The War of the Lance t2-3

by Margaret Weis

  Guarinn nervously fingered the haft of his axe. "Roulant, what do you think?"

  "I'm going to fetch Una back, that's what I think!"

  Guarinn heard Roulant's answer only faintly, for the young man was already at the foot of the hill. Alone in the ruin, Guarinn shifted from foot to foot, indecisively. "This is insane," he muttered. "I know what's going to happen to me if I leave here…"

  He took a breath, fueling courage and a suddenly rising hope. Maybe nothing would happen.

  Roulant can chase after his girl if that's what he wants to do, Guarinn thought. But I still have my axe and good strong arm, and I'm going for the wolf.

  Guarinn hopped the wall. But when his feet hit the ground he found himself on the wrong side of the border between reason and nightmare, caught in the trap the Spoiler had laid for any wolfhunter who ventured out of the ruin.

  The wall walked. And the dead with him.

  They crawled, and shambled, and dragged themselves staggering through a foul and freezing fog, each trying desperately to reach Guarinn as the damned would grasp at one last hope. He could not move, stood rooted like an oak in the ice-toothed mist, helpless as decaying hands plucked at him, clung to him, shoulder and wrist and arm. And this was no silent place, this nightmare-realm. It was filled up with the mad shrieking and frenzied grieving of people he'd known in life, and some he'd never seen until they were dead.

  A hunter who'd died to feed the wolf's hunger.

  An old peddler night-caught in the forest, hardly recognizable as human when he'd been found.

  A child, a little boy screaming now as it had when, three years ago, the wolf had torn him from his bed. Or was that Guarinn's own voice screaming, his own throat torn with the violence of terror as the child's had been by the wolf's fangs?

  Then came a howling, a long, aching sound of abandonment. The wolf. Or a friend forsaken. Or an innocent dying.

  Guarinn,you've failed me, failed them all! Hands clawed at his face, dug and tore at his throat, leaving bits of their own flesh and grave-mold behind to foul his beard and hair.

  Faithless friend! You stink of their blood, Guarinn Hammerfell!

  Guarinn cried out in terror, couldn't tell his own voice from theirs, no longer knew who accused — they or him. The ice-mist filled up his lungs, stopped his breath, suffocating him.

  Murderer! Guarinn child-killer! Guarinn -

  "Guarinn! Breathe! Come on, breathe!"

  Roulant shook his friend till his teeth rattled, shook him harder still, but to no effect. Roulant'd heard but one choking gasp of terror, just as he was entering the forest, and he'd known that whatever chance-found charm was keeping him safe and sane outside the ruin wasn't working for Guarinn. The dwarf was trapped, unable to move, even to breathe, while mind and soul were adrift in the cold country of nightmare.

  "Guarinn," Roulant shouted, fearful. Perhaps Una was safe because the Spoiler's trap was meant to harm no one but those who bound by the curse. Perhaps Roulant was safe because he left the ruin to find Una, not to end the curse. But Guarinn must have left the ruin with plans to kill the wolf. That's what sprung the Spoiler's trap, Roulant thought.

  "Guarinn!" he cried again, gathering his friend close, holding him. "We've got to find Una! I need you to help me. Please, Guarinn! Come back and help me…"

  A breath, just a small one.

  "Guarinn — help me find Una. We must find Una!"

  The dwarf drew another breath, no steadier, but deeper. Roulant held him hard, forced him to look nowhere but into his eyes. "Listen — LISTEN! Don't think about anything else but this: We have to find Una. Don't even think about why. We're here for no reason but to find Una. Do you understand?"

  Guarinn swallowed hard.

  "Do you understand?"

  "Yes," Guarinn said hoarsely. "What next?"

  Roulant thought as he helped his friend to his feet.

  The wolf woke to pain and hunger. He was not frightened by the pain, knowing he could transcend it. He was afraid of hunger. Wolves worship only one god, and the god's name is Hunger.

