by Dragonlance
Shedara told her story as they ran, from the moment she last left Armach on the trail of the Hooded One. She told how twice she had nearly found the artifact—once among the dwarves of the Steamwalls, then again aboard a pirate ship on the Run—but both times it had already eluded her. She spoke of how the shadows had shown up, too, and slaughtered both dwarves and pirates. She’d finally tracked down the statue at Coldhope, but Forlo had caught her trying to abscond with it. She told about the Uigan horde, and how the shadows had stolen the statue while the battle raged—how Forlo and Hult had saved her, then been taken captive by the minotaurs.
She told it all, leaving out one thing: she never mentioned that she had invoked the Hooded One’s magic, coercing Maladar into summoning the great wave that destroyed the Uigan. Shedara hated keeping secrets from her brother, but the shame of having awoken the Faceless Emperor was too great. It was partly her fault the shadows had finally managed to steal the statue.
Quivris listened, never speaking, never even looking at her. When she reached the end of the tale, he was quiet for a long while. They reached a narrow, rock-walled canyon, through which roared a river that was mostly white foam. A bridge of woven vines stretched from one side to the other. A pair of elves took positions at either side, arrows nocked, watching. The rest started across, one by one. It was full daylight now, the morning already an hour old.
When it came their turn, Eldako went first then Quivris gestured for Shedara to cross. She shook her head. “Not until you say you’ll help us,” she said.
“Then you’ll wait a long time,” he replied, stepping onto the bridge.
Shedara stared incredulously at his back as he made his way across the chasm. Finally, when he was on the other side, she shook her head and went after him. It was a long way, and the bridge seemed to sway wildly with each shift of the breeze, but finally she stepped back onto solid ground. She gave herself a moment to compose herself, then turned to glare at Quivris.
“We came all this way!” she exclaimed. “You’re the only chance we have—”
A noise from the far side cut her short. She turned and looked back across the canyon. The shadows were pouring out of the trees, swarming toward the bridge. The two elf guards rained arrows upon them, killing one after another, but it hardly thinned their number. Finally, the elves turned and ran.
“What happens now?” Eldako wondered.
A grim smile curled Quivris’s lips. “Watch.”
One of the elves bolted across the bridge, but the other one had stopped, jerking his sword from its scabbard. He brought it down hard on the vines, hewing through one after another. The bridge lurched, then finally gave way. The last elf turned, sheathing his blade again, and one of the archers across the chasm fired an arrow, trailing a rope. The arrow arced over an overhanging branch, then fell near the last elf’s feet. Without hesitating, he grabbed it and leaped out over the canyon, just before the flood of shadows could reach him. He swung, leaning into the arc, while several elves hauled on the other end of the rope. When he reached the end of the swing, he let go, flying through the air to land on the safe side of the gap.
Eldako raised his eyebrows, nodding as the elves reeled in the rope. “Impressive.”
“Thank you,” said Quivris. “We’ve become quite resourceful.”
The shadows on the far side snarled and waved their sickles, to no avail. There was no way for them to cross. The elves loosed a few more arrows at them, then the whole group melted away into the forest again. Quivris never once looked at his sister.
It was nearly noon when they came to their destination: a fallen broadwood tree, which rolled aside when Quivris knocked on it. Behind it gaped the narrow mouth of a cave. Several more Silvanaes were already inside, among barrels of food and water and boxes of arrows. Shedara and Eldako followed the rest of the party into the cavern. No one spoke. When they were all inside, the trunk rolled back into place, covering the entrance with a muffled thump. Darkness surrounded them; it took Shedara’s elf-sight a moment to adjust. The warm shapes of the Silvanaes swam out of the blackness.
“Stop right there,” she snapped, grabbing Quivris’s shoulder as he started to turn away. “What’s the matter with you? Why won’t you help us?”
He rounded on her, shoving her hand away. “With what? I have sixty elves at my command. Sixty! The rest are dead or scattered. It’s all I can do to keep the shadows from destroying our land completely … and you come here, asking us to rescue humans?”
