by Dragon Lance
“No, little friend,” he chided. “You mustn’t take what the tree has not offered!”
Koth popped a whole apple in his mouth and chewed it up – stem, seeds, skin, and all. He grinned at Verhanna. “Your cousin with the green fingers is one of the old ones,” he said.
“Old ones” was a common epithet given to members of the elven race. Verhanna, still ill-at-ease around the centaur band, said, “He’s not my cousin.”
“All peoples are cousins,” answered Koth. Bits of overripe apple flew from his mouth. The other centaurs were racing around the ravine, yelling and dancing. Verhanna realized that the fermented fruit was making them tipsy. Soon the centaurs were singing, arms looped around their fellows’ shoulders. Their bass and baritone voices sounded surprisingly harmonious.
Koth sang:
“Child of oak, newly born,
Walks among the mortals mild,
By lightning from his mother torn.
Who knows the father of this child?
Who hears music in the flowers’ sway
And fears no creature in the wild
Shall wear a crown made far away
And dwell within a tower tiled.”
“You made up a song about Greenhands,” Rufus said admiringly. “That part about crowns, though —”
“It is a very sad song,” Koth interrupted. “My grandfather’s grandfather sang it, and ‘twas ancient then.”
Verhanna was growing tired of the drunken, bumptious centaurs. When one thumped into her for the second time, she announced she was going back to get some sleep. She strongly hinted that Rufus and Greenhands should do likewise.
“Cousin,” said Koth to Greenhands, “You travel far?”
The centaurs quieted down and gathered around the green-fingered elf. “Yes, uncle. My father awaits me in a high place of stone,” replied Greenhands.
“Then take this with you, gentle cousin.” Koth took a ram’s horn that hung by a strap around his neck and gave it to the elf. “If ever you need the Sons of the Wind, blow hard on this horn and we shall come.”
“Thank you, uncle, and all my cousins,” Greenhands said, looping the strap around his neck.
He led the warrior maiden and the kender back to their camp. No one spoke. The shouts of the centaurs echoed once more through the peaks, slurred now as they continued to eat the fermented apples. Greenhands returned to the same boulder he’d sat by before, and he was asleep nearly as soon as he sat down. Rufus climbed back up to his safe perch, and Verhanna curled up by the dying fire. The smell of the centaurs lingered in her nostrils a long time. So did the words to Koth’s ancient song.
Chapter 13
THE GREAT STONE HOUSE
Dru and Ulvian rode all day without stopping. The rugged mountain ponies were hardy beasts, but even they rebelled at such treatment. By evening, they were panting and balking. In a fury, Dru lashed at his mount with a cut sapling switch. The pony responded by throwing the short-tempered sorcerer to the ground and galloping away.
Ulvian, sitting calmly on his own mount, watched Dru’s fall and the flight of the abused pony. Dru scrambled to his feet and shouted, “After him! Worthless nag! I’ll flay him if I ever get my hands on him!”
“Seems unlikely, from where I sit,” remarked the prince. He slid off his horse, wincing. Riding bareback through the mountains for six hours had taken its toll on his aching backside.
Dru scowled and threw the hair back from his eyes. His manner had changed considerably since they left Pax Tharkas; his respectfulness, never sincere, had vanished completely. Sitting on a convenient boulder, he stared daggers in the direction of the fleeing pony.
All anger at the horse was forgotten, though, when Ulvian pulled the golden box out of his ragged cloak. The gilt flashed in the failing daylight. Dru licked his thin lips expectantly as Ulvian set the box on the ground between his feet. The prince produced the only tool he had, a mason’s trowel he’d picked up near Feldrin’s tent. He poked and scraped at the box. The gilt covering was supple, like leather, but the hard dwarven iron of the trowel didn’t even scratch it. A charmed box indeed. Ulvian examined the hinges, the hasp in front, and the seal that held the box closed.
“Well?” Dru demanded peevishly. “What are you waiting for? Open it!”
“I shall. There’s no sense blundering into it, though.” The sorcerer slapped his thigh in frustration.
Ulvian lifted the seal on its silken string. He guessed that Feldrin wouldn’t rely on a flimsy wax seal alone to protect the black amulet. Hooking the tip of the trowel inside the loop of silk, he broke the seal. Dru inhaled sharply.
