Yet the sense of timing that had allowed Kelryn to live well in cities as far separated as Caergoth, Sanction, and Haven had once again served him well. He had even been able to gather his few belongings, saddle the fine horse he had won gambling with a trader, and ride through the city streets and out the north gate without a sense of immediate urgency.
The man knew that he cut a lordly figure astride the saddle of his palomino charger. A cape of black silk trimmed by white fur of sable draped his straight shoulders. Fine leather boots garbed his feet, newly made by a leathersmith of Tarsis on a promise of payment by the handsome nobleman who had cut such a dashing swath through the city's social scene over the long, temperate summer.
It was the change of seasons, more than any concerns about the enemies he had left behind, that contributed to Kelryn's bleak mood as he rode generally north and west from the city. He was used to moving on, but he hated to be uprooted at the end of summer. Nevertheless, he put the spurs to his horse, urging the strong gelding to increased speed, just in case anyone from Tarsis should take his thievery as a personal affront. Of course, Kelryn was ready to fight to protect his freedom, but he would just as soon avoid any such potentially messy conflict by getting out of the area as quickly as possible.
The lone traveler made camp at a narrow notch in one of the long ridges north of the city. Here the road crossed the elevation, providing Kelryn with a good view to the south. He stayed alert through the long night, and when dawn's light washed over the plains, he could detect no sign of pursuit. Quite possibly the folk of Tarsis were just as glad to see him on his way-certainly, he thought with a chuckle, there were many fathers of young women who would shed no tears over his departure.
Yet the laugh was a dry sound and little consolation. In truth, Kelryn desired the company of other people, wanted to have their admiration and even affection. He knew he was a charismatic fellow. How else could he have lived luxuriously in the strange city on nothing more than the promise that funds would eventually be forthcoming from his faraway, highly esteemed, and utterly fictional home and family?
In the case of his stay in Tarsis, Kelryn Darewind had claimed that home to be Sanction. His identity as the proud scion of a wealthy mercantile family-aided, of course, by his natural charisma and striking good looks- had granted him admission to fine parties, had brought wise and powerful men to his dinner table, and had lured more than one of their daughters to his bed. It had, he reflected with a sigh, been a very pleasant half a year.
But where to go now?
For several days he followed the northward road. Approaching the town of Hopeful, he detoured across the plains to the east. Since he was still so close to Tarsis, he didn't care to take chance that word of his exploits had preceded him to the bustling highway town. Still camping out, he crossed the corner of the Plains of Dust as quickly as possible before turning his course back to the north. He saw few people and was impeccably courteous and helpful to those he encountered, so that any who looked for the trail of a thief and scoundrel would gain no information from interviews with the travelers Kelryn met.
The great massif of the High Kharolis formed a purple horizon to his west, lofty mountains that, he knew, sheltered the ancient dwarvenhome of Thorbardin. The highway led into those mountains, to its ancient terminus at the Southgate, but before he reached the foothills, Kelryn Darewind again altered course, avoiding the rising ground surrounding the vast range. He chose to skirt the realm of the dwarves. They were ever a suspicious people, hard to fool, and thus poor choices for the traveler's next stop.
Instead, he guided his horse through the lightly populated coastal realm, a place of a few poor farm villages, with tiny fishing communities huddled close beside the many sheltered coves along the coast of the Newsea. Several times he considered stopping at one of these, perhaps even to spend the winter, but a cursory examination of each of the prospective way stations revealed not a single dwelling that was suitable to serve as his shelter. And these communities were places of hardworking, honest folk; he knew they would make him welcome, but also that, if he were to stay for any period of time, he would be expected to pitch in and help with the many tasks necessary to survival in those isolated outposts.
And that alternative was quite simply unacceptable to him.
Instead, he continued on, wrapping his sable-fringed cloak around his shoulders against the increasingly chill winds sweeping from the vast wasteland of Icewall Glacier. His course took him past the desert of Dergoth, and he made the decision to try to reach Pax Tharkas before the Yule. There, he concluded, he would probably be forced to spend the winter; snow would make the lofty roads impassable, and there were no cities significant enough to offer him entertainment on this side of the forbidding mountains.