Shedara’s mouth dropped open. She felt as though he’d struck her. She looked around as the elves removed their masks. They were tired, hungry, weak. Many had grievous wounds, like her brother’s. A beaten people. She stumbled back, bumped into the cave’s wall. The stone was cold against her back.
“Only sixty. I didn’t know,” she said.
Quivris smiled bitterly. “No. You didn’t.”
“Then the shadows.…”
“Have already won the war. More arrive every day, and they take more of the forest from us. We can’t keep up … and attrition will finish us soon.” Quivris sighed. “Sister, I’m sorry. I am at my wit’s end. I can do nothing for you.”
He shook his head and started to walk away.
“What if, together, we can stop the shadows?”
Shedara blinked, turning to stare at the one who had spoken. So did her brother. Eldako stood with arms folded, his head cocked back. The cave grew silent, even the other elves becoming still. All eyes were on the merkitsa now.
“What do you mean?” Quivris asked.
“We know they were kender once,” Eldako said. “And the kender’s home is in the valleys of Marak. Whatever is breeding these shadows must be happening there.”
Shedara stepped forward, understanding. “Yes, we’ll go to Marak,” she said. “We’ll find out what’s happened to the kender and try to stop it.”
“If I give you what you want,” Quivris said.
She spread her hands. “It’s what you want too. If Maladar is freed, none of this will matter. The shadows are nothing compared to what he can do to Armach.”
Quivris shook his head.
“Brother,” Shedara said, “you said it yourself, just now—you have no hope. Eldako and I are offering to give you some. You claim you can’t afford to give us what you need … but the truth is, you can’t afford not to.”
He scowled at her. She smiled. He looked at her a long time.
Chapter
8
KRISTOPHAN, THE IMPERIAL LEAGUE
Hult awoke to the rattling of keys outside his cell door. He didn’t try to rise, but lay still, pretending to be asleep. His mind was on escape; it had been since the minotaurs captured him. He had tried several times, to no good. He wasn’t going to let that stop him from trying again, though.
He had been in this strange place for somewhere between two and three weeks. Without windows in his cell, it was hard to know for sure. He already knew the fate that awaited him and Forlo. They had brought the two of them back, to the Arena shortly after their trial. They had shown him the sands beneath the massive, looming stands, the racks of weapons, the gladiators and caged monsters who fought there. It was a pit fight—most of the tribes of the Tamire had such contests, where criminals fought and rivals settled disputes. This pit just happened to be many times larger than the largest Uigan village. It could have held all of Chovuk’s horde, several times over.
He understood, now, the folly of the Boyla’s ambition. Chovuk had doomed his people the day he decided to cross the Run. Even if they had won at the Lost Road, what then? They would have pushed deeper into the League, and eventually met their deaths on the long spears of fifty thousand minotaurs. No rider, in his bloodlust, could ever have imagined there were this many bull-men in the world. It seemed a cruel joke, as if Jijin were a trickster-god instead of a warrior.
The door swung open, and two minotaurs entered. They held man-catchers, and they used them without hesitation, slamming the
weapons against Hult’s stomach and legs as he sprang from where he lay. Both poles hit him hard, then the pincers on the end closed around him. The bull-men yanked him off his feet, and he hit the ground hard, with a rattle of chains. One of the bull-men said something in their harsh language, and both laughed. They were mocking him, and why not? He was a fool. All the Uigan were fools—even their prince.
A third came into the cell while he struggled against the man-catchers. This one had a massive, iron-studded cudgel in one hand, and a ring of keys in another. He stood over Hult and growled something, raising the club to make his meaning clear. Stop it, or I will crush your skull.
Hult lay still. There were times to fight, but this wasn’t one of them. Wait for the opportunity, Chovuk had taught him. Be like the skrit, who hides in his shell until the time is right. Until prey is close. Then sting, and sting, and sting until it is dead.
He only hoped he would have the chance to sting before this was over.
The jailer used his keys to unlock Hult’s chains, then clamped manacles around his wrists and ankles. Hult ground his teeth: weeks had passed since he’d spent more than a few moments without chains on him. He hated it. He hated them. Most of all, though, he despised himself.
