"Perhaps you might look along the valley below here, just to the north of my cave," Lectral suggested. "I caught the scent of deer only yesterday. It may be that you will find food for your village-and, perhaps, a haunch that you could spare for your silver friend."
"I go there immediately," Ash declared, rising to his feet with dignity. "And if I meet with fortune, know that I will soon return."
"Splendid," Lectral said, pleasantly blinking his large yellow eyes, allowing Hammana to massage a blend of herbs into a raw patch between his nostrils. "I shall take a nap while you hunt, and dream of awakening to the smell of venison."
With a deep, reverent bow, Ashtaway stepped to the mouth of the cave. By the time he started down the trail, the crippled dragon had already drifted off to sleep. Hammana, however, looked after him-and in her eyes he saw the glow of pride… or something more.
CbApter 11
Smoke on the Bluelake
True to Lectral’s word, Ash found deer in the marshy dale. The warrior stalked during a long, moonless night, bringing down two plump does with a single arrow apiece. In the dawnlit hours he left one whole carcass before the cave in repayment for Lectral's suggestion. Hammana announced that she would stay with the dragon for a few days, and Ash promised to carry word of her decision to her father, Wallaki.
Pledging to return soon, Ashtaway hoisted the other deer to his back and started toward the village. The gutted doe was heavy, but the weight felt good on the wild elf's shoulders-and even under the load he maintained a steady, loping jog along the forest floor. The village beside the Bluelake was close, barely a dozen miles away, and he looked forward to returning there by midafternoon. His arrival, he knew, would be greeted with great happiness among all the villagers-it had been many months since a Kagonesti warrior had returned to the village with such a prize.
Ashtaway's supple moccasins glided softly across the carpet of pine needles, moss, and soft loam. He drew his breaths in long, rhythmic inhalation-once for each four steps-and then exhaled in the same measured pattern. Sweat slicked his bronzed, tattooed skin, but the cool wind of his movement evaporated it quickly, bringing welcome relief from the oppressive summer heat.
He ran with trancelike concentration on his silent, measured progress, yet at the same time his mind remained alert to the forest all around. He listened for the cry of the hawk, or the cawing of angry crows-for any of the usual sounds of woodland life. As he drew nearer the Bluelake, with the morning's mist burned away by the climbing sun, he grew mildly concerned by the extent of the silence around him.
One possibility, he knew, was that the creatures sensed him, and in their fear they held close to their dens and nests. But Ashtaway knew a great deal about the sensory capabilities of his fellow forest-dwellers, and he felt fairly sure that most of them were not aware of his stealthy passage. After all, he ran facing into the little breeze there was, ensuring that his scent did not precede him. Too, his footsteps were as silent as a stalking cat's, such that even animals who might be cowering nearby would not hear him go past.
His conclusions did not cause him an overwhelming sense of concern, though they did serve to heighten his alertness. After all, the scarcity of game had not been the only effect of the war. Perhaps another flight of dragons had soared overhead during the night. If the creatures had flown over this stretch of forest, the lingering awe of their presence might be enough to hold the lesser creatures trembling in their nests for a day or more-even lesser creatures like elves or humans, Ashtaway reflected wryly.
The warrior was grateful that his village, though spacious and open on the ground, was screened from the sky by its verdant canopy of vallenwoods. The elves were careful to leave no sign of their presence along the shore, where the Bluelake sparkled at the foot of the steep bluff. Even alert dragons, flying slowly, would be unable to spot the Kagonesti community from the air.
Now, as he jogged beneath the fine weight of venison and diligently probed his surroundings with eyes, ears, and nose, another part of his mind reflected on the battle between the knights and the red dragons. It remained much on his mind, and not just because of the valor displayed by the doomed Knights of Solamnia. There was also the indication, by the presence of both the human and dragon combatants, that the scourge of war might be drawing nearer to the Kagonesti wilds than ever before.
He recalled Lectral's words about Sanction. That smoldering city, nestled in the valley between three rumbling volcanoes, had seemed to him a hellish place on the lone occasion when he had observed it. At that time Ashtaway had discovered a winding, narrow valley leading up to the saddle between two of the smoking mountains. The finding of paths had long been a skill of his people, and Ash had initially been pleased in his discovery, for the mountainous trail was apparently known to no other. His disappointment had been keen when he learned that it led to such a useless place.
