by Dragonlance
Never make it, said a voice in her head. Not with this extra weight. Leave him—he’s probably already drowned, anyway.
Shut up, she answered. He comes with me.
To her left, Gloomwing rose again, pulling away from the surface and starting to round about, one more time. Shedara clenched her teeth, uttering curse after curse as she swam on. She could see the jungle, shimmering up above the water. She’d once followed a mirage in the desert for an entire day before realizing it wasn’t real; this seemed every bit as false.
Look, she thought. I don’t know what gods might be listening right now, but anything you can do … anything at all.…
The dragon dove, its fanged mouth raking the water, heading straight toward her. She shut her eyes, awaiting the pain. Death would be quick, at least. One quick snap.…
Instead there was a shriek, and Gloomwing jerked and turned aside, one wingtip dragging through the water, slicing all the way down to the bottom, throwing up a storm of sediment that swept over her, blinding her. She shut her mouth just in time—breathing water was one thing, getting a lungful of silt something else—and held Forlo tight as the wake buffeted her again.
Then everything was still again, and she didn’t know where the dragon was. She didn’t waste any time looking for him; instead she swam as hard as she could, wondering which god had answered her prayers. She hoped it was one she liked.
The shallows came fast, and she sputtered as she burst up out of the water, vomiting brine, then yelled for help when her lungs cleared. Hult was there, sprinting down the beach, sand flying behind him. He got to her as she tried to haul Forlo up onto land, his face questioning. Shedara shook her head, then waved toward the trees.
“I don’t know. Just get him in there.”
It was hard, even with two of them, but together they dragged Forlo ashore, then lifted him and staggered down the beach. As they went, she caught sight of Eldako—standing at the water’s edge, bow in hand, staring out across the water. Gloomwing was fighting to stay aloft, three arrows lodged in the joint where his left wing connected with his body.
Not a god after all, then. She grinned.
Then she looked back toward the jungle and nearly dropped Forlo in shock.
There were faces among the trees—small, painted faces beneath wild manes of bright hair, threaded with feathers and beads. Each held a weapon—a small bow of wood and horn, or a long blowgun, or a slender spear hooked into a throwing stick. One met her gaze and put a finger to his lips—a graceful gesture. None of them made a sound.
Elves. She’d heard the legends, that a race akin to hers dwelt in the jungles of Neron—an ancient people called the cha’asii. Unlike the merkitsa, however, she’d never seen them—not until now. Now she shivered as they watched her with wide eyes, so dark they seemed to be almost all pupil. They parted to let her pass, and she and Hult laid Forlo down, just inside the tree line.
He wasn’t breathing. Tilting his head back, she balled her fists together and pumped his chest, his chain mail digging painfully into her flesh. After a few hard shoves, she bent over him and breathed into his mouth, forcing in air.
The cha’asii watched her for a moment, then turned to peer out toward the water again. She glanced that way too and felt a twinge of terror: Gloomwing had got control back, and was wheeling for another attack. Now he turned toward Eldako, who stood ready, waiting. The dragon swept in over the sparkling water.
The merkitsa’s quiver was empty. He dropped his bow and drew his sword.
“What in the blue Abyss is he doing?” Shedara exclaimed, starting to rise. But she couldn’t leave Forlo. Not now. Every moment counted.
Her stomach clenching, she breathed into Forlo’s mouth again, and again, and again, thinking, come on. Hult touched her arm.
“Eldako baits the beast,” the Uigan said. “My people did it this way, sometimes, when we hunted griffin or steppe-tiger. One man rides out alone, to draw in the enemy. That man must have courage that will not fail.”
Shedara glanced at the cha’asii standing ready. There were perhaps fifty of them in all. They lifted their blowguns, drew back their bowstrings, and waited. Gloomwing came on, jaws open wide, sharp teeth glistening.
She bent over Forlo and breathed, one more time. At last he reacted, choking at first, then coughing up a great gout of water and vomit, all over her legs.
“The dragon?” he gasped.
“Being dealt with,” she said, turning to watch. “Lie still.”
