Trail of the Black Wyrm - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  Finally, on the third day since leaving Kristophan, Quivris called his men back down to the boat and turned to Forlo and Hult. “Good elves died to save the two of you,” he said. “My sister believes it was worth it.”

  But you have your doubts, Forlo thought. Don’t you?

  “We chase the Hooded One,” he said instead. “Anything to rid the world of that thing is worthwhile.”

  Quivris raised an eyebrow but did not reply. He looked at Hult, then Eldako. Never Shedara. “You must go north, to Panak, to seek this Wyrm-namer, this sage of dragons. My sister can sail. Can any of you?”

  “I can,” Forlo offered. He’d gone out on the Run in a little skiff many times, and even spent some time aboard the ships of the navy. Long ago it was, another life. “I can teach the others. Can you offer us a boat?”

  “This boat,” answered the elf. “We will sail back to Armach, and there my people and I will leave you. There are still many shadows to fight in our woods. And perhaps there shall be minotaurs soon, as well.”

  Forlo bowed his head, unsure what to say. The League might invade Armach in the spring, if it didn’t fall into another civil war first. The bull-men and the Silvanaes had lived in peace beside each other for centuries. Now that was wrecked, perhaps for good. The minotaurs would not soon forget that it was an elven blade that slew their emperor.

  “We’ll do something about the shadows,” Eldako said. “We will go to Marak and learn what happened to the kender … and put a stop to it, if we can.”

  “As long as it doesn’t draw us too far from our main quarry,” Forlo added. “The statue must be found, if any of this sacrifice is to matter.”

  Quivris said nothing, only looked away, to the south. Forlo understood his mind. He’d seen his own home overrun by the shadow-fiends. He held his tongue.

  Nalaran came forward and kissed Shedara’s cheeks. “Her Majesty would be proud of your service,” he said. “You go into danger unbidden. You could abandon your path, and few would blame you.”

  “I would blame myself,” she replied. “I lost the Hooded One, after all. It seems only right that I find it again.”

  The mage nodded, then turned to Hult. “You do not understand my words, rider of the Tamire,” he said. “You understand little that has been said to you, since you left your people. Let that now be changed. Accept this gift.”

  From the folds of his snowy robes, Nalaran produced an amulet on a silver chain. It was made of green stone, jade, in the shape of an open book. It spun this way and that.

  “A charm of Gilona,” he explained. “When you wear it, you will be able to speak the tongues of those near you, and you will understand their speech.”

  Forlo’s eyebrows rose. He watched as the young Uigan frowned, then reached out to touch the pendant. He looked questioningly at Nalaran. The mage nodded, encouragingly, and Hult flushed and bowed his head. With a smile, Nalaran slipped the chain over and around his neck. Hult blinked, his brow furrowing, then looked around at the others.

  “What has happened to me?” he asked.

  Forlo couldn’t help himself. He laughed, for the first time since before the battle at the Run. “You’re one of us now, my friend,” he said.

  Hult started, his eyes widening. He could understand. He glanced at Nalaran, who nodded, then stared at Forlo for a long while. Finally his face changed, smoothing and brightening to frame a smile. And then he, too, began to laugh.

  Chapter

  11

  AKH-TAZI, NERON

  Weeks passed. Maybe months. Essana didn’t know. She never saw the sun. She saw the sky only when the Brethren brought her up to the roof of the ancient pyramid to witness another sacrifice. They killed so many of the cha’asii that she lost count. She saw the dying elves always, awake and in sleep: their pleading gazes, their faces suddenly wrenching as the knife bit, then smoothing until they almost looked as if they were asleep, curled at the feet of the Hooded One. They came to her in her dreams, rising from the bloody stone to stare at her, the gashes in their throats gaping right down to the bone. Though they never spoke, she heard their voices just the same.

  You. We died because of you.

  It wasn’t a fair thought, not really. She didn’t wield the blade that spilled out their lives. The Slayer killed them; the Master commanded it. The rest of the Brethren condoned it. She was as much a victim as the cha’asii themselves. But that didn’t keep the elves’ shades from appearing whenever she shut her eyes. It didn’t stay their vengeance.