“Now,” he breathed. “Open it!”
The prince set the box down. The hasp was loose. Very gently he inserted the tip of the trowel under the lid and, with a sudden jerk, flipped the lid up. Something moved with blinding speed toward his hand. Ulvian recoiled and drove the trowel like a knife into the yellowgreen thing that had leapt at him.
Dru peered over his shoulder. “What is it?”
Skewered neatly on the tool was a large spider with a red rectangle on its belly.
“A headstone spider,” Dru said. His tone was admiring. “One bite means certain death. Old Feldrin wasn’t such a fool after all.”
The prince flung the dead spider aside. Inside the box was a folded piece of silver cloth. Though there was little light remaining, the silver material threw off scintillas of light. When Ulvian touched it, its surface rippled with iridescent colors. The lumpy shape of the onyx amulet was obvious beneath the supple material. Without removing the cloth, he surreptitiously pushed the cylinder out of the ring, separating the halves of the magic talisman.
“Give it to me,” Dru ordered imperiously. “Why are you so slow? Give me my amulet!”
Ulvian’s hazel eyes glittered like cold metal as he looked at the sorcerer. “And if I don’t? Will you flay me like the tired pony?”
The sorcerer balled his fists and nudged Ulvian sharply with his knee. “Don’t be a fool!” he thundered. “The whole point of our escaping was to get my amulet back! It’s of no use to you. Give it to me!”
Ulvian stood abruptly and presented the point of the trowel to Dru’s throat. Reddish blood, the poisonous blood of the headstone spider, covered the tool’s sharp tip. Dru blanched and turned his head away.
“You seem to forget that I am a prince,” Ulvian snapped.
Dru swallowed hard and forced a smile. It was the ghastly expression of a grinning skull. “My friend,” he said, striving for a soothing tone, “be at ease. I was – I am – very nervous about getting my property back. Did I not save you from the stone block? Didn’t my golem avenge the insults inflicted on you by Splint? We are free now, my prince, but vulnerable. Only my magic can protect us from the wrath of your father and the dwarf king.”
The trowel was lowered a few inches. “I am not afraid of my father. I have no intention of hiding from him,” Ulvian said slowly. “My only thought in aiding you was to escape those thugs in Pax Tharkas who seemed bent on murdering me. Now that we are free, I intend to make my way back to Qualinost.”
“But, Highness,” Dru objected, “How do you know your father won’t simply return you to Pax Tharkas? Your supposed crimes are now compounded by mayhem, murder, and escape. I would not trust the Speaker’s mercy. Better to return with me at your side, my prince, fully armed with all my black arts and ready to defend you!”
Ulvian bent over and lifted the wrapped amulet. Dru’s eyes bulged. Color flooded his face, and his breath hissed out. Ulvian shook the silver cloth, and a single piece of onyx – the ring – fell out into Dru’s hands. He put the cloth back in the box and closed the lid.
“What’s this?” Dru all but shrieked. “The other —”
“I don’t trust you enough to give it all to you. If you behave and do as I tell you, then I’ll give you the other half. Maybe.”
A scream of outrage welled up in the sorcerer’s throat, but it died before it could esc
ape his lips. Instead, Dru closed his fingers around the black stone ring, and his tight lips pulled back in a smile. “As you wish, Highness. I, Drulethen, am your servant.”
The sorcerer told Ulvian that the onyx ring solved his transportation problem; he no longer needed a pony. The ring allowed its possessor to shape-change. Before Ulvian’s wide eyes, Drulethen the elven sorcerer expanded like a water-filled bladder. His skin split, and feathers sprouted. His fingers curved into talons as his arms were transformed into wings. A ripping scream issued from his swollen throat, and a hooked yellow beak burst through Dru’s face. The sorcerer’s eyes, as gray as storm clouds, were slowly suffused with a yellow tint. The transformation was too horrible to watch. When next Ulvian looked, a giant falcon stood before him, preening his shiny, golden-brown feathers.
So warlike was the expression in the great bird’s eyes, Ulvian fell back a pace. Uncertainly he asked, “Dru? Can you speak?”
“Har! Yes!”