  He'd found shelter quickly after he'd fled his attackers, a soft nest of old leaves beneath a rock outcropping. There, downwind of his enemies so he could smell them if they pursued, he'd licked clean the shallow cuts on his belly and legs, the deeper one on his shoulder. He'd gnawed off the trailing end of the rope, for that frightened him nearly as much as hunger. It had more than once snagged in bushes to choke him as he'd fled. He'd gotten most of it, wearing only the noose now, a foul-smelling collar. Free and safe, he'd curled tight against the cold — sleeping lightly, dreaming of thirst and hunger as a thin veil of clouds came from the east to hide the stars.

  Now the shadows had softer edges and the darkness was deeper. The wind told him that water was no great distance away — clean and cold by the smell; by the sound, no more than a streamlet. It would be enough to provide thirst's ease. And there was another scent, not close yet, only faintly woven into night, but the wolf knew it — human-scent, burnt meat and smoke and old skins; sweat and the light, sweet odor of flesh; running beneath that, the warm smell of blood; over it all, the tang of fear, sharp and enticing on the cold night air. He'd seen this young female not long ago, and he had the mark of her steel fang on him. Hers was the least of his wounds, for she'd been distracted by fear and not very strong.

  With his lean god for company, the wolf rose stiffly from his warm nest.

  Una knelt to examine the dark blot marking the faded earth of the deer trail, and by the thin light of the moons saw that it was no more than shadow. Cold wind blew steadily from the east, carried the smell of a morning snow. Una shivered and got to her feet. She'd not seen a blood-mark or the imprints of the wolf's limping passage for some time now, but the last real sign had been along this game-trail, a path no more than a faint, wandering line to show where deer passed between high-reaching trees in their foraging. Lacking a better choice, Una continued along the path.

  The wolf had not proven as easy to track as she'd thought, and now she wondered whether she'd ever find him. She wondered, too, whether it would turn out that the beast found her, or was even now stalking behind. She tried not to think about that. All she needed was a clear shot. She'd put plenty of arrows through the straw-butt, she could put an arrow through a wolf. She could free Thorne. She could free them all. But she had little confidence ruling her thoughts, and so, her attention was focused behind her rather than in front when the deer trail ended abruptly at the muddy verge of a shallow stream.

  Una and the wolf saw each other at the same moment, and she knew — as prey knows in its bones — that she might have time to nock an arrow to string, but she wasn't going to have time to let the bolt fly.

  Guarinn tried to maintain a narrow focus, to shut down all thinking and track like an animal, using only sight and scent and hearing. He measured his success by the nearness of dead voices. At best, the haunting dead were never wholly gone, only banished to a distance he could endure. The protection Roulant had shown him was working, but only just. How fast would the Spoiler's trap catch them if they came upon the wolf?

  Soft — a whisper shivering across the night — Guarinn heard the rattle of brush. He stopped, keeping his hands fisted and well away from the axe in his belt while he waited to hear the sound again.

  "The wind," Roulant said, low.

  Guarinn didn't think so. That one soft rattle had been a discordant note. When the sound came again, Guarinn knew it wasn't wind-crafted. Nor was it soft now. Something was running through the brush.

  "It's Una!" Roulant cried and bolted past Guarinn.

  She wasn't alone. Like a dark echo, something else came crashing through the brush behind her.

  Fleet, eyes huge as a hunted doe's, Una burst through the brush, frantically trying to nock arrow to bow as she ran. She was having little luck, and even at a distance Guarinn saw her hands shaking, fumbling uselessly at shaft and string.

  "Una," Roulant shouted. "Here!" />
  Seeing them for the first time, she redoubled her speed. Relief and joy and — last — panic marked her face when her foot turned on a stone and she fell hard to the ground, the breath blasted from her, and the bow flung from her hand.

  Guarinn saw the wolf first. The sight of it — eyes redly blazing, fangs gleaming — triggered instinct. In the very moment the wolf leaped, the dwarf snatched his throwing axe from his belt — and tumbled over the edge of nightmare.

  The wolf smelled fear and loved it — the scent of easy prey. He sensed no threat in the smaller male, standing motionless; nor was the young female — struggling for breath, fighting to rise from the ground — any danger. These he could ignore for now. But the third, the bigger male… from him came the fiery scent of a packdefender. He was the danger and the threat.

  The wolf hurtled past Una. Choking on the sudden, cold rush of air, she heard the impact of bodies — the wolf snarling and Roulant's grunt of shock and pain.

