Riverwind p2-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  Her eyes opened slowly. “Mors? Is that you?” she asked weakly.

  “It is. You have changed, little digger.”

  “I've grown up. Are you… angry that I went away?”

  “I was, but no longer.”

  Di An thought that it was strange to feel Mors's arm around her waist. Strange, but good. She asked, “Did you hear the words of the goddess, too? Did you see her sacred staff?” When Mors nodded, she added, “I dwelled in the realm of the gods. For how long, I don't know. Riverwind and I were trying to escape from the dragon, and there were men like lizards-”

  “Dragon!” Mors exclaimed. “Men like lizards? Are you sure your head is clear?”

  Di An fixed him with a startling stare. Her formerly dark eyes were now a brilliant blue, the same color as the staff of Quenesti Pah. “My head is quite clear, Mors.” She thought of poor Catchflea, dead at the hands of the draconians. She saw Riverwind burning with fever-was he safe? “And my heart is quite heavy.”

  Mors and Di An went out to the waiting warriors. He could hardly believe this cool, ethereal woman was the barren child who had led him around during his darkest days.

  “I shall always try to lead you well,” Di An said in a confidential tone. Mors blinked. She'd read his thoughts. “After all, I would not be here now if I hadn't followed you-even as I led you.”

  Mors presented Di An to the warriors, and they saluted her by raising their spears high. That done, Mors was at a loss. He asked Di An what she wanted to do.

  She looked out over the smoky, poisoned cavern. She thought of all the barren children laboring in the fields and mines. Though she could now remember the surface world without fear, she knew she belonged in Hest, with her own people. As her bright gaze took in the hazy vista, Di An said, “I want to heal this place. And, perhaps, heal myself.”

  Somehow Riverwind managed to make it to the base of the mountains. One foot after the other, he plodded through a day and a night and a day. His decision to throw himself down the shaft drove him. Though other methods of death threatened him-hunger and thirst among them-he was obsessed with the notion that he must die in the shaft. Somehow that would be right.

  Riverwind felt baked hard from the fever heat inside him, so the discovery of a spring of sweet water in a cleft of the rocks was as great a gift as he ever thought to receive.

  His thirst slaked, the hunger that tightened his belly into a knot returned. Riverwind had no bow and hardly expected to take any game with his bare hands. He found some pine nuts growing in clusters around some of the taller boulders. He ate hundreds of the tiny, thready seeds. That helped a little, but he couldn't live on them. As night fell again, he lay atop a gently rounded boulder, the peaks of the mountains looming over him. He would never make it up the mountainside in his weakened condition. He would fail in his resolve to die in the shaft. I can't even carry that quest through, he thought bitterly.

  The stars came out. He saw the broken scales of Hiddu-kel, the bison head of Kiri-Jolith, the black hood of Mor-gion. Beside Morgion, just peeking over the tops of the mountains, was the constellation Mishakal. Like the steel amulet he'd given Goldmoon, the stars of Mishakal formed two joined circles. “The Endless Chase,” his father had called it. If you traced the loop with your finger, you never reached the end.

  “What does it mean?” the boy Riverwind had asked.

  “It means, no matter where you wander, the goddess is always with you,” his father had replied.

  Always with you-like the face of Goldmoon, which was never long out of his thoughts. Riverwind closed his eyes and conjured up her image. The silver-golden hair, the flashing eyes, the soft, red lips… The sight caused tears to trickle from under his closed eyelids. She was so beautiful. His quest having failed, she would marry another. Ar-rowthorn would insist. He had never approved of Riverwind anyway.

  The idea of Goldmoon as another man's wife sent a surge of anger through Riverwind. Despair had not completely consumed him. He would never permit Arrowthorn to marry her to another! He would steal her away first-

  His eyes snapped open. How stupid! How selfish! He'd forgotten his other vital task, to warn everyone of the dra-conians and their plans for conquest. That alone should be reason enough to return to Que-Shu. And his courting quest was not a failure. While he lived, the quest would go on. And if it took ten years or a hundred, Goldmoon would wait for him. He knew how strong her spirit and her will were. She would never be forced into marriage.