Ulvian put the golden box under his cloak and walked to his pony, which was straining against its tied reins. The sight of the six-foot-tall hawk was unnerving it. As the prince mounted, he said, “Where shall we go?”
“Har! My home. Black Stone Peak. Har!”
So saying, the giant falcon spread its wings and lifted into the air. It was completely dark, but Dru’s eyes glowed yellow, allowing Ulvian to mark his position. Calling out his harsh cries, the transformed sorcerer circled overhead, guiding Ulvian along the narrow path. A few hours ride, Dru promised, and they would reach his stronghold, the ancient pinnacle known as Black Stone Peak.
*
Twenty elven warriors, armed with lance and shield, formed ranks in the pass above Pax Tharkas with Kemian Ambrodel and Kith-Kanan at their head. Each warrior carried three days’ worth of water and dried food, a thin blanket roll, and a clay cup. Kith-Kanan told his soldiers that the eyrie occupied by Drulethen was at the very highest ridge of the Kharolis, up a steep trail. The warriors would need to travel fast and light.
The peak of his conical helmet flashed in the clean mountain sunlight. No ceremonial headpiece, Kith-Kanan’s helmet had served him all through the Kinslayer War and bore its hammered-out dents and broken rivets with pride. Mounted on his snow-white charger, the Speaker looked back over his small band of fighters, none of whom had served with him against the armies of Ergoth. He marveled at their youthful seriousness. When the young blades of Silvanesti had first gone to war against the humans, they had done so with singing and shouting and tales of valor ringing in their ears.
Every one of them imagined himself a hero in the making. But these warriors with their solemn faces – where did these pensive young elves come from?
He raised his hand and ordered Kemian to lead the warriors forward. Tamanier called out, “When will you return, Great Speaker?”
“If you do not see my face five days hence, summon all the Wildrunners,” Kith-Kanan replied.
“And find Verhanna. She must know, too.”
Touching his heels to his horse’s snowy sides, Kith-Kanan cantered to the head of the double column. The old castellan watched the riders go. The constant breeze sweeping down the pass fluttered the small pennants on their lance tips. Tamanier was afraid, but he couldn’t decide whom he feared most – his own son, Prince Ulvian, or Kith-Kanan.
Leaning heavily on his staff, the castellan walked back to the camp. It was alive with the sound of saws and hammers, as the damage wrought by the golem was being speedily repaired.
*
The head of the pass gave onto three paths. One was the way down to Pax Tharkas; the one to Kith-Kanan’s left, north, was the route to Qualinost; and trickling off to the Speaker’s right, southward, was a narrow goat path that led to the higher reaches of the Kharolis Mountains. It was that way they must go.
“Single file. Tell the warriors,” Kith-Kanan said in quiet, clipped tones. It was strange how easily the old ways of war and campaign came back, even after a long time.
“Who shall ride point?” asked Kemian.
“I will.” The young general would have protested, but Kith-Kanan forestalled him by adding, “Drulethen and my son have had no time to set traps. Speed is the essential thing now. We must catch them before they reach the sorcerer’s stronghold.”
Kemian turned his horse around to spread the word to the others. He asked in parting, “Where is it this Drulethen is going? A castle?”
“Not exactly. It’s called Black Stone Peak. The mountaintop was once a nest of dragons, who hollowed out the spire and made a warren of caves through it. Drulethen, with the help of his dark masters, took over the empty peak and made it his stronghold. You see, many years ago, during the great war, Drulethen extracted tribute from the dwarves as well as from any caravan crossing the mountains. He used to fly out on a tame wyvern and carry off captives to his high retreat. It took a concentrated assault by the dwarves and the griffon corps to overcome him.”
“It must have been an amazing battle, sire. Why have I not heard of it? Why is it not sung?” he asked.
Unaccountably Kith-Kanan’s eyes avoided his. “It was not a proud fight,” he said, “nor an honorable one. I will say no more about it.”