Beyond, of course, there were places such as Haven and New Ports, but Kelryn realized that he would have to wait until spring before reaching one of those bustling locales. Thus he was in a sour mood as he passed into the barren gorge that sheltered the road leading to Pax Tharkas from the south.
He knew that the ancient fortress lay astride a pass that was several dozen miles ahead, and that it was a fair-sized town in its own right. Unfortunately, the massive compound would also inevitably be under the military administration of some sort of local governor or warlord. Like the dwarves, such men were hard to fool with tales of forthcoming riches and intangible family worth. Grimly Kelryn was coming to terms with the fact that he may, in fact, be reduced to actual work in order to see his way through the winter.
He traveled light, though he had purchased several hard loaves of bread in the last village he had passed through. Too, he carried in his saddlebags several skins full of the strong ale favored by the mountain folk. These would make for meager rations when he camped, but at least he had the provisions to see him all the way to Pax Tharkas.
Stern and practical when necessary, Kelryn Darewind was in fact a very hardy man. He could survive in the cold, and he was good enough with his sword to protect himself from brigands or even an ogre or two. But he was frustrated now, because he preferred it when the living was easy.
If only he could reach Pax Tharkas before it started to snow. Now, as the wind penetrated his cloak, whipping his mane of lush black hair forward, he began to doubt that this would be possible. There was a strong hint, a taste and a smell in the air, that suggested he would be caught in a blizzard if he tarried outside for too much longer.
The waft of campfire smoke, carried from a side gully by the bitter wind, reached his nostrils at sunset of his first day in the gorge. Knowing he had at least another day or two to ride before reaching the great fortress, he decided to seek out the fire builder and, with any luck, receive an offer of warmth and hospitality-perhaps even including food-that would see him through the long night.
The gully leading toward the source of the smoke ascended steeply from the road, and the palomino skittered nervously as it tried to negotiate the grade. With a muffled curse, Kelryn slid from the saddle, took the reins in his hand, and started upward on foot. He discerned a narrow trail, but he was more concerned with the damage to his once fine boots. Weeks on the trail had taken their toll in scuffs, scrapes, and even one long gouge along the side of the leather footwear.
As he pushed higher up the gully, the curve of the ravine wall took the road out of sight below him, and he began to wonder if he had imagined the scent of smoke. And even if he hadn't, would someone who camped in such a remote location be welcoming, or even tolerant, of an intruder?
He had no answer to these questions, but he knew he would find out soon as another bend of the steeply climbing trail brought him in sight of a shadowy cave mouth. He could see a faint glow of crimson from within; this was clearly the source of the fire and the smoke. Scrambling up another few steps, he reached a flat swath of gravel before the mouth of the cave. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, but he didn't draw the weapon as he stared warily into the depths, wondering about the natur
e of the fire builder within.
"Hullo!" he called, trying to keep his voice cheerful. "Anyone here?"
A stocky, hunched figure moved from the wall of the cave to stand and face him. Silhouetted by the fire as it was, Kelryn quickly determined by the bowed legs and the barrel-sized torso that the cave's occupant was a dwarf.
"Who's there?" demanded the fellow suspiciously. Kelryn was startled to realize that, despite the backlighting, he could see the dwarf's eyes: two spots of milky white illumination, gleaming at him with uncanny brightness.
"A traveler-a poor horseman," he replied in the smoothest, friendliest tones he could muster. "I only hope to share the warmth of your fire."
With a snort, the dwarf turned his back and sat in the shadows of the cave's interior.
Kelryn waited a beat, wondering if the fellow would make more of a reply. When no sound, no sign of invitation or refusal was forthcoming, he cleared his throat. The horse's breath steamed at his ear, and the fire within the cave crackled atop a heap of embers that looked very warm indeed.
