Kagonesti lh-1

by Douglas Niles

  Balancing with easy grace, Ash stepped away from the thick tree trunk along a slender but sturdy limb. Pacing his steps carefully, he was able to move without causing the rustling sounds that accompanied each lizardman's presence. The branch began to sag as he neared the end, but from here he could see the stout limb of a neighboring tree, extending to within a dozen feet of his position.

  Hurling himself into space, Ash felt the stinging passage of branches whipping across his skin. For a brief moment he flew between the trees, and then his hands unerringly seized the supple branches of the next vallen- wood. As the limb bent downward, the Kagonesti swung into the concealment of enclosing branches. In a few seconds, he dashed all the way to the tree trunk, where, once again concealed by shadows, he stealthily worked his way upward.

  Shouts and barks rose from the ground. Ash knew that his leap had been observed, but the lizardmen would have trouble catching him no matter which tree protected him, and sooner or later the elf would find an escape route concealed from below.

  High in the sheltered boughs, Ashtaway threw himself flat on a broad limb-a branch that had been one of his favorite vantages since the village had been here. Crawling outward like a snake, keeping his body atop the thick branch, he remained invisible to the watchers below. The sturdy wood bent only slightly from his weight, and soon he emerged from the thicket to get a good view of the clearing on the lake shore.

  The heavy cloak of leaves concealed any glimpse of the sky overhead. So dense was the foliage that the smoke had begun to collect underneath it, just as a smoldering cook fire obscured the ceiling of a lodge. The edge of the bluff dropped toward the lake beyond the far line of trees. The lone pathway to the water followed the floor of a narrow, steep-sided ravine descending from the edge of the village clearing. Two Kagonesti warriors lay, cruelly hacked, at the mouth of this ravine. Obviously they had been a rear guard, holding so that the rest of the villagers could escape.

  Ashtaway saw no sign of the rest of his villagemates, which he took as good news. It seemed that most of the Kagonesti had escaped. His heart burned with hatred as lie watched the lizardmen ransack and destroy the village. Yet everything, from houses to drying racks to the furs, pots, and spices that were the possessions of each family, was replaceable. It was the lives of his people for which he felt the most fear.

  Peering into the grass choking the upper end of the ravine, Ashtaway saw a telltale bending of the long- bladed plants. Someone-several people, actually-concealed themselves there, where they, too, could watch the destruction of the village. Some of his fellow warriors, he suspected, had returned to spy on their enemies. The Kagonesti braves should be safe, since the minor waving of the reeds was not likely to attract the attention of the brutish bakali.

  Then Ash's heart almost stopped beating as he saw a tall, proud figure stand among the long-bladed grass. He recognized the hawklike features, the feathered ceremonial cape of the Pathfinder-but why would Iydaway expose himself? Other Kagonesti-a half dozen young warriors-rose behind Iydaway. Resolutely, the small band of elves started from the ravine into the smoky clearing. They had not yet been observed by the plundering lizardmen, but Ash knew they would inevitably be seen- probably in a matter of seconds.

  Ashtaway released his grip on the branch, rolled to the side, and plunged downward with dizzying speed. Shouts of triumph rose from below, bringing a grim smile to the falling elf. With precise timing he seized a lower limb, arresting his fall and swinging himself back into the concealment of the vallenwood greenery.

  Again he raised his head and taunted his enemies with the cawing of a crow-the most insulting sound in the long list of Kagonesti malignery. As if they sensed his scorn, the bakali grew frantic, howling and snapping ferociously. Several of them threw spears into the tree. One of the weapons thunked into the bark near Ashtaway, and the elf quickly pulled it free, hurling it firmly toward the chest of its caster.

  But now whoops and shrieks rose from across the clearing, and Ash knew that Iydaway's small band had been discovered. "Why?" he groaned aloud. Why did his uncle risk his life like this?

  Dropping lower. Ash got a look at the courageous, futile charge-six Kagonesti warriors and an old man, brandishing a mixture of swords, axes, and spears, charging into a camp occupied by perhaps a hundred savage lizardmen. Howling madly, the elves attacked with such valor that, at first the bakali scrambled to get out of the path of these mad fighters.

