The History of Krynn: Vol III

by Dragon Lance

  “I can’t give him back. That beast is the only profit I’ll realize on this voyage. You’ve got the boy back, leave the animal and go on your way.”

  “No! Surrender Arcuballis! I have you in my sight,” Kith-Kanan warned.

  “No doubt you do, but if you shoot me, my men will kill the griffon. Now, I don’t want to die, and I’m certain you don’t want a dead griffon either. What would you say to fighting for the beast in an honorable contest with swords?”

  “How do I know you won’t try some treachery?”

  The half-human flung off his cape. “I doubt that will be necessary.”

  Kith-Kanan didn’t trust him, but before the elf could say anything more, the half-human had taken a lantern from one of his men and was striding up the steep path to the top of the cliff, leading the griffon as he came. Arcuballis, usually so spirited, hung its head as it walked. The powerful wings had been pinioned by leather straps, and a muzzle made from chain mail covered the griffon’s hooked beak.

  “You have bewitched my animal,” Kith-Kanan said furiously.

  Voltorno tied the bridle to a tree and set the lantern on a waist-high boulder. “It is necessary.” As the half-human faced Kith-Kanan, the elf studied him carefully. He was quite tall, and in the lantern’s glow his hair was golden. A fine, downy beard covered his cheeks and chin, revealing his human heritage, but Voltorno’s ears were slightly pointed, denoting elven blood. His clothes and general bearing were far more refined than any of the humans with him.

  “Are you sure you have enough light to see?” Kith-Kanan asked sarcastically, gesturing at the lantern.

  Voltorno smiled brilliantly. “Oh, that isn’t for me. It’s for my men. They would hate to miss the show.”

  When Kith-Kanan presented his sword, Voltorno complimented him on the weapon. “The pattern is a bit old-fashioned, but very handsome. I shall enjoy using it after you’re dead,” he smirked.

  The sailors lined the beach below to watch the duel. They cheered Voltorno and jeered Kith-Kanan as the two duelists circled each other warily. The half-human’s blade flickered in, reaching for Kith-Kanan’s heart. The elf parried, rolled the slim Ergothian rapier aside, and lunged with his stouter elven point.

  Voltorno laughed and steered Kith-Kanan’s thrust into the ground. He tried to stomp on the prince’s blade, to snap the stiff iron, but Kith-Kanan drew back, avoiding the seafarer’s heavy boots.

  “You fight well,” Voltorno offered. “Who are you? Despite the rags you wear, you are no wild elf.”

  “I am Silvanesti. That is all you need to know,” Kith-Kanan said tightly.

  Voltorno smiled, pleasantly enough. “So much pride. You think I am some renegade.”

  “It is easy to see which race you have chosen to serve,” Kith-Kanan said.

  “The humans, for all their crudity, have appreciation for talent. In your nation I would be an outcast, lowest of the low. Among the humans, I am a very useful fellow. I could find a place for you in my company. As I rise, so could you. We would go far, elf.”

  Voltorno spoke in an increasingly obvious lilt. His words rose and fell in a sort of sing-song intonation that Kith-Kanan found peculiar. The half-human was only a few feet from Kith-Kanan, and the elf prince saw that he was making small, slow gestures with his free hand.

  “I owe my allegiance elsewhere,” Kith-Kanan stated. His sword felt heavy in his hand.

  “Pity.” With renewed vigor, Voltorno attacked. Kith-Kanan fought him off clumsily, for the very air was beginning to seem thick, impeding his movements. As their blades tangled, Kith-Kanan lost his plan of defense and Voltorno’s steel slipped by his hilt and pierced his upper arm, The half-human stepped back, still smiling like a beneficent cleric.

  The weapon fell from Kith-Kanan’s numb hand. He stared at it in dawning horror. His fingers had no more feeling than wood or wax. He tried to speak, but his tongue felt thick. A terrifying lethargy gripped him. Though in his mind he was yelling and fighting, his voice and limbs would not obey. Magic... it was magic. Voltorno had bewitched Arcuballis, now him.

  Voltorno sheathed his own sword and picked up Kith-Kanan’s. “How splendidly ironic it will be to kill you with your own sword,” he noted. Then he raised the weapon —

  And it flew from his hand! Voltorno looked down at his chest and the quarrel that had suddenly appeared there. His knees buckled, and he fell.