  They were right, in a way: she had the power to stop this, to put an end to this … at least for a while. In time, she was sure, the Brethren would find another woman to take her place, another unborn child to desecrate in the name of their mutilated ghost-king. But she could do something for herself, and for her son. She could free them both.

  If she died.

  The hardest part was thinking about it the first time. After that, things were easier. The notion became almost welcome, liberating. It was the one way she could fight back. She lay in her cell, in the stillness, and trembled at the notion, forcing herself to accept it. She began to make plans.

  She didn’t have many options, she knew—and she couldn’t let on what she had in mind. If the yaggol sensed her plans, if the Brethren learned what she intended to do, they would chain her up … or worse. So she kept her thoughts inside, only daring to think about the terrible idea in the quiet watches, between meals and sacrifices. It was her secret—and it gave her, for the first time since she’d come to this place, a sense of power.

  I will show you, she thought, envisioning the Faceless. How they would rage when they found her dead! How furious they would be, when all the suffering they had caused came to nothing! How the Master’s eyes would burn when he learned how powerless he truly was!

  So she made up her mind. It was no longer a question of if, but when … and how. As to the first, it had to be soon: every time she touched the swell of her belly, it had grown larger; every kick inside her was stronger than the one before. It wouldn’t be much longer now. Weeks. The moment her water broke, it would be too late.

  How was more difficult. They gave her no knives with her meals, not even dull ones. The only time there was something to leap from was when she was on top of the temple, surrounded by the Brethren and the yaggol. She had no belt, nothing that would serve as a rope—not even enough clothing to tear strips off and make a noose from. There was nothing she could use to kill herself.

  She thought about it for days. She prayed, truly prayed, for the first time in her life. She begged the gods for an answer. They gave her none. Either they didn’t hear her or they weren’t listening. She stopped praying again.

  And then, after what seemed like forever, her chance came.

  One morning—afternoon? night?—the yaggol left her food. It was bland gruel made from some root she didn’t know; some small, bitter but edible shoots, and a piece of dry, tasteless fish, with a cup of awful-tasting herbal tea to wash it down. The plate and cup and spoon were brittle clay—she’d already tried breaking one, to see if the shards might be of use, but it had crumbled. She ate listlessly, picking at the food.

  And in the fish, she found a bone.

  At first, she set it aside without thinking. Two bites later, however, she stopped and stared at it again: a little white shard, barely half the length of her little finger, threads of meat still clinging to one end. It was perfect. She grabbed it, then stared at it, turning it this way and that. Yes. It would work.

  She wasted no time. The longer she thought about it, the less likely she would be to carry through. Shutting her eyes, she put the bone in her mouth, then let it slide to the back, the top of her throat. It stayed there, balanced on her tongue.

  Forgive me, my son, she thought. I must do this. I must spare you.

  As hard as she could, she inhaled.

  It was horrible: the pain, the helplessness, the knowledge that she had done this to herself, no one would save her, a
nd she didn’t want to be saved. The bone went halfway down her windpipe and lodged there, jabbing into flesh, as sharp as a razor. She began to choke, clawing at her burning throat, trying to cough out the bone … all her reflexes trying to betray her, make her live. Air wouldn’t come. She lay back, thrashing, making terrible, wet sounds.

  Death wouldn’t take long. She’d seen a man die that way once, at a banquet in Kristophan. He had choked on a piece of crabshell, about the same size as the fish bone. He’d died in minutes, his face purple, his eyes bulging.

  I’ve done it, she thought, white spots exploding in front of her eyes. She wanted to laugh, but couldn’t do anything but gag and whoop. I’ve done it!

  The world began to dwindle, like she was viewing it from deep under water. She heard the awful hacking noises her body made as it tried to work the bone loose. Her face felt as if it were on fire. She couldn’t feel her hands or feet at all.

  The cell door rumbled open.