  Riverwind got up from the boulder and started climbing. Every mountain begins the same way, he thought grimly. From the bottom, going up. And that's the way, ill or hearty, he had to take them.

  It was a nightmare climb. The plainsman's legs shivered in the cooling mountain air, and more than a few times they failed, buckling and throwing him to the ground. When that happened, Riverwind clawed his way along with his fingers. Never mind that blood flowed from his torn nails. Never mind the blurring of his sight by the still-raging fever. He had to continue his journey.

  He reached a small plateau and rolled over on his back to catch his breath. It streamed out, a thin white vapor in the night air. Only a moment to rest, just a short moment.

  The Blue Crystal Staff materialized in the air above him. He moaned, thinking it was a feverish delusion, but when Riverwind put out a hand to grasp the floating staff, his fingers closed around smooth, hard sapphire. The staff had returned. It was cold and bright in his hand. The magic aura subsided, and Riverwind felt the rough, dark wood.

  “Thank you, Mishakal,” he said. “Thank you!” The mountain rang with his cry.

  He wondered what had happened to Di An, where she was. The goddess must have helped her. She must have. He said a silent prayer for the elf woman.

  Riverwind resumed his climb. He leaned heavily on the five-foot-long rod, and it supported him on the long ascent.

  In the days that followed, Riverwind's fortunes waxed and waned. In the high, narrow valleys of the Forsaken Mountains, he found wild berries and roots to eat, but no game he could catch bare-handed. The swamp fever would fade for an hour, or a day, only to strike him again, reducing the plainsman to a huddled, shivering wreck. During these periods, Riverwind wandered aimlessly off his chosen path, sometimes three or four leagues in the wrong direction. His mind grew dull with the heat and pain. He cut his hands and feet, stumbling over sharp stones. He wandered for three days, delirious, only to be brought to his senses by a sudden downpour of ice-cold rain. It was then that he discovered how lost he was. The peaks around him were unfamiliar, and the forest unlike any he'd entered before.

  While Riverwind stood in the cold rain, marshaling his thoughts, he heard a young man's voice say, “What do you want, vagabond?”

  He turned and saw he had stumbled into the open near a camp. Two stout wagons were set axle to axle, a canvas tent spread out before them. A fire burned fitfully under the sodden tarp. Standing between Riverwind and the camp was a young man in a dripping cape and rain-soaked hat. He held a slim-bladed sword. The point faced Riverwind.

  “I said, what do you want?” repeated the young man. From beneath his hat, yellow-hair gleamed.

  “I'm lost,” Riverwind said.

  “Well, wandering thieves aren't welcome here!”

  “There's no need for threats,” Riverwind said. His teeth chattered as the cold of the rain seemed to penetrate to his bones. “I'm not a brigand.”

  “How do I know that?” asked the blond fellow. “You're a big fellow and you carry a stout stick.”

  “Look, could I warm myself by your fire? I am chilled through and through.”

  “No! Be off!” He stamped his foot for emphasis, but only succeeded in splashing mud on his own boots.

  Riverwind considered trying to disarm the youngster, but before he could act on the notion, his temporary sense of balance fled, and the next thing he knew, he was lying in the mud on his back. The blond boy was joined by another figure in a hooded cape.

  “Who's t
hat? What did you do to him?” asked the hooded one. The voice sounded like a girl's.

  “I did nothing,” replied the boy. “He's only some beggar.”

  “He has the bearing of a warrior,” the girl observed. “But he looks quite ill.”

  “We can't take in every starving robber who passes.”

  “Well, we certainly can't leave him out here in the rain!” the girl declared. Riverwind wanted to applaud her good manners, but he was too weak to even make a sound.

  The girl tried to lift him by an arm, but wasn't strong enough. The boy watched for a moment, then joined in. The two of them half-carried, half-dragged Riverwind to the wagons. With much straining and complaining, they hoisted him into one wagon.

  The canvas flap fell, and the boy removed his hat. He had a high forehead and lots of freckles. His gray eyes were bloodshot. The girl slipped back her hood. She had a pleasant, plump face, a button nose, and curly black hair.

  “Hand me a cloth, Darmon,” said the girl. The boy plucked a rag from the bow frame of the roof and gave it to her. She blotted Riverwind's face and neck, wrung out the rag, and dried his hands and arms.