  Mackeli stepped out of the dark ring of trees, a crossbow in his hands. Kith-Kanan staggered back away from the half-human. His strength was returning, in spite of the wound in his arm. Like a river freed from a dam, feeling rushed back into his body. He picked up his sword and heard shouts from the beach. The humans were coming to aid their fallen leader.

  “So,” said the half-human through bloody lips, “you triumph after all.” He grimaced and touched his fingers to the quarrel in his chest. “Go ahead, end it.”

  Already the humans were running up the steep path toward them. “I’ve no time to waste on you,” spat Kith-Kanan contemptuously. He wanted to sound strong, but his narrow escape had left him shaken.

  He took Mackeli by the arm and hurried to Arcuballis. The boy hung back as Kith-Kanan removed the muzzle from the griffon’s beak and cut the leather pinions from its wings. The fire was returning to the griffon’s eyes. The creature clawed the ground with its talons.

  Kith-Kanan touched his forehead to the beast’s feathered head and said, “It’s good to see you, old fellow.” He heard the commotion as the humans came roaring up the cliffside. Mounting the griffon, Kith-Kanan slid forward in the saddle and said, “Climb on, Mackeli.” The elf boy looked uncertain. “Hurry, the spell is broken but Voltorno’s men are coming!”

  After another second’s hesitation, Mackeli grasped Kith-Kanan’s hand and swung into the saddle behind him. Armed sailors appeared on top of the cliff, and they rushed to Voltorno. Behind them came a tall human with a full, red-brown beard. He pointed to the elves. “Stop them!” he cried in a booming voice.

  “Hold on!” shouted Kith-Kanan. He slapped the reins across Arcuballis’s neck, and the griffon bounded toward the men. They dropped and scattered like leaves in a whirlwind. Another leap and Arcuballis cleared the edge of the cliff. Mackeli gave a short, sharp cry of fear, but Kith-Kanan yelled with pure joy. Some of the humans got to their feet and loosed arrows at them, but the distance was too great. Kith-Kanan steered Arcuballis out over the foaming surf, turned, and gained height. As they swept past the site of the duel, he saw the red-bearded fellow raise Voltorno to his feet. That one wasn’t going to die easily, the prince noted.

  “It’s good to see you!” Kith-Kanan shouted over his shoulder. “You saved my life, you know.”

  There was no response from Mackeli and Kith-Kanan asked, “Are you well?”

  “I was weller on the ground,” Mackeli said, his voice high with anxiety. He tightened his fierce grip on Kith-Kanan’s waist as he asked, “Where are we going?”

  “To fetch Anaya. Hold tight!”

  The griffon gave voice to its own triumphant cry. The trilling roar burst over the wildwood, announcing their return to the waiting Anaya.

  Chapter 11

  EARLY AUTUMN, YEAR OF THE HAWK

  The traditional way across the river to Silvanost was by ferry. Large, flat-bottomed barges were drawn back and forth across the Thon-Thalas by giant turtles. Some time in the distant past, priests of the Blue Phoenix, god of all animal life, had woven the spells that brought the first giant turtles into being.

  They had taken a pair of common river turtles, usually the size of a grown elf’s palm, and worked their spells over them until they were as big as houses. Thereafter, the priests bred their own giants, creating quite a sizeable herd. The vast green domes of the turtles’ shells had become a common sight as the placid beasts gave faithful service for many centuries.

  Lady Nirakina stood on the riverbank, watching a barge of refugees, pulled by just such a turtle, arrive from the west bank. Beside her stoo
d Tamanier Ambrodel, his arm still in a sling. A month had passed since the Trial Days, and during that time more and more settlers from the western plains and forests had retreated to Silvanost for protection.

  “How many does that make?” asked Nirakina, shading her eyes to see the crowded barge.

  Tamanier checked the tally he was keeping. “Four hundred and nineteen, my lady,” he said. “And more coming all the time.”

  The settlers were mostly from the poorer families of Silvanesti who had gone west to work new land and make new lives for themselves.

  Though largely unharmed, they were footsore, exhausted, and demoralized. Their stories were all the same: bands of humans and Kagonesti elves had burned down their houses and orchards and ordered them to leave. The Silvanesti, unarmed and unorganized, had little choice but to pack their meager belongings and trek back to Silvanost.