Gloomwing, evidently, was not very intelligent—not as dragons went, anyway. And he was hungry and hurt, which made him stupider. He saw Eldako, and he saw prey. The merkitsa didn’t balk, didn’t flinch as the dragon bore down on him—only stood, sword low at his side, waiting. Shedara couldn’t see his face, but she imagined a grim smile.
Looking back, in the days to come, she knew that was the moment she finally fell in love with him.
The dragon came in low, skimming over the floating stub of mast that was all that remained of their boat. He drew a furious breath, and the tang of acid stung Shedara’s nose. A cold feeling came over her.
“Eldako!” she cried.
Gloomwing spat a sizzling spray of slime. It hit the merkitsa head-on. He fell, vanishing into the surf.
At the same moment, the cha’asii leaped out of the trees, taking aim at the wyrm. The satisfied leer that had begun to light the dragon’s eyes disappeared, replaced with shock. Madly, he pumped his wings, trying to pull up, but the arrows in his shoulder hampered him. Silently, the jungle elves let fly.
The dragon screamed. One of his eyes was pierced; the roof of his mouth too. His wings were tatters. Riddled with darts and spears, he tried to bank, lost control, and slammed into the trees not thirty paces from where Shedara stood. The crash of splintering wood and shattering bones filled the air, followed by a shriek of agony. The earth shook.
Then Gloomwing was silent, and there was only the crashing of the waves.
She combed through the breakers for what seemed like forever, while Hult stayed with Forlo, and the cha’asii went after the fallen dragon. She waded out into the water until she was hip-deep, picking her way through the driftwood that had been their boat, walking a quarter mile one way, then just as far the other. The sky turned red, then began to darken, the stars glinting above—a firmament almost completely different than the one that hung above Panak, so many leagues away. She could barely remember what it had been like, to be so cold for so long, to have gone without seeing anything green for weeks. She wondered, as she searched the churning water, what had become of Angusuk and the other survivors of his tribe. Anything not to think about what she didn’t want to.
Quietly, she began to cry.
She saw it, every time she closed her eyes—Eldako standing tall and still, goading Gloomwing on, giving the jungle elves the chance they needed to bring the great beast down. Had he forgotten the wyrm’s breath, that deadly spittle that had eaten through their ship? Had he thought he could dodge it, when the time came? Either way, Shedara cursed him for a fool.
It was senseless. Eldako had a part to play in their hunt for Essana and the Hooded One. But she couldn’t bring herself to believe it was to die here, on the Neroni coast. Helping defeat the dragon was a noble goal, but … it didn’t feel right for him to be dead. She slogged on through the brine, refusing to give up.
Finally, she heard someone yelling her name and looked back toward shore. It was almost full night, twilight’s ruddy glow fading in the west. Her elf-sight picked out the warm figures of Hult and Forlo, the two humans standing at the water’s edge, trying to find her in the gloom. They called again—her name only. Not Eldako’s.
She felt a new rush of tears at that, then wiped them away with a growl. She raised her hand to them. “Over here!”
Still weak from his near-drowning, Forlo stayed where he was, but Hult waded out until the water foamed around his knees. Behind him, small blue lights glimmered at the edge of the tree
s: the cha’asii had gathered solemnly, were watching.
Shedara walked shoreward, started to speak, then caught herself and coughed as her voice broke. She shook her head angrily and tried again.
“How is he?” she asked, nodding at Forlo.
Hult spread his hands. “He was dead, almost. Now he isn’t—thanks to you. Considering that, he is well. A night’s rest, and he’ll be fine, mostly.”
“Good,” she said, glancing out at the waves again. “And the dragon?”
“Dead, though he was still breathing when the elves found him. They cut off his head. They mean to take it back to their village, to use as a totem. They think it will protect them against the akitu-shai.”
“The what?”
“Crawling Maws, in their tongue.” Hult’s hand strayed to the amulet, hanging flat against his broad chest. “Creatures that serve the Faceless. They abduct the cha’asii and kill them.”
Shedara nodded, anger roiling in her breast. “Blood sacrifice. To Maladar.”
“Yes.”
“Will they help us?”