  “Thank you,” the plainsman managed to say.

  “What's your name?” asked the girl gently.

  “Riverwind.”

  The boy, Darmon, snorted. “A barbarian name!” he declared. The girl shushed him.

  “Don't take him too seriously,” she advised the young plainsman. “Darmon likes to think he has noble blood, and that allows him to look down on other people.”

  “I do have noble blood, Lona! My uncle is Lord Bedric of-”

  “So you've told me. And told me.” The girl wrung her cloth again. “My name is Arlona. Lona for short. What happened to you, Riverwind, that put you in such a state?”

  He blinked his burning eyes and marshaled his thoughts. “I'm trying to get home,” he said. “To Que-Shu. My beloved is there, waiting for me. I have to give this staff to Goldmoon.” It lay beside him on the pallet of blankets.

  “That thing?” Darmon said, pointing at the staff with one toe. “What's so special about that old stick?”

  “The Staff of Mishakal. It fulfills my quest,” Riverwind said feverishly.

  The boy rolled his eyes and shook his head, muttering, “Barbarians.”

  Lona made some hot soup, and while it simmered she told Riverwind how she and Darmon came to be out here in the middle of nowhere.

  “Darmon and I are the last survivors of Quidnin's Royal Theatre Company,” Lona said, stirring the broth. “We'd been on the road from the New Ports for Solace when Master Quidnin had a falling out with the wagon leader over the best route to take. Quidnin won out, unfortunately, and we went east.” The dark-haired girl stared into the pot. “It seems we should have gone west. We ended up in the mountains. The drovers were furious with Quidnin for getting us lost. There was a terrible argument, and the drovers abandoned us. Quidnin was still certain that we couldn't be too far off. He sent scouts one by one to search for help, for food, for water. None of the scouts ever came back. Of the eleven people in the theatre company when we set out from the New Ports, only Darmon and I remain.”

  “Actors?” Riverwind said. He sipped the mug of weak but hot broth Lona had given him, and felt better. He reached out and fingered the end of the blade Darmon had presented to him in the rain. It bent easily under his thumb. The sword was a prop, made of tin.

  “Hey!” Darmon protested. “You'll ruin it! Stop!” He shifted to the other side of the wagon, out of Riverwind's reach. The plainsman chuckled at the realization that he'd been threatened by a boy with a toy sword.

  “How did you come to be out here?” Lona asked, watching him intently with bright brown eyes.

  “I've traveled from Xak Tsaroth,” Riverwind said. “I found this staff there. Before that-” He frowned. “The details are hazy. There was a girl… a girl with dark hair.”

  Lona pressed a cool hand to his cheek. “You have a high fever,” she said. “It's no wonder your head is addled.”

  Riverwind drank more broth. “How long have you been out here alone?” he asked.

  “The last of the adults, a fellow named Varabo, rode off on the last cart horse, promising to return in a day if he didn't meet up with assistance,” Lona said. “That was a week past, and we've been waiting here in the middle of nowhere ever since.”

  “I told Varabo I should be the one to go,” Darmon said. “I knew he'd never find the way out.”

  “Let me get my strength back, and I'll guide you out of the mountains,” Riverwind said.

  “You!” Darmon sneered. “I thought you were lost, too.”

  “The fever has dulled my senses,” replied the plainsman. He was developing a dislike for the arrogant boy. “Once my head clears, I can show you exactly how to get to Solace, if that's where you want to go.”

  “Hmm, I suppose you'll want to share our food.”

  Lona slapped Darmon lightly on the leg. “He's welcome to anything we have,” she insisted. Lona frowned at River-wind's decayed leather clothing. “I can stitch up some of Quidnin's clothes for you, I think. You're taller, but at least they'll cover you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Lona's the company seamstress. She enjoys sewing and all,” Darmon sniffed.

  With warmth in his belly and a dry blanket over him, Riverwind fell asleep. He dreamed of Goldmoon. She waited for him, arms outstretched. Suddenly, her face changed and she had short, dark hair. This woman he didn't recognize, though her name seemed just out of reach.