The miles passed beneath his leather soles, half a dozen, then ten, and soon he knew that the village was near. His heart lightened, anticipating the joy that his burden would bring to his villagemates. His uncle Iydaway, Pathfinder of the tribe, had grown too old for the hunt himself-but Iyda would no doubt compose a song for the occasion, probably to play on the Ram's Horn around the feast fire tonight. Old Iydaway had been a great hunter and warrior in his prime, and now the venerable Pathfinder took great pride in the accomplishments of his elder nephew, even going so far as to give Ash his keen steel axe blade upon the young warrior's initiation to manhood.
Now, the Kagonesti hunter thought with a thrill of pleasure, his uncle would be very pleased-
Abruptly Ashtaway froze, his reveries interrupted by an acidic, reptilian smell. Bakali! The lizardlike humanoids served the Dark Queen with ruthless loyalty in her war, and twice before Ashtaway had fought-and slain-individual bakali who had wandered too far from their tribes. In each of those occasions he had been repelled by the characteristic stench now wafting through the woods before him.
Yet the scent reaching his nose was far more powerful than he had felt even when in the clasp of a bakali's slime- coated limbs. There must be a large number of the lizard- men-a war party-that even now could be encircling the Kagonesti village.
Ashtaway lowered the deer to the ground and shrugged his bow off his shoulder in one smooth, soundless gesture. Nocking an arrow, he resumed his advance as soundlessly as before. Still he moved with fluid grace, but the sinew of his muscle rippled through his skin, as taut as his bowstring. Even as he took each step with precise care, his eyes flashed constantly to the left and right. His nostrils twitched, desperately sampling the air for further information about the menace.
He moved along the gradually descending floor of a narrow valley, with two hilltops rolling irregularly to the left and right. Less than two miles ahead the valley emptied into a lush vallenwood grove along the shore of a pristine lake-the site of Ashtaway's village for the last century. Since the lingering stench was carried only by the air-there was no spoor of the bakali on the trail or underbrush-the Kagonesti suspected that the lizardmen had crept into the valley at some point ahead of him.
The tribe always kept a warrior on lookout in these hills, but they had never been menaced by attack here before, so the sentry duty tended to be casual. Still, if the elven warrior-whoever he might be on this day-happened to be alert, there was a good chance that the village could be warned.
Ashtaway tensed, instinctively drawing back the bow as another alarming scent came to him. His nostrils sampled the air, found the fresh smell of blood-elven blood.
In another dozen steps the wild elf made a gruesome discovery. Though the corpse's scalp had been torn away and the body horribly mutilated-by talon and fang, it looked like-he recognized his tribemate Warrican. The youngster had earned his first tattoos just the previous winter and took his duties as a warrior very seriously. Yet he had not been prepared for the stealth, the savagery, of the bakali.
And now there was none to warn the village of danger.
Running again, Ashtaway risked minimal noise as he raced along the winding trail. Still he probed the surroundings, wondering if the bakali might have left a sentry to watch their rear. At least Ash could hear no sounds of disturbance-and if the attack had begun, he would certainly have heard it from here.
The stink of the lizardmen grew stronger, and finally the Kagonesti warrior turned from the valley floor, gliding smoothly between the trees of the forested hillside, climbing toward the rounded crest. He darted from tree to tree, staying low, seeking those frequent vantages where curves in the hilltop gave him a look at the valley below.
The lake came into sight, immaculate, blue, sparkling like millions of gemstones in the sunlight. The lofty val- lenwoods screened his view of the near shore, but then the featureless expanse of water swept away to a distant, tree-lined fringe.
Ash saw movement around the bases of the nearest trees. At the foot of the slope before him, scaly humanoid shapes slipped through the shadows under the leafy canopy. The lizardmen crept forward, intent on the lodges that stood, still unseen, within the grove. Greenish brown, the monsters blended well with the underbrush. They crept on all fours into an expanding arc around the Kagonesti settlement. The bakali bore crude weapons of stone and bronze, but each of the brutes was much larger than an elf, and was naturally armed with powerful, fang- studded jaws and nimble forepaws tipped with sharp, hooked talons.