Finally the man determined that he would take charge of the situation. He moved forward slowly, tethering the horse in the entrance of the rocky shelter where it would be protected from the worst of the icy wind. Then he stepped inside, bowing to pass underneath a low mantel of flinty granite. Within, he found that the rocky ceiling rose high, giving him plenty of room to stand. The cave was a fine shelter, he observed, seeing that it even offered a natural flue near the back, where the smoke from the fire crept along the wall and then wafted upward, to be lost in the frigid night-and occasionally carried down to the road by a lucky gust of wind.
Kelryn noted idly that the stone around the flue was soot-stained and shiny black. He suspected that it had served as a fireplace for a long time and wondered if perhaps this dwarf had made the cave a more or less permanent home.
Advancing into the shelter, the man allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He held his hands to his sides so that the dwarf, who glowered silently from his seat near the fire, would know he meant no harm.
"I'm Kelryn Darewind," he said, offering his most beguiling smile. He gestured to another flat rock beside the fire, opposite the position of the still-silent dwarf. "Would you mind terribly if I made myself comfortable?"
"Hah!" the dwarf snapped, and again those pale eyes flashed, luminous and staring. "Let me see."
Abruptly the fellow clasped both hands to the front of his jerkin, pressing the garment tightly to his chest. Kelryn was surprised to see that the piece of stiff clothing was filthy and torn, lacking the usually fine workmanship of other dwarven garb. The cave dweller's scalp was covered with a bristling mane of stiff, spiky hair, and his beard was a greasy, tangled mat covering most of his chest.
Kelryn was wondering what the dwarf's last remark meant when he heard the wretched fellow begin to speak. He listened, prepared to formulate whatever reply his host might fold agreeable, until he realized that the creature was not speaking to his visitor.
"He wants to stay, he says," mumbled the dwarf. His pale eyes were vacant, staring past Kelryn, apparently focused on nothing at all. The fingers still clenched into tight fists pressed against his chest. "Wants to warm himself by the fire, he says."
"And it's the truth," Kelryn noted genially. "I wouldn't be surprised if we get some snow tonight."
"Snow, he says," cackled the dwarf, casting a wide-eyed glance at the human before turning his attention back to the vague distance.
Kelryn was mystified, yet intrigued. He suspected that the dwarf was mad, but the filthy cave dweller did not seem terribly dangerous, and Kelryn Darewind had a highly developed sense of danger, at least as it pertained to the protection of his own skin.
"You can stay," the dwarf said suddenly, releasing his shirt and sighing in what seemed to be exhaustion, or perhaps resignation.
"Thank you. I'm very grateful," replied the man. He considered a further question and decided to chance it. "Um… who is it that you were talking to? Or, I should say, to whom do I owe my gratitude?"
"Why, himself, of course," said the dwarf with a sly grin.
"Well, please convey my thanks."
"He knows… he knows."
The dwarf suddenly burst into activity, throwing several pieces of dry wood onto the fire, pulling out a crude bowl that he set in the coals beside the blaze. Kelryn realized that the dish was in fact a steel helm, probably of dwarven make, that had been ignominiously converted to duty as a soup caldron.
"And you are Kelryn," the dwarf noted, as if confirming his own memory.
"Quite right. And you…?"
"My name is Cantor Blacksword, but you can call me… call me Fistandantilus!" crowed the filthy fellow, as if he had just been struck by inspiration.
"Fistandantilus… the wizard?"
"The same. 'Twas he who gave his blessing to yer staying, he I was talking to." The dwarf patted his chest smugly, as if the great wizard himself was compactly stored in a pouch beside his skin.
"But you just said that I should call you by that name, yet you seem to indicate that it belongs to someone else."
"It belongs to me!" shrieked the dwarf, hopping to his feet, standing with legs bowed as if ready to do battle. "You can't have it!"
"Nor do I want it!" Kelryn hastily assured the dwarf, utterly convinced that the wretch was indeed hopelessly mad. He watched warily as the dwarf, apparently mollified, sat back down. Gantor swept aside his beard and pulled out the loose neckline of his shirt, peering downward, apparently at his own belly, then slyly raising his wide, unblinking eyes to stare at his visitor.