  Essana saw black robes and running feet: one of the Faceless, the Keeper. You’re too late, she thought, with a demented kind of glee. She even managed a ghastly smile as he bent over her. Too late. I’ve beaten you, you son of—

  “No,” he said and grabbed her. His grip was very strong. He turned her, clutching her beneath the arms, and squeezed her, sharp and hard, below her breastbone. “Not like this. You can’t die like this.”

  Yes, she thought, with immense satisfaction. I can.…

  He squeezed again, so hard it was a wonder her ribs didn’t crack. Something erupted inside of her, and suddenly, horribly, she retched. The bone flew free, hit the floor in front of her. Air flooded her lungs, cold and clean. She screamed, anger and frustration exploding in her mind, making a red mist in front of her eyes. The Keeper held her up, kept her steady. She groaned, furious, beaten. Then her head drooped forward, and blackness came crashing down.

  She woke to a pounding headache, eyes that stung like they’d been doused in vinegar, and a ferocious searing sensation in her throat. That she awoke at all made her moan with despair. She opened her eyes, and saw she was in the same room she’d been brought to after her vision of the Chaldar. The Keeper was with her.

  She knew it was him not by his face—which, of course, was nothing but ruin, like all the Brethren—but by the look in his eyes. Of all the Faceless, he was the only one who ever showed concern. He was watching her that way now, sitting by her bedside with one hand upon the hard roundness of her stomach. She drew breath to speak, and was rewarded with a flash of blazing agony that set her coughing—which only made the pain worse. The Keeper laid his other hand on her forehead, his touch gentle.

  Who are you? she wondered between waves of pain.

  “You are brave, Essana of Coldhope,” he whispered. “Not many would have attempted what you did.”

  She swallowed, winced, and tried to speak again. “I … failed.”

  “Not for want of trying. The yaggol sensed your pain and summoned me. If they hadn’t, you and the child would be beyond our reach now. It was a near thing, even as it was. But you will live.”

  Essana shut her eyes. “And my … son?”

  “That was nearer still. Only my magic saved him. The trauma brought you to the edge of miscarriage.”

  She lay silent and still. A tear slipped from her eye, running down her face. The Keeper wiped it away.

  “Listen to me, Essana,” he said. “The others do not know. They believe it was an accident. The yaggol who fed you have been killed for their mistake. I will not tell them the truth.”

  She opened her eyes again. It was amazing, the compassion his ravaged face could convey. Essana shook her head. “Why?”

  He bowed his head and was silent a while.

  Anger, frustration, grief—it seemed all these things were warring inside him. Essana, watched, fascinated. Were there limits to cruelty, beyond which even this self-mutilated fanatic would not go? Perhaps she could use this weakness in his character. He was half turned against the Master as it was; perhaps she could play on his sympathies, make him split from the Brethren. Get him to help her.

  “Keeper …” she began.

  “That is not my name!” he snapped. He put a hand to his forehead, touched bone, and pulled it back with a disgusted sound. He turned away. “Hand Who Heals,” he murmured, “give me strength.…”

  She started, her eyes widening. He had invoked Mislaxa, the healing goddess. “Who are you?”

  He turned and looked at her, his bloodshot eyes shining. He looked around, then ran his tongue over his bare teeth and leaned close. His voice came as barely more than a breath.

  “Essana,” he said, “you must never speak of this. You must not think about it. If the yaggol sense the truth, they will tell the others. I will be caught, and all I have striven for, all I have sacrificed, will be for nothing. Can I trust you, Lady?”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Can I trust you?”

  She stiffened at the anguish in his voice. A chill ran through her, and it was a moment before she could find the words. “You can.”

  He took a deep breath, then let it out as a sigh, a sound of relief. “I am a spy, working for the kings of the Rainward Isles. They knew of the Faceless, and sent me to infiltrate their ranks, to watch and report on their doings. I won the Brethren’s trust and became one of their number … but I do not hold with their cause.”