Pressing forward, over the rim of the hill, Ashtaway suddenly came upon three bakali crouched in a dip on the descending slope. One of the lizardmen was bedecked in feathers and bore a stout staff topped with a crystal totem in the image of a grotesque beast. The wild elf guessed immediately that this was the chief. The two other lizardmen were garbed as typical warriors, belts of skin supporting loops for their weapons, decorated by one or two dangling osprey feathers. The two spearmen looked to each side while their leader examined the developing ambush below.
In the instant of discovery Ashtaway knelt and drew his bow to full tautness, aiming at the base of the bakali chieftain's neck. One of the bodyguards turned his snakelike face upward, spotted the elf, and hissed a warning- but not before the Kagonesti had released his missile.
The shaft flew straight, the steel arrowhead plunging through the gristly mane of the hulking lizardman, razor- edges cutting the creature's throat before it even knew that it had been shot. As his first target fell, Ashtaway drew another arrow. He shot one bodyguard through the heart, dispatching the second immediately afterward.
Only then did Ashtaway throw back his head and utter the alarm-the sharp, keening cry of the hunting eagle, repeated three times. Several voices rose from the village in answering cries: the warning had been received.
The bakali ambushers below whirled toward the hilltop, their attention drawn by the sudden sounds. Ashtaway stood there in full view, and when he had the attention of the lizardmen, he raised his arms over his head, shook his bow and arrows, and whooped jeeringly.
Many of the brutish reptiles charged the lone warrior, while others vanished into the vallenwood trunks, grunting and barking aggressively. Ashtaway heard screams from the village, but the sounds of clashing metal weapons were also audible and he knew that the Kagonesti had not been taken completely by surprise.
But now he was faced with immediate problems of his own. Ashtaway had a dozen arrows left, and twice that many lizardmen rushed toward him, leaping and springing over the ground with shocking speed. Catlike, racing on all fours, a few of the bakali scampered ahead of their fellows up the steep hillside.
Slowing his breathing to the rhythmic pace of perfect concentration, Ashtaway drew back another arrow and let fly, dropping the leading lizardman with a clean shot to the neck. He shot again and again, each missile claiming another one of the attackers-and by always killing the one closest to him, he gained the time to shoot until his feathered shafts were all expended.
Throwing down his bow-he would return to get it later if he was still alive-Ashtaway pulled the long- hafted axe from his belt and raised the gleaming, steel- headed weapon over his head. Though the shaft had been made by Ash himself, Iydaway had told him that the axe head was a venerable artifact. The Pathfinder claimed that the weapon had been in the tribe for generations-legends held that it was handed down from Father Kagonesti himself. Whatever the weapon's past, Ashtaway suspected that the keen steel blade was no stranger to bakali blood.
A lizardman rushed up the hillside, leaping over the bodies of the chieftain and bodyguards. The creature sprang at the elf, jaws gaping like a crocodile's. With a single downward swing of the axe, the Kagonesti split the monster's skull, using the creature's reckless momentum to amplify the force of the blow. Slain instantly, the beast fell atop the corpses of its comrades.
Ashtaway surprised the next bakali by rushing forward, swinging the axe in a dazzling array of slashes. The first two chops nicked the lizardman's arms, sending it skidding into retreat. With a nimble leap, the Kagonesti swung again, wielding the axe as if he assaulted an ancient vallenwood trunk.
But the pale white skin of a bakali's belly was no equal to that legendary hardwood. Ash's blade slashed halfway through the monster's torso, sending it tumbling backward in a writhing mass of gore. The following lizardmen slowed their pace, suddenly alarmed by this deadly elf.
The Kagonesti did not give the bakali time to consider a revised plan. He rushed first at one, crippling it with a downward slash of the axe, then followed up against another, driving it to the ground and then killing it.