  And she saw Guarinn standing still as stone, his throwing axe gripped in a nerveless hand.

  "Guarinn!" she cried, clawing at the ground in desperate search of the bow. "Help him!"

  Guarinn never moved… and she found the bow, string-broken, useless. Roulant screamed, a raging curse turned to pain as the wolf's fangs tore at his shoulder. The cry of pain became a chant — her name, gasped over and over in the staggering rhythm of his ragged breathing as he struggled with the beast.

  Una gained her feet, running. She flung herself at the wolf's back, dagger in hand. Clinging to the writhing beast's neck, choking on the smell of blood, she struck wildly. Poorly. Hurting, but not killing.

  The wolf heaved up.

  "Guarinn! Help me! The wolf is killing him!"

  The beast twisted sharply, and threw her off. Its fangs dripped frothy red, and behind it, Roulant lurched to his feet, gasping his terrible chant. The wolf turned, leaped at him. Una didn't know which of them screamed, man or wolf. The sound of it tore through the night, a wild howling.

  Guarinn Hammerfell stood at the center of a maelstrom of wild moaning and screaming. Guarinn! Help him! Hands clawed at him, shreds of livid flesh falling away to expose bones as white and brittle as ice. The wolf is killing him! Hollow voices accused him, and the foul names — child-killer! murderer! faithless friend! — turned the ice-mist filling his lungs to poison.

  A wind rose to pound at him, tear at him, with such violence that even the dead hands, shedding tattered flesh, rattling bones, fell away before it. Howling, screaming, deafening wind.

  Roulant! Familiar with everyone who haunted this nightmare realm, Guarinn knew that name had no business being spoken here. He snatched at it, clutched it tight for a lifeline. He was choking, fighting for air, falling… and staggering on the deer trail, his axe clenched tight in his fist.

  The wolf lunged again at Roulant, leaping for his throat. In the only instant of sanity he might get before the dead snatched him back into the Spoiler's trap, Guarinn sighted, threw, and didn't miss.

  The wolf fell to the ground, its spine severed. Hard and dark, the beast's eyes held Guarinn for a long moment. Then they softened, and the night filled up with silence.

  The dying wolf became man. A moment, the man had, and he used it to speak. Only whispered words, barely heard.

  "Roulant… are you hurt?"

  Roulant ignored the question. "Thorne! You're… dying! No, Thorne. This isn't how it's supposed to be! You said…"

  Thorne smiled, shifting his gaze to Guarinn.

  "You," Thorne said. "Old friend, you knew I wouldn't survive, didn't you?"

  Guarinn heard grieving, Una and Roulant, one sobbing softly in shock and the aftermath of terror, the other offering comfort in the face of his own astonished grief.

  "And you killed the wolf. Knowing." Thorne closed his eyes. "Thank you."

  Guarinn lifted his friend's hand and held it, very gently, close against his heart until he felt the last pulse, and some time longer after that.

  Limping, leaning on Una for support, Roulant knelt beside his friends, the living and the dead.

  He and Guarinn and Una knelt together as snow began to fall, listened to dawn-wind singing. It held no echo of wolfish howling. The Night of the Wolf was over, and Roulant saw the peace of it in Guarinn's smile.

  The Potion Sellers

  Mark Antony

  It was just after midsummer's, on a fine, golden morning, when the seller of potions came to the town of Faxfail.

  Perched precariously upon the high bench of a peculiar-looking wagon, he drove through the borough's narrow, twisting streets. The wagon, pulled by a pair of perfectly matched dappled ponies, was a tall, boxlike craft all varnished in black and richly decorated with carved scrollwork of gilded wood. On the wagon's side panel, painted in a fantastically brilliant hue of purple, was the picture of a bottle above which was scribed, in flowing letters of serpentine green, three strange words: MOSSWINE'S MIRACULOUS ELIXIRS. It was a mysterious message indeed, and startled the townsfolk who looked up from their morning tasks and chores in curiosity as the wagon rattled by.

  The seller of potions himself was a young-looking man, with hair the color of new straw and eyes as blue as the summer sky. He was clad in finery fit for a noble — albeit in hues a bit brighter than most nobles would choose — and his dark, crimson-lined cape billowed out behind him in the morning breeze. He waved to the townsfolk as he passed by, his broad grin rivalling the sun for sheer brilliance.