  Iydaway was not as quick as he had been three centuries before, but the Pathfinder still flew over the ground with grace and balance. The old elf feinted a charge directly across the camp, then turned and led his small party toward the smoldering wreckage of a large, ceremonial hut.

  The bakali closed in, and two of the younger warriors halted, meeting the charging lizardmen with steel swords, holding them at bay while Iydaway and the other warriors raced toward the ruined hut. Reaching the smoldering wreckage, the venerable elf plunged into the hot coals, kicking his feet through the ashes on what had once been the floor of his home.

  Ashtaway cried out in fury as he saw the pair of rear warriors fall, rended savagely beneath the talons and fangs of the bakali. Dropping to the ground in the midst of his enemies, Ash struck this way and that with his axe, carving painful wounds into several of the lizardmen before he again leapt upward and pulled himself to the minimal safety of a tree branch.

  But now, at least, he had begun to guess at his uncle's motives. There was only one possession of the tribe that was truly irreplaceable, a treasure that would always be passed from generation to generation. It had been entrusted to Iydaway before Ash had been born, and often the young warrior had watched as his uncle made music or ritual with the celebrated artifact.

  Now, the young warrior knew that Iydaway had gone to retrieve the Ram's Horn.

  One of the Kagonesti protecting Iyda fell, pierced by a bakali spear, while the three who remained fought desperately to screen the elder. None of the lizardmen seemed willing to brave the heat of the coals in pursuit. They would wait for the old warrior to burn, or to emerge from the ruins into range of their weapons. One, then another of the warriors fell, cruelly slashed. Many more bakali had gathered in a ring around the base of Ash's tree, fully encircling even the vast sweep of the vallen- wood's branches.

  Ashtaway moved with the speed of thought, flying like an arrow from the limb, driving his head into a lizard- man's back. The creature went down, its spine shattered, and the Kagonesti rolled away from the body, bouncing to his feet beyond the enclosing ring of bakali.

  Racing toward the ruins of his uncle's lodge, Ash chopped down the only reptilian warrior who tried to stand in his path. He saw the last warrior of the Pathfinder's escort die, pierced by a stone-tipped spear. Iydaway, a blackened shape in his hand, abruptly threw his hatchet, dropping one of the lizardmen standing warily beyond the coals. Ash shrieked like a hunting hawk, racing at the other two, madly brandishing his bloodied axe. A crowd of howling lizardmen pursued the fleet Kagonesti.

  The elder warrior snatched up his weapon and leapt into step beside his nephew, sprinting for the largest of the village vallenwoods. Ash didn't risk a glance backward, but as he slowed his pace to match lydaway's he knew that the enraged bakali had begun to close the gap.

  Their pounding feet carried them across the empty ceremonial circle at the center of the village. Since a mighty vallenwood stood beside this circle, steps had been pegged into the trunk and a platform of branches had been erected some twenty feet off the ground. It was one of the few Kagonesti sites that had not yet felt the scorching flames of plunder.

  At the foot of the tree, Ash whirled, crouching with his axe upraised. He heard Iydaway scramble up the wooden steps as the young elf slashed his weapon through the air, so fast that the steel edge vanished in a blur. The bakali had learned to respect that razorlike surface. In one mass, the pursuing warriors skidded to a halt, the mob expanding to encircle the tree and try to rush at Ash from the flanks.

  Asht
away gave his uncle two heartbeats to get up the steps, knowing that a moment longer would give dozens of lizardmen time to overwhelm him. Springing upward and back, still slashing with his long-shafted axe, the warrior retreated up the steps. The wooden pegs were too narrow to support more than one foot at a time, but he held his balance long enough to reach the first of several handy branches.

  A bakali leapt at the elf's foot, but tumbled back with a bloody gash in its forepaw. Others barked and howled at the rear of the mob before turning about and racing to a nearby lodge. Drawing partially burned sticks from the blaze, the lizardmen waved them through the air until yellow flames crackled and trails of smoke dwindled in the air. Bearing their makeshift torches, the creatures hastened back to the tree.