"And are you of the Thorbardin clans or the hill dwarves?" the human asked, hoping to change the topic quickly.
"Bah! None of them are worthy of me, though once I numbered myself among the clan of Theiwar. I am of myself, and of Fistandantilus."
"But you told me that you are Fistandantilus." Kelryn, keeping his hand ready near the hilt of his sword, was rather enjoying the verbal sparring. And he was mightily curious about the dwarf's cloak. What did he have under there?
"That's for protection-mine and his." The dwarf looked out the entrance of the cave, as if he suspected someone might be sneaking toward them. Apparently satisfied, he settled back to stir his soup.
"May I offer some bread? A taste of ale, perhaps?" suggested the human. He went to the palomino and unsaddled the horse, resting his own supplies in a sheltered niche within the cave. Searching through his saddlebags, he pulled forth some choice selections from his store of provisions.
The dwarf watched with glittering, hungry eyes as Kelryn ambled back to the fire and resumed his seat on the flat rock.
"In truth, it's been many a year since I've had the taste of real ale," Gantor admitted, maintaining his vivid stare. He reached out to snatch the skin as soon as Kelryn started to swing it over, as if he expected that the human would take it back at any instant.
"Take it. Have the whole thing," the man urged with utmost sincerity-not from any charitable sense, but rather because he knew the power of ale to loosen the tongue of dwarf or man.
The dwarf drank deeply, lowering the flask with a satisfied smack of his lips. He was surprisingly fastidious for such a filthy and disreputable creature, for not a drop of the amber fluid trickled over his lips or spilled into the tangle of his beard.
"Good," Gantor Blacksword allowed before taking another large swig. The second draft apparently confirmed his initial impression, for he belched loudly, then eased backward to lean against the cave wall, his feet stretched casually toward the fire.
A dreamy smile appeared in the midst of the dwarf's mat of whiskers. "Yes, it's been a long time since we shared a good taste of the barley," he sighed.
Kelryn was about to reply that they'd never shared a drink before, when he realized that the dwarf had not been talking to him. "Does Fistandantilus care for something a little stronger?" asked the man. "I have a small nip of wine that I've been saving for a special
occasion."
Abruptly the dwarf stiffened, sitting upright and scowling with a menacing tuck of his brows. His eyes, usually so wide, were narrowed to white slits in the wrinkled map of his face. "What did you say?" he asked, his voice a low growl.
Kelryn silently cursed himself for trying to move too fast. Still, his curiosity would not allow him to backtrack. "You mentioned-that is, I believe you said-that you were here with the wizard, Fistandantilus. I merely asked if he desired a taste of wine."
"He's not here," the Theiwar declared. Once again his voice became friendly, conspiratorial. "As a matter of fact, he's dead."
"I'm sorry," replied Kelryn disingenuously. "I had hoped to make his acquaintance."
"You can." Cantor's head bobbed enthusiastically. "I know him."
The man ignored the contradiction. "Splendid! What does he want?"
"He wanted me to kill the kender. I knew that as soon as I picked up the bloodstone." The dwarf nodded in affirmation of his statement. "He told me to use the skull to nit him, and I did."
"That was wise," Kelryn agreed sagely. "He's not one you'd want to argue with."
"No." Cantor's beard and hair bristled as he shook his head vehemently.
The human thought about his companion's remarks, which he had at first been inclined to dismiss as the ravings of a lunatic. But now he was not so sure.
"You said something about a bloodstone. Is that how you talk to Fistandantilus? Do you see him or hear him in the gem?"
"That's it!" the dwarf agreed enthusiastically. Once more he cast a look to the outside of the cave. "I've never shown it to anyone before, but it's all right. He says I can let you see it."
Apparently satisfied by his own explanation, the dwarf reached under his beard, into his tunic, and pulled out a golden chain.
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