by Dragonlance
Shedara tensed to spring after him, but Eldako shook his head. “Let him go,” he said. “If you use your magic to deaden him again, it will drive him mad.”
“But the shadows—” she began.
“Are long gone. This massacre happened days ago. The depth of the snow should tell you that.”
She looked as if she might argue more, but it was too late. The last of the spell had lifted, and Angusuk had broken into a run, stumbling down the slope at breakneck speed. He shouted the names of his family, friends, tribe-mates.
No answer came.
They walked among the wreckage. Nothing remained. The clan of the Spirit Wolf was destroyed, though when Angusuk finally stopped digging among the fallen huts, screaming the names of the dead, he admitted some of the hunters appeared to be missing altogether. A handful only, but it was a hopeful sign. All the women and children were dead, but there might be others still alive to carry the memory of his people.
Not the makau, though. Tulukaruk had been murdered as he slept, it seemed, for his body still lay in his anho-ti: He had been killed by a single slash across the throat, from which not a drop of blood had spilled. The look on the mage’s frozen face was one of peace, a faint smile curling his lips. Of the Amaguik, his ghost-wolf guardians, there was no sign—although Hult was certain, for a moment, that he heard distant, mournful howling on the wind. Four voices now, not three. He shivered.
Angusuk broke down completely when he beheld the old sorcerer, huddling over Tulukaruk and sobbing for nearly an hour. The others didn’t disturb him. Finally, as the sky was beginning to darken, he emerged from the anho-ti, his eyes red. He stripped to the waist, baring his stout, scarred body to the wind, and looked at the others with an expression so pained that Hult had to look away.
“We must burn them,” he said. “Tonight. We must do this before my people become Uitayuik.”
There was no more discussion than that. The image of the people of Kitaglu, doomed to wander the Panak forever as white-eyed ghosts, was too horrible. Grimly, quietly, they built pyres of peat and what little wood there was in the village. They gathered the bodies, laying them out to burn. The sky was fully dark by the time they were done, the moons and stars still lost behind cloud and snow; they worked by the light of stones that Shedara enchanted to glow, a cold, blue gleam that made even the living look dead. Finally, near midnight, the work was done and Tulukaruk was laid at the top of the highest pyre. Exhausted, they gathered beside the remains, each holding a lit torch. Angusuk, still bare-chested, drew a stone knife and cut a long gash across his body. Then, as the blood trickled down his skin, he uttered a wheezing chant for the dead.
Go now, my brothers
My sisters, children and elders
Go to the north, among the ancestors
Past the lands of the white worm
Beyond the frozen seas
Beyond the spirits of winter.
Sleep there.
Sing there, and be glad.
Know no pain, sorrow, longing,
For those are the curse of the living.
We who are left behind.
Remember us, and call our names
When our time comes to follow.
With that, he plunged his torch into the central pyre. It took time for the flames to build, but eventually firelight flooded the ruined village, its warmth swallowing Shedara’s mage-light. As one, the others lit the remaining pyres. Warmth poured through Kitaglu one last time, melting the snow, thawing the bodies, then setting them aflame. Smoke rose high into the air—and the sky cleared at last.
“Look!” shouted Forlo, pointing north.
Hult whirled, expecting to see more of the shadow-fiends, returning. Instead, he beheld something beautiful, the likes of which he’d never seen before. In the sky, where the clouds had been, strange lights now glowed: red and green and gold, twisting ropes and shimmering curtains, like a rainbow gone mad. There was a sound too, faint but unmistakable: a chiming, as of thousands of tiny bells.
Through his tears, Angusuk smiled. “My people,” he whispered. “Rest now. Go. You are free.”
They watched the strange lights in the north for hours, until they faded at last, and only stars remained.
Three days later, they returned to the seashore. The elven boat was moored there, waiting for them. Storm and waves had battered it, but it still floated, and its masts remained intact: Nalaran’s magic still clung to its hull, protecting it. The dinghy was all right too, standing where they’d left it, above the high-tide mark on the rocky shore.