  By this time Ash had joined his uncle on the ceremonial platform. Above them the bole of the tree rose into the limitless heights, challenging the clouds and leading through innumerable pathways into a dozen neighboring trees. Still clutching the blackened horn, Iydaway started upward. His nephew followed, waiting only long enough to cut the lashing of the platform and drop the heavy wooden structure onto the dozen or so bakali foolish enough to stand directly underneath.

  Chapter 12

  The Pathfinder

  "Your warning gave us time to flee the village," Iydaway explained. "We made many of the lizardmen pay for their cruelty, but brave elves gave their lives in that cause." "I found Warrican at his post, slain by surprise attack," Ashtaway said. "Palqua and Thyll held at the mouth of the ravine for a long time. They gave the rest of the villagers time to reach the foot of the bluff and make their way along the shore." The two Kagonesti padded silently along the forest floor, a mile from the ruined village. They made their way toward a grotto in the heart of the vallenwood forest. Years ago it had been selected as the tribe's gathering point in the event of disaster.

  "And more died to regain the Ram's Horn," Ashtaway noted. "Is it so precious, Uncle, that six warriors should perish to save it?"

  Iydaway sighed and shook his head. The spiraling tattoos on his cheeks and chin masked his grief, but Ash knew that the question had hurt the elder warrior, and with that knowledge came regret that he had asked it. But his uncle held up a hand as if to dissuade the younger elf's guilt. The leafy pattern inked onto lyda's palm had a soothing effect on Ash, and again he breathed deeply as he awaited a reply.

  "It is not, in truth, worth the sacrifice of a single life- at least, not that we can say with certainty," Iydaway declared, his voice rhythmic, almost songlike. "But in the same truth it may be worth the saving of a hundred lives, of the whole tribe. And then who knows? If I had known that those young braves would die-or that I would live-would my decision have been the same?"

  Ash waited, knowing that this was not a question he could answer.

  "In truth, I had to go and get the horn. As long as I live, it is not a thing I can abandon. Were you to throw it into the deepest sea, I should be compelled to dive in after it, drowning in the attempt to plunge the depths. Should you cast it into the fiery crater of one of the Lords of Doom, I must need pursue it, walking through fire as long as blood flowed in my veins. I am the Pathfinder, and such is my destiny and my fate-a destiny that I willingly bear."

  Iydaway paused, shaking his head sadly. Ash was surprised to see tears in his eyes. When the old elf spoke, his voice had returned to its natural tone.

  "To answer your question, if I had known that my protectors would perish in the attempt, I would have ordered them to remain behind."

  "And perished by yourself," Ash confirmed.

  "And the horn would still be lost to the tribe," agreed the elder.

  Ashtaway took the sooty spiral and tried to wipe it clean with his hands, succeeding only partially. Still, the shine of the smoothly curled horn seemed to gleam through the dirt, as bright as sunlight in the shadowed forest depths.

  "Is it truly made from the horn of a great ram?" Ash asked skeptically. Though he had enjoyed the music of the horn at village ceremonies and knew that his uncle cherished it above any other object, the young warrior realized that he knew very little about the treasured item. At the same time, with a shiver of portent, he remembered that he had to tell the Pathfinder about Lectral.

  Iydaway shrugged. "That is what Callista Pathfinder, my granduncle, told me, and his predecessor-the Pathfinder Barcalla-told him. The legend declares that, in the Age of Dreams, the Elderwild Kagonos carved it from the horn of the Grandfather Ram-the creature he met, as you know, among the highest peaks of the Khalkists."

  "Uncle, I heard the second Ram's Horn." Iydaway's eyes widened, but he made no reply. With careful attention to detail, Ashtaway told the tale of his summons from Lectral, and the subsequent encounter with the wounded dragon. Iydaway nodded sagely, clearly unsurprised by the information-a fact which, in itself, surprised Ash a great deal.

  "It is fitting that you were the one who heard," Iyda said, smiling gently.

  "Myself-and Hammana," Ash noted.

  "Yes, and Hammana. That part puzzles me."

  "Her healing has been a great help to Lectral-some of his wounds might otherwise have killed him."

  "Indeed." Iydaway walked in silence for a time. When he spoke, his question took Ashtaway by surprise. "Does it seem as though the mantle of Pathfinder is a burdensome thing, Nephew?"