  Gray clouds torn to shreds by a fresh wind scudded across the mountain sky. Riverwind scratched under his new, uncomfortable clothes. Lona had mended a linen shirt and tight-fitting breeches for him. She rummaged through a dozen pairs of shoes before she found some wooden-soled half-boots that fit Riverwind's feet. This eclectic ensemble was not to his taste-the shirt had faded red stripes, and the pants were much too tight-but it was better than wandering around three-quarters naked, like some savage.

  Riverwind had a long argument with Darmon when he told the boy they would have to abandon the wagons. All their theatrical gear was in them, Darmon protested. But who will pull the wagons? Riverwind reminded him. In the end, sullen and silent, Darmon packed what items he wanted in a wooden carrying case and joined Riverwind and Lona on foot.

  They followed the narrow wagon track down the slope of the mountain. The great forest spread out around them. Riverwind had to pause frequently to rest. During these respites he noticed how a few of the leaves on some trees were beginning to acquire their fall colors. He saw clumps of yellow starflowers, which he knew bloomed only at the end of the summer season. Finally, at a rest break, he remarked on how strange it seemed that summer was nearly over.

  “Why is that strange?” asked Darmon.

  Riverwind stared at the young man. “It was late summer when I left Que-Shu,” Riverwind said. “I feel I've been traveling for a long time and yet it is still the end of summer.”

  “Perhaps you mix up the seasons?” Darmon said. “Haven't you been paying attention?”

  “Be civil!” Lona chided.

  “In truth, I think I was in a place that had no seasons.” Riverwind rubbed his temples with his long fingers. “I don't know how that can be so,” he said.

  “It will all come back to you when you are well,” Lona said. She reached in a bag and brought out a handful of dried apple slices. She gave a few to Darmon and Riverwind. Riverwind nibbled absently on the fruit. He tried hard to remember. Bits and pieces floated through his mind-a murderous thing flying through the air with black wings, a kind and loving blue light-it made no sense, and it made his head hurt. He gave up for a while.

  Gapped as his memory was, some things were quite clear. He knew exactly where they were: an arm of the Forsaken Mountains thrust south and east into the forest. There was a high pass into the southern range of mountains that led directly to the high plateau. The Sageway East ran along the northern edge
of the plateau, and once on it, Que-Shu was an easy two days' march away. That memory was also clear-his home was Que-Shu, and there Goldmoon awaited him.

  He explained the route to Darmon and Lona, and they agreed to go that way. As they walked, Lona told Riverwind how she and Darmon came to be with the Royal Theatre Company.

  “We're orphans, Darmon and I,” she began. “My mother worked as a seamstress and cook for the company. She died a year ago of the flux, and I inherited her duties.”

  “I'm sorry,” Riverwind said sincerely.

  “Oh, she had a better life than most, and she didn't suffer much in the end. But, Darmon, he ran away from home to be an actor.” She arched her dark eyebrows and assumed a lofty air.

  “My aristocratic family didn't approve of a son acting in plays,” Darmon said. He turned his face into the crosswind and let the air stir his loose blond hair. “They didn't understand I was born to be an artist.”

  What rot, Riverwind thought. He said, “What will the two of you do when you reach Solace?”

  “If the stars are with us, we should find Quidnin or some of the company there,” Lona said.

  “And if you don't?”

  “We'll start our own company,” Darmon said firmly.

  Riverwind did not voice his own belief that all the actors were dead-starved or murdered-in the vast loneliness of the mountains. Kind Arlona and arrogant Darmon would most likely have nothing waiting for them in Solace. Nothing but a dead end.

  Riverwind had a bad attack of the chills that night, in spite of the jar of hot water Lona gave him to hold against his chest. His teeth chattered so loudly he asked Darmon to whittle a white wood twig for him to bite down on. When sleep finally claimed him, he dreamed again. This time the images were more muddled than before.

  He stood in a black space. Something flew overhead, a black, winged creature that had haunted his sleep the night before. Out of the dark, a woman's voice called his name.

  Her voice was familiar. She walked out of the darkness toward him. Her hair was long and golden, and her beautiful face was sad. As she passed by him, Riverwind saw tears on her smooth cheeks. She moved on, still calling his name, until the darkness had once more swallowed her.