  Nirakina had received her husband’s blessing to organize relief for the displaced settlers. A field along the southern end of the city was set aside for them, and a shanty town of tents and lean-tos had sprung up in the last few weeks. Nirakina had persuaded many of the city guilds and great temples to contribute food, blankets, and money for the care of the refugees.

  Sithel was doing all he could for the refugees, too, but his job was made far more complicated by the demands of the state. The Tower of the Stars was filled daily with petitioners who entreated the speaker to call together the army and clear the plains of the raiders. Sithel quite rightly realized this was not a practical solution. A big, slow-moving army would never catch small, mobile raider bands.

  “Our neighbors to the west, Thorbardin and Ergoth, would be very unhappy to see an elven army on their borders,” Sithel told his more bellicose nobles. “It would be an invitation to war, and that is an invitation I will not countenance.”

  So the refugees continued to come, first in a trickle, then in a steady stream. As he was acquainted with them and knew first-hand the problems they faced, Tamanier Ambrodel was chosen by Lady Nirakina to be her chief assistant. He proved a tireless worker, but even with his efforts, the camp along the riverbank became dirty and rowdy as more and more frightened settlers swelled its ranks. A pall of smoke and fear hovered over the refugee camp. It did not take long for the residents of Silvanost to lose their sympathy and regard the refugees with disgust.

  This day Nirakina had gone down to the water’s edge to speak to the refugees as they came ashore. The weary, grimy travelers were amazed to see the speaker’s wife waiting on the muddy bank, her richly made gown trailing in the mud, only Tamanier Ambrodel standing beside her.

  “They are so sad, so tired,” she murmured to him. He stood by her side making notations on a wax tablet.

  “It’s a sad thing to lose your home and those you love best, my lady.” Tamanier filled a square of twenty and blocked it off. “That makes two hundred and twenty in one barge, including sixty-six humans and half-humans.” He eyed her uncertainly. “The speaker will not be pleased that those not of our blood are entering the city.”

  “I know the speaker’s heart,” Nirakina said a little sharply. Her slight figure bristled with indignation. “It is the others at court who want to cause trouble for these poor folk.”

  An elf woman struggled ashore from a small boat, carrying a baby in her arms. She slipped and fell to her knees in the muddy water. Other exhausted refugees tramped past her. Nirakina, without hesitation, waded into the press of silent people and helped the elf woman to her feet. Their eyes met, and the raggedly dressed woman said, “Thank you, my lady.”

  With nothing else to say, she held her child to her shoulder and slogged ashore. Nirakina was standing, openly admiring the woman’s dogged courage, when a hand touched her arm.

  “You’d best be careful, Lady,” Tamanier said.

  Unheeding, Nirakina replied, “The priests and nobles will fume about this, about the mixed-blood people especially.” Her serene expression darkened. “They should all be made to come here and see the poor innocents they would deny comfort and shelter!”

  Tamanier gently tugged Lady Nirakina back to the riverbank.

  *

  On the other side of the city, the Tower of the Stars rang with denunciations of the refugees.

  “When the gods created the world, they made our race first, to be the guardians of right and truth,” declared Firincalos, high priest of E’li. “It is our sacred duty to preserve ourselves as the gods made us, a pure race, always recognizable as Silvanesti.”

  “Well said! Quite true!” The assembly of nobles and clerics called out in rising voices.

  Sithas watched his father. The speaker listened placidly to all this, but he did not look pleased. It was not so much that his father disagreed with the learned Firincalos; Sithas had heard similar sentiments espoused before. But he knew the speaker hated to be lectured to by anyone, for any reason.

  Since the Trial Days, Sithas had been at his father’s side daily, taking a hand in the day-to-day administration of the country. He’d learned new respect for Sithel when he saw how his father managed to balance the pleas of the priests, the ideas of the nobles, and the needs of the guilds against his own philosophy of what was best for Silvanesti.

  Sithas had learned respect – but not admiration. He believed his father was too flexible, gave in too often to the wrong people. It surprised him, for he had always thought of Sithel as a strong ruler. Why didn’t he simply command obedience instead of constantly compromising?