  Essana stared at him, her heart pounding. Shame seemed to hang about him like a physical shape, a black cloud in which he huddled, miserable. This creature had been living among soulless men for … she had no idea how long. Years, certainly. Decades? He had aided them in their plots, watched them slaughter the elves to slake Maladar’s thirst … watched over her and her child, knowing full well what they planned. He had torn off his own face to become one of them. Gods, how could he endure such things? How did he keep himself hidden? How was he not mad with guilt?

  “Tell me your name,” she croaked.

  “No,” he replied. “It’s best you don’t know it. Less chance you will make a mistake. We are too close to the end to be sloppy.” He sighed again. “That’s why I saved you, and the child, when it would have been more merciful to let you both die.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I will tell you again: the others must never suspect this. Yes?”

  Essana nodded. They locked gazes. Finally he shrugged.

  “Not all the Rainward Kings believe the Brethren to be a threat,” he said. “They demand proof before they will act against them. You are that proof, Essana. If you died, all I have done here … all the innocent blood spilled, all the suffering the shadows have caused in the west … it would be for nothing!

  “I tell you this, Lady—the Faceless will not have you, nor your child, as long as I have breath in me. I will keep you alive and unharmed. And when the time is right, when I know all I must know, I’ll take you from this place. We will escape into the jungle, you and I. We will go to the Rainwards, to Suluk, and you will unite the kings against the Brethren. Together, we’ll turn the battle against the Master and the rest! We will see Maladar’s statue destroyed, and the Faceless—”

  He stopped, suddenly. His voice had been rising with fervor as he spoke. Now he looked around, his posture that of a hunted animal. Essana reached out, slowly, and touched his hand. It felt thin and bony within its glove; she wondered if the flesh was gone from it as well. She squeezed his hand anyway, in spite of the disgust that welled up in her, and he turned to look at her in surprise.

  “I will help you,” she said.

  The relief in his eyes almost broke her heart. “You don’t know how hard it has been, bearing this burden alone,” he said. “Not to be able to tell anyone.…”

  His voice broke, trailing away.

  “What … what do I do?” Essana asked.

  “What you did before,” he said. “Return to your cell. Sleep. Eat. Watch the sacrifices. And wait. When the time is right, I’ll come to you. Have f
aith, Essana of Coldhope—have faith, and we will survive this. Together.”

  Chapter

  12

  WHITE-STORM SHORE, LOWER PANAK

  The wind froze the blood. There weren’t enough furs aboard the elven ship to protect them from its force. It clawed and gnawed through gaps in their garments, stealing the warmth from their bodies as it swept in off the leaden sea. Hult, standing at the prow, watched for submerged islands of ice—there were many here, in the far north, the children of Mother Winter by his people’s legends. The islands lay hidden, ready to rip gashes in the bellies of ships. They were killers. Everything was, up here at the world’s end.

  He shuddered. He’d kept his mind off their destination most of the long way here. First recovering from his wounds—his hand still stung where the huraj had severed his fingers—then learning to sail the boat, under Forlo’s guidance, he’d managed to concentrate his thoughts elsewhere. Now he had tales to tell too, thanks to the jade charm Nalaran had given him. It was strange, suddenly understanding every word the others said—and being understood by them, just as well. It was like waking up one morning and discovering he could talk to his tribe’s horses. He’d gotten used to the maddening barrier between them.

  But now the barrier was gone, and they’d each taken turns telling their stories. He’d held parts of his back, of course—mostly to protect the honor of Chovuk Boyla—and he was sure the others did the same, but it was good to know some things, in any case. Good to be free, too, of the land of the bull-men.

  Now, though … now there was no more denying where they were bound, for they were nearly there. To their right, the green-black of evergreen woods and browns of autumn-parched grasslands had yielded to gray and white, snow-dusted rocks, dotted with rusty moss and pale lichen. The distant mountains had dropped away. Haze hung in the distance, colorless and frigid. Three weeks they’d sailed, up past the Tiderun’s mouth and the western coast of the Tamire, to the land of snow and death.