Hult shrugged. “I don’t see why not. Will you come out of the water? It’s getting late. If you haven’t found—”
She raised a hand. “Don’t say his name.”
The Uigan started, hurt, then turned away and walked back inland, toward Forlo. She watched him go, then gazed back out at the sea, trying to accept what she’d been refusing to consider: Eldako was gone. It still didn’t seem right … but death seldom did. Shuddering, she turned and strode back up to the beach. Hult and Forlo stood near something that lay half-buried in the sand. She bent to pick it up, and felt her eyes burn when she uncovered it. Eldako’s bow.
She unstrung it, relieving the tension on its limbs. Then, holding it gently, she turned back toward the ocean and stared, long and hard. The red moon was low over the jungle now; it made the water glisten like blood.
A hand touched her shoulder. She tried to shake it off, but Forlo refused to let go. Shedara turned to face him, and gasped to see the man’s face. It was sallow, his cheeks sunken, his eyes dull and tired. He looked twice his age.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t believe it either. He’s the only reason we’re still alive. It’s not the first time, either.”
He bowed his head.
Hult held something out. It glistened in his hand. “I took this from Gloomwing’s body. You should have it. I already have one of my own, as does Forlo. Perhaps, one day, one of us might travel to the Dreaming Green. If we do, we should give it to Tho-ket and tell him tales of his son.”
She took the object from him. It was long and black, pointed, slightly curved. A talon. Gloomwing’s. She squeezed it tight in her hand.
“Damn it,” she murmured.
A voice called out from the trees in a language she didn’t know. She saw the cha’asii standing there.
“They say we must go,” Hult told her. “It isn’t safe here. The Maws come at night.”
Shedara wanted to tell them all to go rot in the Abyss. She’d leave when she was ready. There were still places she hadn’t looked—a spot to the south in particular, where the coast got rocky and there were many nooks and sockets to be explored. In her heart, though, she knew better. Eldako was lost—the riptide had probably carried him out to sea. She bowed her head and sighed.
“All right, then,” she said and turned to walk toward the jungle. Hult and Forlo left her alone, following silently a few paces behind. Now they were three.
Chapter
26
KE-CHA-YAT, NERON
The cha’asii lived in the trees—huge, gnarled trees that rose a hundred feet and more above the jungle’s fern-carpeted floor. Up there, among the broad, green leaves and dangling, golden blossoms, the elves had built platforms from wind-fallen wood, webbed with bridges of woven reeds, all of it camouflaged to be invisible from below. Hult and the others didn’t even know they had arrived at the village of Ke-cha-yat until a vine ladder dropped down from the boughs above, and the cha’asii began to climb.
None of the elves had said a word since they left the coast, some three hours ago. Night had fallen hard: even with the moons out, the Emerald Sea of Neron was a dark place, lit only by occasional shafts of silver and crimson through the foliage. The cha’asii carried lamps to light their way, globes of milky crystal in which glowing moths fluttered, battering against the insides as they fought vainly to escape. The moths gave off an eerie blue radiance that drained the color from people’s faces, making everyone look like ghosts. That, and the elves’ utter silence—no twigs broke beneath their feet, no branches rustled as they passed—gave Hult the feeling that he had left the mortal world.
He climbed after the cha’asii, going up easily, rung by rung. Shedara came behind, then Forlo, still weak from his near-drowning but stubbornly pushing on, keeping pace. Hult looked down past the man, half expecting to see Eldako, but of course the merkitsa wasn’t there. It was strange to think he was gone. It had been too sudden. Hult felt the claw he’d taken from Gloomwing, now hanging on the same cord as the jade amulet, and said a prayer for the wild elf’s spirit. It was a sacrilege—according to the Uigan elders, elves were devils, with no souls to voyage on to Jijin’s hunting halls—but he didn’t care. Eldako had been a friend, and no god who refused a prayer for a friend was worth worshiping.
The climb was long and tiring. He was breathing hard when he reached the top. Ke-cha-yat was a large village, its huts woven from fronds and grass, lashed to the platforms and reinforced with more deadwood. Moth lamps hung from creepers above the walkways, looping from tree to tree. But something wasn’t right here—nearly half the huts were dark, their lamps snuffed out, their ceilings bowed inward, reinforcing sticks poking out like bones. Something had emptied the village. Hult’s people had been raiders, and he knew the signs. Ke-cha-yat looked like a Kazar encampment after the Uigan had ridden through.