  Sithel waved for the assembled elves to be quiet. Miritelisina, high priestess of Quenesti Pah, was standing, seeking the speaker’s grant to comment. The hall quieted, and Sithel bade Miritelisina begin.

  “I must ask the pure and righteous Firincalos what he would do with the husbands, wives, and children now languishing in huts along the riverbank, those who are not pure in our blood yet who have the deepest ties to some number of our race?” Her rich voice filled the high tower. In her youth, Miritelisina had been a renowned singer, and she played upon her listeners with all her old skills. “Shall we throw them into the river? Shall we drive them from the island, back onto the swords and torches of the bandits who drove them east?”

  A few harsh voices cried “Yes!” to her questions.

  Sithas folded his arms and studied Miritelisina. She cut a regal figure in her sapphire headband and white robe with its trailing, sky-blue sash. Her waist-length, flaxen hair rippled down her back as she swept a pointing finger over the mostly male crowd of elves.

  “Shame on you all!” she shouted. “Is there no mercy in Silvanost? The humans and half-humans are not here because they want to be! Evil has been done to them, evil that must be laid at someone’s door. But to treat them like animals, to deny them simple shelter, is likewise evil. My holy brothers, is this the way of rightness and truth of which the honorable Firincalos speaks? It does not sound that way to me. I would more expect to hear such harsh sentiments from devotees of the Dragonqueen!”

  Sithas stiffened. The willful priestess had gone too far! Firincalos and his colleagues thought so, too. They pushed to the front of the crowd, outraged at being compared to the minions of the Queen of Evil. The air thickened with denunciations, but Sithel, sitting back on his throne, did nothing to restrain the angry clerics.

  Sithas turned to his father. “May I speak?” he asked calmly. “I’ve been waiting for you to take a stand,” Sithel said impatiently. “Go ahead. But remember, if you swim with snakes, you may get bitten.”

  Sithas bowed to his father. “This is a hard time for our people,” he began loudly. The wrangling on the floor subsided, and the prince lowered his voice. “It is evident from events in the West that the humans, probably with the support of the emperor of Ergoth, are trying to take over our plains and woodland provinces, not by naked conquest, but by displacing our farmers and traders. Terror is their tool, and so far it is working far better than they could have dreamed. I tell you this first and ask you all to remember who is responsible fo
r the situation in which we now find ourselves.”

  Sithel nodded with satisfaction. Sithas noted his father’s reaction and went on.

  “The refugees come to Silvanost seeking our protection, and we cannot fail to give it. It is our duty. We protect those not of our race because they have come on bended knee, as subjects must do before their lords. It is only right and proper that we shield them from harm, not only because the gods teach the virtue of mercy, but also because these are the people who grow our crops, sell our goods, who pay their taxes and their fealty.” A murmur passed through the assembly. Sithas’s calm, rational tone, so long honed in debates with the priests of Matheri, dampened the anger that had reigned earlier. The clerics relaxed from their previous trembling outrage. Miritelisina smiled faintly.

  Sithas dropped his hands to his hips and looked over the gathering with stern resolve. “But make no mistake! The preservation of our race is of the greatest importance. Not merely the purity of our blood, but the purity of our customs, traditions, and laws. For that reason, I ask the speaker to decree a new place of refuge for the settlers, on the western bank of the Thon-Thalas, for the sole purpose of housing all humans and half-humans. Further, I suggest that all non-Silvanesti be sent across to there from the current tent village.”

  There was a moment of silence as the assembly took in this idea, then the tower erupted with calls of “Well spoken! Well said!”

  “What about the husbands and wives who are full-blooded Silvanesti?” demanded Miritelisina. “They may go with their families, of course,” replied Sithas evenly.

  “They should be made to go,” insisted Damroth, priest of Kiri Jolith. “They are an insult to our heritage.”

  Sithel rapped the arm of his throne with his massive signet ring. The sound echoed through the Tower of the Stars. Instant silence claimed the hall.

  “My son does me honor,” the speaker said. “Let all he has said be done.” The priestess of Quenesti Pah opened her mouth to protest, but Sithel rapped on his throne again, as a warning. “Those Silvanesti who have taken humans as mates will go with their kin. They have chosen their path, now they must follow it. Let it be done.”