“Will you join us?” Hult asked Angusuk, as they gazed down from the clifftops. “You are welcome.”
The Ice Person stared at the ship, his face thoughtful. He licked his lips, thinking long and hard—then, shook his head.
“I must find the others who still live, the hunters who were away when … when it happened.” he said. “We clan-brothers must join together. But I will remember you, my friends. I will chant your tale, and it will live on around the song-fires of Panak.”
He clasped each of them in turn, pressing his forehead against theirs in farewell. Then he turned and strode to the waiting sled and its nasif. They watched him climb aboard, raise his hand in farewell, and glide away over the snows.
“Well,” Shedara said. “Let’s be off too, then. Marak awaits.”
She started down the slope, toward the sea. Hult glanced back at the frozen wastes, his mouth tightening into a firm line, then followed. He would not return to this place. Twice was enough for one lifetime.
Chapter
17
AKH-TAZI, NERON
The elf was a fighter, more than the others. He kicked and screamed as the black dragon set him down. As the yaggol brought him toward the Hooded One, he somehow threw them off, in spite of the cords binding his arms, and he sought to run. His legs were tied, though, and after a few steps he tripped and fell headlong onto the temple roof. His head hit the stone with a ghastly sound, and blood covered his face. He spat out a broken tooth then began to bellow in the birdlike cha’asii tongue.
Essana watched, appalled at how unmoved she felt. How many cha’asii had died before her eyes? Fifty? A hundred? She had no idea. It had become a regular part of her life, as regular as the child’s growth inside her. She could scarcely remember a time when she hadn’t been forced to watch elves die upon the altar.
“The wretch resists their powers,” said the Master. “Interesting. Keeper, inspect him.”
Essana glanced at the Keeper, who took pains not to meet her gaze. They had spoken little of late—only when they were alone, and only long enough for her to ask one question, and him to answer.
When?
Not yet. Things are not ready.
She touched the firmness of her belly. It had better be soon.
The Keeper strode to the elf, peeled open one of his eyes to see how hurt he was, then shook his head and began to search his body. After several moments he found what he was looking for: a small talisman of bright green feathers, surrounding a little bauble of gold. The elf had concealed the talisman in his loincloth, sewn it directly into the garment; the Keeper had to slit the cloth with a knife to pull the charm out. He nodded at the yaggol, and they lowered their faces over the elf, the tentacles wrapping around his head. The cha’asii stiffened, gasping as their thoughts forced their way into his mind. The Keeper turned away, studying the talisman as he walked back to the other Brethren. Still he refused to glance Essana’s way.
“They grow more cunning at hiding these,” he said. “It may be that the yaggol’s powers will not be of use to us much longer.”
“We must study it,” replied the Master, holding out his hand. “Find a way to overcome the spell.”
The Keeper hesitated before giving the talisman to the other man. The two of them locked gazes, but Essana couldn’t read anything in their bloodshot eyes. Finally the Master snatched it, and stashed it away within his cloak.
“Proceed,�
� he said, gesturing toward the yaggol. The Keeper walked back to his place in the circle.
The hideous things dragged the dazed elf forward and dumped him on the altar. The cha’asii no longer struggled as the Speaker chanted the invocation.
“Hail the Faceless Emperor! Maladar an-Desh, lord of wizards, reaver of cities, the sleeper within the stone!”
“Hail, the Faceless,” the Brethren replied.
And then, suddenly, the Keeper was staring not at the sacrifice, but at Essana. His gaze burned into her, and though he stood nowhere near, she shuddered as his voice whispered in her ear.
Be patient. Two days.
That was all. His gaze turned back to the bloodletting. Essana stared at him a moment longer, then looked away as the Slayer stepped forward, his knife flashing toward the elf’s waiting throat.