  "No-well, perhaps yes. It is an important task, I know. And no wild elf should find it difficult to stay away from the House Elf cities. But for a man to go through life without taking a wife… that, it seems, might be a lonely choice."

  'The Pathfinders of the wild elves, from Father Kagonesti on, have been solitary elves, true. Perhaps, because of this, we have not felt that lack as much as another might."

  "I know that they have been great leaders, Uncle, and a strong bond to unite all the tribes."

  "Indeed, it was Father Kagonesti who gave birth to our freedom. Without our first Pathfinder, there would be no tribes today."

  "And you, Uncle, have shown the tribes the way to survive the Dragon War. Finding the paths deep in the forests, seeking these glades where the trees shield us from the sky… we owe you much."

  "Ah… but that is a sadness, that we must forever hide from the sky. At least we, at the Bluelake, have the best of the deep forest-for our shore gives us a glimpse of open waters and sky."

  "When the war ends, then perhaps we'll seek the high valleys again, where the wild elves lived for hundreds of years," Ash mused. He himself had always loved the heights and had spent much of his youth exploring the mountains within a fifty-mile radius of the Bluelake. Yet, despite these sojourns, Ash was not by nature a solitary elf and always rejoiced when he returned to the company of his villagemates.

  "It will be the task of the Pathfinder to lead us there," Iydaway agreed. 'Though I have found the path may best be chosen through discussion among the people, perhaps spiced with a bit of persuasion by myself. In this, I am different from Callista or Barcalla. My predecessors-following the example of Father Kagonesti-would show the path and expect the tribe to follow. For me, it is better when we talk first, then move."

  Ashtaway nodded thoughtfully, curious that his uncle chose to explain this philosophy to him.

  The two Kagonesti continued in silence, remaining alert for pursuit. Once they heard the hoot of an owl and looked up to see a tattooed warrior waving them on. A few minutes later, they joined the rest of the tribe in the shadowed depths of the vallenwood grove. A pool of still water reflected the darkening sky, and Ash's heart broke at the sight of the many frightened faces peering out from behind the mighty trunks.

  The elves would not risk many fires tonight, but they felt secure for the moment from bakali pursuit. A dozen warriors stood duty in the woods, posted in pairs and observing from the treetops fully a mile away from this secret grotto.

  The rest of the tribe, save for the nine warriors who had fallen during the battle, now awaited the communal decision as to their next course of action.

  A
shtaway quickly sought out Wallaki, Hammana's father. The old shaman, a respected figure in the tribe, had been given a straw mat underneath a lush vallenwood, where he would be as comfortable as possible. Resting a small gourd over a patch of glowing coals, Wallaki mixed some kind of medicinal brew with herbs and water. The shaman raised his darkly tattooed face hopefully as Ash approached, though his eyes seemed to search beyond the warrior's shoulder.

  "I–I had hoped…" The shaman's voice choked, and Ash was grateful that he could ease his fears.

  "Hammana is safe, not near the village," Ash said, explaining the summons that had drawn the two of them into the foothills. "Now she remains with Lectral, healing his wounds, which are many and deep."

  "Hammana tends a silver dragon?" The shaman nodded without surprise, studying the strong-smelling brew that bubbled over his fire. "That is a wondrous thing for anyone, and the highest honor of all to a Kagonesti healer! But are you sure she is safe?"

  "Safer than beside the Bluelake," Ash said wryly. "But,n truth, Lectral is a fine dragon, and grateful for her attentions. And though he cannot fly, he can certainly protect her from any other threats that might lurk in the woods."

  That is very well, then," Wallaki agreed, before turning back to his potion and beginning a mystical chant.

  Ashtaway joined the warriors who gathered around the Pathfinder and his spiral Ram's Horn. Iydaway played the instrument slowly, mournfully, the music cushioning and echoing the grieving of the tribe for its lost warriors. He ceased playing long enough to recount the story of Ashtaway's attack, and other warriors-who had seen parts of the battle from distant treetops-chimed in with further praise. Ash sat tall and proud, deeply wanned by the praise of his comrades. Warrican's father recounted a list of the dead, and after each name, the warriors chanted a pledge, promising that the deaths would be avenged.