  On the hard wooden bench next to the seller of potions bounced a short, swarthy-looking fellow. His look was not nearly so cheerful as his companion's, but then this was only typical. He was a dwarf, and it has often been said that dwarvenkind is every bit as hard and unyielding as the metals dwarves are so fond of forging deep in their dim mountain smithies. This particular dwarf wore a dour expression, his heavy eyebrows drawn down over his irongray eyes in a scowl. His coarse black beard was so long he wore it tucked into his broad leather belt, and his shaggy hair was bound with a leather thong into a braid behind his neck.

  "You know, you're going to scare the townsfolk out of what little wits they have with that sour look you're wearing," the seller of potions said quietly to the dwarf through clenched teeth, all the while grinning and waving. "It won't do us a great deal of good if they all take one look at you and go scurrying inside to bolt their doors. At least, not until after we have their money. I don't suppose you could smile for a change, could you?"

  "I am smiling," the dwarf answered in a gruff voice. His craggy visage was not quite as warm and friendly as a chunk of wind-hewn granite, but almost.

  The seller of potions eyed the dwarf critically. "Maybe you shouldn't try so hard," he suggested lightly, but the joke was completely lost on the dour-faced dwarf. The seller of potions sighed and shook his head. His name was Jastom, and he had traveled with this particular dwarf long enough to know when argument and teasing were pointless. The dwarf's name was Algrimmbeldebar, but over the years Jastom had taken to simply calling him Grimm. Not only did the name slip more readily from the tongue, it also suited the dwarf's disposition far better.

  Rumors sped faster than sparrows through the towns narrow streets, and by the time the wagon rolled into Faxfail's central square, a sizeable crowd of curious townsfolk had gathered expectantly. It wouldn't be the largest audience Jastom had ever hawked potions to, but it wouldn't be the smallest either. Faxfail was a town deep in the Garnet mountains of southern Solamnia. The nearest city of consequence — that would be Kaolyn — was a good three day's journey to the north and west. These were country folk. And country folk tended to be far more trusting than city folk. Or gullible, depending upon one's choice of words.

  "I suppose this means I'll have to mix more elixirs," Grimm grumbled, eyeing the growing throng. The dwarf opened a small panel behind the bench and nimbly disappeared inside the wagon.

  Concocting potions was Grimm's task; selling them was Jastom's. It was an arrangement that had proven
quite profitable on their journeys from one end of Ansalon to the other. The two had first met some years before, in the markets of Kalaman. At the time, neither had been making a terribly good living for himself. Even Jastom's brilliant smile and ingenuous visage had not been enough to interest folk in the crude baubles he was attempting to foist off as good luck charms. And as for the dwarf, his gloomy, glowering looks tended to keep potential customers well away from the booth where he was trying to sell his elixirs. One night, the two had found themselves sharing a table in a tavern, each lamenting his particular misfortune over a mug of ale. Both had realized that each had what the other lacked, and so their unlikely but lucrative partnership was born.

  The wagon rolled to a halt in the center of the town's square, and Jastom leapt acrobatically to the cobbles. He bowed deeply, flourishing his heavy cape as grandly as a court magician, and then spread his arms wide.

  "Gather 'round, good folk of Faxfail, gather 'round!" he called out. His voice was clear as a trumpet, honed by years of hawking wares until it was as precise as the finest musical instrument. "Wonders await you this day, so gather 'round and behold!"

  From out of nowhere (or, in fact, from out of his sleeve) a small purple bottle appeared in Jastom's upturned palm. A gasp of amazement passed through the crowd as folk young and old alike leaned forward to peer at the odd little bottle. The morning sunlight sparkled through the purple glass, illuminating a thick, mysterious-looking liquid within.

  "Wonders indeed," Jastom went on, lowering his voice to a theatrical whisper that was nonetheless audible to even the most distant onlookers. "After just one sip of this precious potion, all your aches and ailments, all your malingering maladies and ponderous pains, will vanish as though they had never been. For a mere ten coins of steel" — a dismissing gesture of his hand made this particular detail seem of the barest significance — "this bottle of Mosswine's Miraculous Elixir will heal all!"