Kemian saluted and rode off to give the troopers their orders. The warriors strung out in a long, single-file line. The path was so narrow the riders’ boots scraped rock on both sides as they negotiated the passage. Their lances proved troublesome in the close quarters as well. They were constantly banging against the overhanging wall of rock, making quite a clatter and bringing a barrage of pebbles down on the riders’ heads. This narrow trail persisted for some hours, until Kith-Kanan emerged from it onto a small plateau. Once hemmed in by rock, the warriors were now exposed. The plateau was turtlebacked, paved with large stones worn smooth by centuries of wind and the runoff of melting ice. The heavy cavalry horses stumbled on the rocks. Dru’s and Ulvian’s ponies were far better suited to this terrain.
A cloud passed between the sun and the valley below. They were so high up, the cloud sailed along below them. The elves admired the view, and Kith-Kanan allowed them to rest for a few minutes while he scouted ahead. Kemian turned his horse to follow the Speaker.
“Any sign, Majesty?” he asked.
“Some.” Kith-Kanan pointed to where moss had been scuffed off some stones by the hooves of ponies. “They are nearly a half day ahead of us,” he reported grimly.
Water bottles were tucked away, and the ride resumed. They crossed the plateau to a steeply climbing trail. Kith-Kanan spotted a glint of metal on the ground. He raised his hand to halt the troopers and dismounted. With his dagger tip, he fished the object out from a cleft in the rocks. It was the broken lock from Feldrin’s golden casket. A cold pressure constricted the Speaker’s heart.
“They have opened the box,” he said to Kemian. Standing, Kith-Kanan held the broken lock in his gauntleted palm and studied the surrounding slopes. “Yet there’s no sign of any magic being unleashed. Perhaps Drulethen does not possess the amulet yet.” Perhaps his son was smarter than he reckoned, Kith-Kanan silently added. The only hope Ulvian had for survival was to keep the talisman from the sorcerer’s hands. The Speaker could only pray that his son realized that. Of course, Drulethen might be in such a hurry to reach his stronghold that he simply hadn’t used the power he possessed.
The Speaker remounted and dropped the broken lock into his saddlebag. “Pass the word: Be as silent as possible. And quicken the pace.”
Kemian nodded, his blood racing. This was far more challenging than rounding up bands of scruffy slavers. The chill air seemed charged with danger. The general rode down the line, conferring with the warriors in a hushed voice. The young fighters tugged at harness straps and armor fittings, tightening everything.
Kith-Kanan remained in the lead. He shifted his sword handle forward for easier drawing. Alone among all the rest, he was armed with sword and small buckler, instead of lance and full shield. His charger took the slope easily, it
s powerful legs propelling horse and rider up the hill. The warriors followed, but it was a slow process going up so steep a grade in single file. The column strung out until a half-mile separated Kith-Kanan and the last rider.
A covey of black birds started up in front of Kith-Kanan’s horse. The animal snorted and tried to rear, but the Speaker’s strong hands on his reins brought him down. With soothing pats and almost inaudible words, Kith-Kanan calmed his nervous mount. The black birds circled overhead, twittering. Staring up at the ebony whirlwind, Kith-Kanan experienced a sudden flash of memory, of a time long ago when crows had watched him as he struggled to find his way through a deep and mysterious forest. They had led him to the boy, Mackeli, who in turn had brought him to Anaya.
A shout from behind snapped Kith-Kanan’s head around. One of the warriors had seen something. He twisted his horse around in time to see the elf lower his lance and charge into a small passage Kith-Kanan had passed a hundred paces back down the trail. There was a fearful scream. The nearest warriors crowded into the passage. Kith-Kanan rode hard down the slope, shouting at them to clear the way.
Just before he reached the mouth of the side ravine, the warriors sprang apart, some losing their lances in the process. A dark brown form hurtled by, veered between the tall chargers, and bolted down the trail. Seconds later, a sheepish-looking warrior appeared, unharmed, from the narrow passage.
“Your Majesty,” said the elf, scarlet to his ear tips. “Forgive me. It was a stray pony.”
The warriors, keyed up for a fight or to face some unknown horror, began to chuckle. The chuckles grew into guffaws.
“Brave fellow!”
“How big was the pony’s sword?”
“Did he kick you with his little hooves?” they gibed. Kith-Kanan called them down, and they rapidly fell silent. The Speaker glared at them.
“This is not a pleasure ride!” he snapped. “You are in the field, and the enemy could be near! Deport yourselves like warriors!”