She dreamed often these days, and not all dark dreams. Increasingly, she dreamed of Barreth. One night, weeks ago, she’d seen him at the helm of a sailing ship, plying waters choked with ice. There were others with him, but they were nameless to her, shadows: she saw only her husband.
Later, she saw him again, aboard a different vessel—a great chariot that slid on blades over endless snow-fields, pulled by two massive deer. He stared ahead, at a line of spiky, ice-covered mountains. Clutched in his hands was a black dragon’s scale.
And now, tonight, he was back on the ship again, only this time the vessel was somewhere familiar: the shallows of the Tiderun, heading east on a strong wind. On the shore to the north was a ruined town, burned and broken—Malton, a victim of the Uigan horde. Forlo did not look at the ruined town, however; his eyes were turned south, toward another heap of rubble. Half of Coldhope stood shattered atop its cliff overlooking the Run; the rest, from the Northwatch up, lay scattered in pieces around it, and down in the water below. Crimson words were painted on the parts that remained, in the language of the League.
Traitor. Coward. Regicide.
Regicide? Essana shook her head, refusing to believe it. Barreth was a good man; he would never murder the emperor. But her brow furrowed as she remembered another dream, an older one that had fled from her when she’d woken: her husband, his face pale and spattered with blood, thrusting a sword into something she couldn’t see. His eyes were wild, his expression bestial as he twisted the blade back and forth.
“You bastard,” he growled, over and over. “You bastard.…”
A sound woke her, shredding the dream. She started, sitting up, a hand on her breast. She could feel her heart pounding as the cell door swung open. The Keeper stood there, hooded, flanked by yaggol. He spoke a word to them and they departed, then he stepped inside. The door slid shut again, but darkness didn’t fully return. A nimbus of violet light clung to him, just bright enough to see by. He approached her.
Essana blinked. “Has it been two days already?”
“No,” the Keeper replied. “Not yet. But I had to make sure you were ready.”
“I am,” she said at once. “I’ve been ready from the moment the dragon brought me here.”
He nodded. She imagined a human face within the hood, rather than the horror he had made of himself so he could infiltrate the Brethren. She thought that face might be smiling.
“You are a strong woman, Essana,” he said, “but there are still the yaggol to consider. Hold out your hand.”
Fingers trembling, she did. He reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a talisman of cha’asii make. It wasn’t the same as the one he’d taken from the sacrifice: the feathers were iridescent blue, not green, and the bauble in the middle was a bead of dark amber, with what looked like a mantis imprisoned within, but there was no mistaking the aura of enchantment as he placed it in her hand.
“Where did you get this?” she murmured.
“That warrior yesterday was not the first to carry such a token,” he replied. “This one I took off a prisoner a fortnight ago. The old woman.”
Essana remembered her: an elderly elf with long, silver hair. She hadn’t struggled at all. The thought that her salvation had come from a dead woman made bile boil in her throat.
The Keeper caught hold of her hand, made her close her fingers. “She would have died, no matter what,” he said. “It was good fortune that I could take the talisman before the others discovered it. When the time comes—and you will know when it does—you must kiss the amber, and place it near your skin. The magic will keep the yaggol from dominating you.”
He let go of her. Her hand stayed closed, clenched around the charm. She stared at it.
“When?” she asked.
“In the morning. Now I must go. I have more to do, and little time. We will only have one chance.”
She squeezed the amber, smooth and cool. “I’ll be ready.”
He gazed at her a moment longer, then turned and walked away. The door opened and he was gone. The yaggol peered in, and she shrank back, keeping the talisman hidden from their empty eyes. The door ground shut again.
Essana clutched the amber in her fist. Half the night passed before she could loosen her grip.
She was still awake, what seemed like a thousand years later, when the sound of movement outside her cell roused her. She sat up, cold, sweating, her heart hammering. Legs prickling, she got to her feet.
The door opened. No one came in.
It could be a trick. They could have found out. The Keeper might have been fooling her all this time: part of the ritual, to give her one last burst of hope. The Brethren were that cruel.