He could have prevented this. He could have jumped with the elves. He and Forlo were here because he had hesitated, out of fear. Because he was a coward. He’d doomed them both because he couldn’t face the sea.
They jerked him to his feet, pushed him out the door. He stumbled as the man-catchers released him. They laughed. Red mist began to gather in front of his eyes; he fought it back. This was no time for rage, not yet. They brought him down a tight, stone tunnel, then up a flight of stairs. As he climbed, he heard roaring from above: tens of thousands of voices shouting. He thought of the horde, now drowned by the waters of the Run: it was the same noise the riders of the Tamire had made as they swept down into Malton, to burn and pillage. The voices were shouting for blood.
His blood. The skin on his arm rose into bumps.
A curving hallway waited at the top of the stairs, all gleaming white marble, lined with bull-headed statues. There was sunlight beyond, and from that way the cheering got louder, and he heard the stamping of feet. More guards met him, bearing pole-axes, their armor gleaming. They surrounded him, brought him forward, leaving the jailer and his men behind. That made him angry: he wouldn’t get the chance to snap their necks, as he had dreamed at night in his cell. He knew that, whatever happened to him, he wouldn’t be going down into the prison again.
Forlo stood at the end of the corridor, surrounded by another group of crossbowmen. He was clad in his armor, but had no helm or weapon. All part of the game. Hult himself was naked, but for a cloth covering his loins. They had taken his garments, just as they’d cut his braid. Dishonor after dishonor. And they called him a barbarian.
Forlo couldn’t look him in the eye as he approached. Hult wanted to tell the man that it wasn’t his fault. It’s mine, he thought again. If only I’d jumped.…
Through an archway lay the sands, the pit. The light was bright, a cloudless autumn morning. The air was warm and still. Dust hung in the air like ghosts. The guards said something, then shoved him forward, prodding and jabbing with the butts of their weapons. He went, Forlo walking beside him. The other man tripped, nearly fell. The bull-men laughed some more.
Out on the sands, the sun stabbed his eyes. He squinted through the glare, baring his teeth, walking blind for a while. Gradually, everything went from white back to normal. He and Forlo were halfway across the arena floor, a perfect circle a hundred paces across, shimmering in the heat. It burned the soles of his feet. Around its edges stood minotaur guards in plumed helmets, armed with crossbows. High above, bull-men filled the stands all around him. There were so many that Hult didn’t even try to guess at the number: some dressed in finery, others in the garb of common workers. Some waved banners. Some blew war horns or pounded drums. All were shouting, the noise like the din of a thunderstorm. It was like a vision of the Abyss, from the elders’ tales: horned demons presiding over brutal torments. Hult shuddered, his stomach clenching.
The guards did not stop at the center of the circle, as he thought they would; instead, they brought Forlo and Hult all the way to the far side, beneath a gallery covered with a canopy of gold and crimson silk. Wealthy minotaurs sat on chairs along its length, and in its midst, robed and crowned, was the one they called emperor. Rekhaz was his name. Forlo sneered at the sight of him and said a vile word.
“Khot.”
The emperor smiled, rising from his seat. A hush fell over the arena as he stepped forward. The guards shoved Forlo and Hult down on their knees, hitting them hard with the butts of their axes. The red mist began to gather again. Hult forced himself to be calm, to concentrate, listening to the emperor’s words. He didn’t understand them now, but he forced himself to remember. Later, he would know their meaning.
“Barreth Forlo, lord of Coldhope, once marshal of the Imperial Armies,” Rekhaz declared, his deep voice filling the arena, “you are guilty of high treason against the League and of deserting your command without leave. You have chosen to answer for these crimes upon these sands. Here the justice of Sargas will be done, and your blood will answer for your sins.
“As for your barbarian friend, he is an enemy of the empire. His life was forfeit the moment he was caught. He will fight beside you, at the whim of the throne. His fate is already chosen: whether you prevail or not, he will be slain. You fight for yourself alone.”
“What?” Forlo asked, glaring up at the emperor. “That isn’t the law … any prisoner who survives the arena must be freed!”