The akitu-shai had been busy, it seemed—but it hadn’t been a completely one-sided war. Severed heads stood impaled on stakes in front of many of the remaining huts: they were brown and withered, their eyes sewn shut, and they definitely weren’t human. The shapes were wrong, too bulbous, and there was no sign of hair, noses or ears. Tentacles, dried to leather by whatever preserving rituals the elves employed, hung from where the creatures’ mouths should be. These were the Crawling Maws, then, ones the cha’asii had managed to slay.
Now the last of the party were coming up the ladder, and with them they brought their latest trophy. Hauling on cords of jute, they dragged up the dragon’s head, laying it upon the wooden platform. Gloomwing had seemed majestic in life, but now, his face pierced by arrows and spears, one of his eyes burst, the wyrm looked pathetic. Still, Hult couldn’t go so far as to feel sorry for the beast—not when it had led them on such a long chase and taken Eldako from them at the end.
Word spread through the village of what the party had brought back. Huts emptied, small, nearly naked figures climbing down from higher platforms, scurrying across the bridges, swinging over chasms on vines. They stared at Hult, Forlo, and Shedara with wide eyes, and some clenched their fists and bared their teeth in what looked like warding gestures. They were all armed, every single adult—whether it was a spear, a hatchet, or a long, obsidian knife.
There were bows and blowguns as well, and after what had happened to Gloomwing, Hult and the others kept their hands away from their weapons, just in case. Within moments, almost two hundred elves had gathered around them and the dragon’s head. They made no sound, only stared with wondering eyes at these giants in their midst. Even Hult, who was the shortest of the three, towered over the cha’asii by more than a head. It was like being surrounded by tiny spirits.
At the rear of the crowd, movement caught his eye. Someone was moving through the mass, elves parting to let her pass, their eyes cast downward. It was the oldest elf he had ever seen, the only one he had ever beheld who actually showed true age. She was even tinier than her k
in, stooped and withered, wrinkled skin hanging loose on her bones. She moved haltingly, hobbling with every step, her joints so stiff she could barely move. A fan-shaped crest of waving feathers—all of them pure white—loomed above her head, and a cloak of the same covered her shoulders. Her face was lined with age and dusted pale with chalk. Her eyes were clear, icy blue—the only part of her that didn’t look ancient. Veiled elf maids flanked her, holding her elbows to keep her upright as she tottered up to Hult.
“I am Yu-shan,” she said in a voice like the croak of a raven. “Grandmother to our people. I speak for them.”
Nalaran’s amulet pulsed against Hult’s breast. He nodded, then bowed. Behind him, Shedara and Forlo followed suit. “I am honored, Grandmother. Among my people, the elder-women are revered. It is good to see the cha’asii are as civilized.”
Yu-shan smiled. Unlike the crones of the Uigan, she still had all her teeth. The crinkles in her face deepened even more.
“A flatterer, this one!” she said to one of her handmaidens. “You be careful when he is near, child. We do not want any man-children being born.”
The handmaiden flushed behind her veil, lowering her gaze. Hult felt his own face redden.
“You may trust me, wise one,” he said. “I took an oath to remain chaste.”
“What a waste,” the Grandmother said, looking him up and down. “You would have many strong sons, I ken. But no matter. Important things have happened, I hear. The black wyrm is slain, and you have come. Yes, it is as was foretold.”
Hult shivered, thinking of the makau of the Ice People and his spirit-wolves. “You knew we were coming as well?”
The old elf nodded. “Grandmother knows all,” she replied. “Grandmother sees all. Your coming was prophesied, long ago. Well before you were born, or any of your friends. The leaves whispered of your coming—two men-folk and two of our kind, with the head of a dragon as tribute. You are to save our people from the akitu-shai … only.…” She stopped, peering at the others. Her brow furrowed. “Where is the fourth? The second of our kin?”