More than a dozen of the lizardmen swarmed to the hilltop. Ash risked a quick glance into the grove-he still couldn't see any of the village, but several ominous wisps of smoke emerged from the upper levels of the leaves. All he could hope was that his desperate warning had given most of the villagers time to escape. He knew that every adult, male or female, who could wield a weapon would be covering the flight of the children and the infirm.
He could do nothing for his people by dying on this hilltop. Instead, he spun and raced along the crest of the twisting ridge, darting through the trees with the grace of a deer, flying like a bird over the far side of the slope, diving toward the denser woods at the bottom. He paused in the shadows of a fallen vallenwood, where a cluster of roots extended overhead like a miniature cave. Far behind, still near the top of the hill, he saw several lizardmen cautiously advancing. The creatures darted back and forth, checking behind every tree trunk. Ashtaway smiled grimly-obviously he had taught them great respect for his fighting prowess.
Moving with caution and utter stealth, he worked his way along the foot of the ridge, steering clear of the bakali who had fanned into a long line to pursue their search. The lizardmen at the downhill end of the rank came within a dozen paces of Ashtaway, never suspecting that the patch of darkness beside the base of a great fir tree was anything other than afternoon shadow.
The searchers safely past, Ash sprinted along the forest floor. The smell of smoke was strong in his nostrils. The picture of the sturdy lodges-leather-bound houses that each sheltered a wild elf family-ravaged by the invading bakali nearly blinded him with fury.
Then he was in the midst of the vallenwoods, the great trees rising like pillars from the soft, brush-free ground. Each trunk was larger around than a chieftain's lodge, the upper branches so dense and so far above that they filtered the bright sunlight into a kind of vague and perpetual twilight. Ashtaway ran like a ghost along pathways that yesterday had chuckled to the tread of children's feet but now festered under the lingering stench of bakali.
Even before he emerged into the encampment, the smoke began to sting his eyes, and when he burst from between the last vallenwoods he could not stifle the wail of despair that rose from his lips. The lodges, the huts, the drying-racks for hides and jerky, everything was in flames. Lizardmen ran to and fro, forked tongues flicking menacingly from their jaws.
Yet, as the creatures piled more and more of the tribe's possessions onto the bonfires, Ashtaway sensed a fru
stration, a bitter sense of failure in the monsters' demeanor. Heart pounding, the Kagonesti warrior looked around, realizing with a glimmer of hope that there were no bodies! The villagers, most of them at least, must have escaped.
At the moment of his realization, one of the bakali warriors spotted Ash and uttered a shrill warning bark. Immediately several reptilian warriors converged.
But this was the grove where Ashtaway had spent the greater portion of his life. He didn't need to look overhead as he thrust the axe haft through his belt and leapt, strong hands closing around the limb he remembered. Nimbly swinging upward, Ash rose to his feet on the sturdy bough, some ten feet above the ground. One of the lizardmen prodded upward with a spear, and Ashtaway reached down with lightning quickness, snatching the weapon away.
Standing again, he raised the shaft to his shoulder and threw it at its original wielder. The crude flint spearhead gouged a painful wound in the monster's side and sent the other bakali scrambling backward.
With another upward leap, Ashtaway seized a second branch, scampering along this one until he reached the deep shadows near the tree trunk. The lizardmen scrambled toward the bole of the mighty vallenwood, jabbing upward with their spears.
A few of the monsters leapt, grasped the lower branches with their clawed hands, then scrambled up toward the waiting elf. Ashtaway met the first of these with a slashing blow of his axe, chopping off a forepaw that reached too far upward. Another bakali tumbled backward, bleeding, and the rest of the monsters paused.
Ash cawed at them like a taunting crow, dancing rudely back and forth on the limb, just out of reach of the lizard- men's crude weapons. He watched the slitted yellow eyes narrow hatefully, saw the tongues flicking in and out of the scaly jaws as more of the monsters raced to the tree.
When a large crowd of the brutes had gathered, Ashtaway leapt upward again, pulling up to the next limb, then bounding still farther above. Soon dark shadows cloaked him as the branches pressed closer, and he knew he was fully masked from below. At the same time he heard the snapping of branches, and the muttered cursing of his enemies-obviously the mud-dwelling bakali had entered the foreign realm of the treetops in their search for the vexsome Kagonesti.
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