature was gone, rising into the brightening sky. Shedara watched as he winged away above the branches, then heard Eldako draw a sudden breath and looked down again.
The shadows had come.
There were a dozen of them—no, fourteen, lurking among the trees. They would have been invisible in full darkness, but in the gray mist of dawn they stood out just enough to see. Their curved knives looked like talons at the ends of their sleeves. She swallowed, glancing over at Eldako. A furious look creased his face, and she read his suspicions with ease: the hippogriff had betrayed them, had delivered them right into their enemies’ hands. She wondered, with a cold feeling, if that could be true. If the ones who stole the Hooded One could corrupt the innocent kender, surely they could turn one of the Silvanaes’ noble sky-steeds as well.
Suddenly there was movement behind them, figures dropping out of the trees, brown-and-gold cloaks—dyed to mimic the patterns of the autumn leaves—billowing as they fell. There were eight in all, and every one had a longbow. No sooner had they landed than each drew his arrow and loosed. Eight arrows flew, and eight shadows shrieked, shredding into nothingness as the shafts found their marks.
Undaunted, the remaining shadows charged. The golden-cloaked warriors dropped their bows and drew swords, striding forward to meet them. Eldako joined the newcomers, and after a moment’s hesitation, so did Shedara. Between them, they cut the last of the fiends to howling pieces.
When it was done, the leader of their rescuers pointed silently, and four of his men broke off from the group, fetching their bows and spreading out into the woods. The others gathered around Shedara and Eldako. Hoods and cloth masks concealed their faces. It didn’t matter; it took only a moment’s study before Shedara rushed to embrace the leader. She knew him too well to be fooled by any mask.
“Brother,” she said, relief sweeping through her. “I’ve never been so happy to see someone in my life!”
“You will not be happy, for long,” he responded, and pulled off the mask.
Shedara made a strangled sound at the sight of Quivris’s face. He had been beautiful before, with the perfectly pointed features and almond eyes of their kind. Now, however, the whole right side of his face was a ruin. Long, jagged scars had torn from his jawline to his forehead; his eye was gone, an empty, lidless hollow in its place. The ear had been torn off, leaving a gnarled lump behind. A few shallower cuts also marred his left side, which was not as bad as the right.
“The shadows did it,” he said. “I nearly died. Some would say I should have, since the Voice didn’t survive.”
Shedara could only gape. Words would not come. It was Quivris who broke the silence again.
“And what of your quest, sister?” he asked. “I cannot think you succeeded, if the fiends still haunt Armach. Yet you are back.”
“My quest …” Shedara murmured, still stunned.
“The statue. Is it destroyed?”
She flinched at the tone of his voice, the accusation there. If she’d found the Hooded One sooner, none of this might have happened. Lady Thalaniya might still be alive, the shadows would not have taken over the woods … and her brother would not be maimed, disfigu
red for life. She looked down, her face coloring, and said nothing.
“I see,” Quivris went on. “Then you’ve come to declare your failure.”
“We are here for no such reason,” Eldako said, stepping forward. An arrow thudded into the ground in front of him, and he stopped, glaring at the elf who had shot it. “We came to seek your help.”
“And who are you to speak with such scorn?” Quivris asked, arching an eyebrow. “A merkitsa, by your dress. Where did my sister find you?”
“He saved my life,” Shedara answered. “He is helping us search for the Hooded One.”
Quivris eyed Eldako for a long moment. Eldako stared back, neither threatening nor afraid. His eyes glittered. Finally, Quivris turned back to Shedara. “Us? I only see two of you. Are there others?”
“There were,” Shedara replied. “Two humans. But we’ve lost them. That’s why we need you.”
Quivris paused, his brow furrowing. That humans were involved certainly troubled him. As he was opening his mouth to speak again, though, one of the scouts strode out of the mist, right up to him, and leaned close to whisper in Quivris’s ear. Shedara watched the color drain from her brother’s face.
“Truly?” he whispered. The scout nodded, and he turned back to Shedara. “We must leave. There are more shadows nearby. Hundreds of them, coming this way. I’ll hear your tale, sister—but you’ll have to tell it on the move.”
She could hear the fiends behind her: the rustle of cloaks, the whisper of small feet through the brush, the raspy breathing. When she turned to look, however, there was nothing there. The shadows stayed out of sight, hidden in the forest gloom, and the group struggled to keep ahead of them. The woods thickened as they went, climbing up a hill-shoulder dusted with fallen leaves. Humans would have slipped and fallen, or run headlong into a gully or bramble-thicket, but the elves had no trouble at all. Neither, apparently, did the shadows, whose pursuit never seemed to flag.