Rekhaz smiled, cruel and condescending. “Any citizen of the League,” he said. “Barbarians from far lands have no rights here. This savage sealed his fate the day he rode howling across the Run with his misbegotten brothers. This is my ruling, Lord Forlo. It is final. If you speak again, I will make the guards cut out your tongue.”
Forlo fell silent. His eyes were daggers, glinting in the sun. The emperor raised his hands.
“The empire watches your doom,” he said. “The mercy of Sargas will judge you. Go now, and die if he wills it.”
The throngs in the stands cheered, the noise so loud that it left Hult’s ears ringing like funeral bells. The guards prodded them to their feet, marched them back toward the center of the ring. As they walked, a young minotaur sprinted from the arena’s edge, planted two blades point-first in the sands, and bolted away again. Hult saw them and nodded: Forlo’s blade and his own shuk. They would fight with their own weapons, at least.
Forlo’s face was red, his nostrils wide. Hult knew the rage was threatening to claim him too. He wanted to tell the man about Chovuk’s lessons, about the patient, deadly skrit … but he couldn’t, so he just kept walking.
The cheers grew even louder as they reached the sands’ midst. The guards withdrew, leaving them alone. Forlo lifted his blade, and Hult took up his saber as well. Its worn grip felt right in his hand, its weight familiar and comforting. He gave it a few practice spins, working out the stiffness in his joints. Forlo did the same, then turned and said something. Hult didn’t know the words, but he understood the look in the man’s eyes.
“No,” he said. “I am the one who should be sorry.”
Forlo didn’t understand. There was no way to explain. Then, after a moment, the opportunity passed. At the highest reaches of the arena, trumpeters raised silver horns and blew a fanfare that stilled the crowd. The echoes of the blare gave way to silence. The minotaurs leaned forward, craning their necks as they looked toward a broad, bronze door on the south side of the ring.
Hult and Forlo watched the door open, revealing iron bars. Beyond, in the shadows, something stirred. Whatever it was, it wasn’t human. Hult licked his lips, his shuk weaving in slow loops before him. A dim clank sounded from the portcullis; with a squealing groan, it started to rise.
The things that waited behind
the gates scuttled out so quickly, it set Hult back a pace. They were massive, wormlike creatures, each ten feet long and as wide across as a man’s trunk, covered in shells like banded mail, one deep blue and the other oily black. They had more legs than he could count—it seemed like hundreds, each ending in a wickedly curved hook that dug into the sand as they darted forward, throwing up plumes behind. Pincers like scythe-blades gnashed around their chittering mouths; their eyes were like faceted jewels, as black as an ogre’s heart.
“Horax!” Forlo yelled, moving back a step as the beasts scurried toward them.
Hult glanced at him in surprise, recognizing the name: his own people called these creatures hurajai, which in the Uigan tongue meant “cutters of bone.” They dwelt in caves in the hills and mountains, coming out at night to prey on the herds. Their armor was too thick for arrows to pierce; a man had to hew at them with steel to kill them. But the hurajai he had seen hadn’t been this big: none was much longer than a man was tall. These were almost twice that size. Either they were mightier in the southern lands, or the bull-men bred them especially, like dogs, to use in their pit-fights.
They moved like flowing water, weaving this way and that, making awful wet hissing sounds as they came. The crowd leaped to its feet, roaring, banging on cymbals, and waving banners. The commotion was spellbinding, and Hult had to force himself not to look up at them as a huraj—the black one, rainbows writhing in the reflections of its shell—shot straight at him.
It reared, rising almost to the level of his throat, mandibles clacking in the air. He leaped aside, rolled, and came up with his shuk in front of him. The huraj settled back to the ground, then whipped around and started forward again. Hult had long enough to see Forlo swiping his own blade at the other one, keeping it at bay while he tried to circle to its flank. Then the black huraj came on again, clawed legs churning. He brought back his saber, spun it, then snapped it around as hard as he could, striking with the tip of the blade at the creature’s neck. It was a powerful stroke, swift and well aimed, strong enough to take off the huraj’s head. But it didn’t.