There was a thud, and a wet smack, and something slid sideways across the doorway: gray, slimy, many tentacled. One of her yaggol guards, its bulbous head smashed like a melon, full of pale mucus and ichor. Its eyes stared at her, glassy and dead. Good, she thought.
A shadow stepped over the abomination’s corpse. The Keeper. He held a short weapon in his hand, like a hammer with a claw-shaped head. Ropes of white slime dripped off it.
“Come,” he said. “Quickly.”
She went, stepping over the yaggol’s remains as they moved out into the hall. A second creature lay hunched against a wall, the left side of its face torn off, its right arm hanging broken at its side. One leg still twitched.
“A reflex only,” the Keeper said. “Just like shellfish when you chop them up for supper.”
“Thank you for that,” Essana said. “I doubt I’ll ever be hungry for seafood again.”
He laughed at that—actually laughed, not the weird, croaking noises the Brethren usually made when they were amused. It seemed to surprise him as much as her. He reached to his belt and produced a second weapon, identical to the one in his hand.
“This is a krahd,” he said. “A weapon of my people. We use them to kill armored creatures that dwell beneath our islands, called disir. It breaks through their shells very well—or skulls, as you see.”
“I do,” she said, accepting the weapon. It was heavier than it looked, with most of the weight in the iron head. A good swing would break through just about anything short of dragon hide. She gave it a test swing. “It almost makes me hope we’ll find more of them to fight.”
“Don’t say that,” the Keeper replied. “ ‘The foolish wish is the first to be granted,’ they say in my homeland. But I understand.”
They went, the Keeper leading the way to a narrow flight of stairs, down, quietly, to another hall. Then more stairs. So it went, down and down, until she knew they were no longer above ground. They’d gone too far, and the air had changed—grown even warmer and damper, with the faint scent of earth. Water dripped down the walls over ghastly reliefs and etchings, and pooled on the floor. Insects scuttled across the flagstones, fleeing from their approach. Finally, the stairs ended in a large, low-ceilinged chamber—a cellar, filled with barrels, crates, and sacks. Glowing stones, set into niches in the walls, lit the room.
A shadow moved among the boxes. Essana gasped and raised her krahd—nearly hitting the Keeper in the face with its back end. He stepped away, his
own weapon rising, ready to swing or hurl at whatever was out there.
“Ngaaghaj urkh hlauu,” he spoke, in a tongue that sounded more like the gurgling of a drowning man than human speech. “Jhoch machauwa haakh.”
Silence greeted him. Then, suddenly, a figure rose from behind a row of water casks. It was tall and slender, and its face writhed. Essana’s grip on the krahd tightened a little—and again when two more yaggol appeared. The glow of the light-stones made their rubbery flesh glisten.
“Easy,” the Keeper murmured. “Let them come closer before you strike. They trust me, remember?”
She nodded, saying nothing. The krahd lowered a little, but she couldn’t make herself put it away completely, as he seemed to have done. He raised a hand, wriggling his fingers in greeting. The yaggol did the same in return, only with the cilia where their mouths should be. The nearest one let out a series of wet, questioning burbles that the Keeper answered with a gagging noise of his own.
“What are you saying?” she whispered.
“They want to know why I’ve brought you here,” he said. “I told them it was because of the child you carry. You need specific food to eat, to make sure it stays healthy. They haven’t been giving you these things, so the Master bade me bring you here so we could get them ourselves.”
She frowned. “Will they believe you?”
“Not for long.”
The yaggol glanced at one another, speaking silently by wriggling their tentacles. Essana felt a pulse against her breast, from the talisman. They were trying to breach her mind, and every time the protective magic thwarted them, they grew more agitated.
“Why don’t you just use your magic?” she asked. “You must know something that can deal with them.”
“Not without telling the Master exactly where we are. He’s watching for trouble, always. If anyone casts a spell around the temple, he’ll know. And he’ll come right for us.”
