The History of Krynn: Vol I

by Dragon Lance

  A bronze blade flashed by her nose. It raked lightly down her ribs, snagging the lacings of her buckskin shirt and pulling them loose. The garment fell off one shoulder.

  She rolled over on her belly and tried to crawl away. Instantly, many hands seized her again. One of the Jade Men grasped her by the hair and dragged her to her feet. A sharp point buried itself in the soft flesh under her chin. Her heart contracted to a small, tight knot.

  The next thing she knew, she was free. The shock of this sudden change was so great she staggered slightly, then whirled, expecting a stab in the back. It never came. The Jade Men had formed a square around her and made no move to recapture her. They watched her closely with cool, expressionless, painted faces.

  “You bear the Master’s mark,” said one.

  “Mark?”

  The one who had spoken bared his left breast. Starlight illuminated the shiny triangle on his skin. As Beramun stared, one after another they revealed identical green triangles.

  “You bear the Master’s mark,” the Jade Man said again. He was little more than a boy, judging by his smooth, hairless chest.

  “What does it mean?” she demanded.

  “You belong to the Master. You do his will, as we do.”

  Beramun flushed and opened her mouth to deny it hotly – opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap.

  “You’re right,” she said, sidling away from the eerie band. They didn’t try to stop her. “I am doing the will of the Master. You will tell no one about seeing me – not Zannian or anyone else.”

  “The Master’s will is our will.”

  As one, the Jade Men intoned, “Greengall. Greengall...”

  Beramun turned and ran. The path was steep and treacherous, lined with loose gravel and thorny brush. She fell several times but continued to run until the valley vanished behind her.

  The night was more than half gone. She needed to be well into the mountains before daybreak.

  She paused only once, at a promontory a league from the mouth of the pass. Her hands and legs were smeared with the green paint worn by Sthenn’s boy troop. It smelled awful, like rancid oil, so she halted by a puddle of rainwater and scrubbed herself hard. Even after the paint was gone, she felt unclean where the Jade Men had touched her.

  You hear the Master’s mark. You belong to the Master. You do his will, as we do.

  Denying it in her head but fearing it in her heart, Beramun took to her heels again.

  *

  When day broke, the villagers received a shock. Their lookouts on the eastern cliffs saw bands of raiders gathered near the north wall. The lookouts sounded the alarm and sent word to Amero that the enemy was up to something.

  Much worse was to come. As the sun rose over the eastern cliffs, the raiders set up two stakes in view of the village lookouts. To these stakes they tied two of the scouts who’d been sent to find Karada’s nomads. The runners, captured during the night, weren’t dead – not yet, not quite.

  The news sent a chill of horror through the village. “Two lost already,” Lyopi mourned. “And now Zannian knows we’ve sent for help.”

  “Two lost means six got through,” Amero said grimly. “They knew the dangers. They also know they carry all our hopes with them.”

  Rain and mist clung to the mountains for two days. It was driven away at last by a rising wind that tore the clouds to shreds. Strange portents followed the wind – booming thunder from a clear sky, cold whirlwinds scampering through the side canyons, flashes of green and blue light in the eastern sky at dusk.

  Through all these disturbances, Amero kept a solitary vigil atop the Offertory. He watched as one runner after another was captured and staked out below the walls of Yala-tene. Two, then three, then five distant figures hung limply on posts in plain view.

  Amero suffered for each one, having known them all their lives, but as much as he grieved for them and their families, he kept the summit of his anguish locked away, waiting for the unbearable moment when Beramun would join them.

  Chapter 23

  Two raiders, well muscled and hard of mien, threw their prisoner at Zannian’s feet. The young villager, caught in Bearclaw Gap east of Yala-tene, had been cruelly treated. He was the sixth scout the raiders had found.

  “Well?” said Zannian. “What did he tell you?”

  “Same story as before – the Arkuden sent him and seven others to find Karada.”

  Zannian burst out laughing. “So it’s true! They seek a ghost!”

  Nearby, Nacris was working on a tally of the animals they’d captured in the valley. She heard the hated name and put down the willow twig she was using to scratch the count in the dirt.

  “Karada again?” she asked sharply.

  “It’s nothing,” Zannian said, waving a dismissive hand. “The Arkuden pins his hopes on a dead woman.”

  “There’s more, Zan.” The bearded interrogator prodded the unconscious scout with the same stick he’d used to beat him. “If Karada herself wasn’t found, he was to bring back any of her warrior band he could find.”

  “Well, a few old wanderers are no threat to us,” he said. “Take this fool out and stake him like the others. When we get all eight, the mud-toes will certainly give up.”

  The bearded fellow made no move to leave, but exchanged a significant look with the other raider.

  Zannian saw it and snapped, “What else?”

  “He said one of the scouts is that black-haired girl, the one you offered the bounty for.”

  Zannian leaped to his feet and took hold of the bearded raider’s tunic. “Are you sure?”

  “He told us the names of all of them. Her name is Beramun, right?”

  Zannian shoved the man away. “Get my horse,” he snapped. “Round up forty men and have them ready to ride!”

  “Aye, Zan!” The two raiders picked up the unconscious youth by the heels and dragged him out. Zannian and Nacris were left alone.

  “Any objections, Mother?” Zannian’s expression dared her to criticize.

  She scratched a few random lines in the dirt. “Should I object?”

  “Aren’t you going to say something about me wasting my time chasing that crow-haired wench?”

  “No, Zanni. You’ve been sulking in this tent too long. Polish your sword, get on your horse, and go do something.”

  Though he knew the childish nickname was meant to tease him, he merely grinned unpleasantly and said, “That I’ll do!”

  “One thing,” she said, all jesting gone. “If there are survivors of Karada’s band out there, they’re not to be discounted. Any one of her warriors could whip ten of your yevi-spawned hirelings.”

  “Pah!” he spat. “Karada died long ago. The Master told me so himself.”

  “You’d be wiser not to believe everything the Master says.”

  Zannian paused at the tent flap, unsure. His mother’s advice had lately proven valuable. He was inclined to listen to what she said.

  “What do you suggest?” he asked.

  “The Arkuden is seeking allies. So can we.” Nacris traced invisible lines on her palm with the willow twig. “I’ve been thinking about just such a move for a while now. There are some warriors I know who would not find Arku-peli’s wall much of an obstacle.”

  “Who?”

  “Ogres.”

  Zannian uttered a single loud oath. “You’re mad! Bring ogres into our fight?”

  “Why not?” was her cool response.

  “Why not?” Zannian clapped a hand to his head. “Have you forgotten the ancient war between men and ogres? They nearly wiped out our ancestors! And you want to invite them here, to fight alongside us? By all the spirits! What’s to stop them from killing us?”

  “We’re not weak, and ogres respect strength.”

  “We’ve lost a quarter of the hand so far. How strong will we be when the last battle is fought?”

  “There’s the Master too,” Nacris said.

  Mention of Sthenn calmed Zannian. “True enoug
h,” he replied, “but he’s far away, battling the bronze dragon. We have no idea when he’ll return.” He pinned her with a stern look. “It’s too risky. I forbid you to have any contact with the ogres. We will conquer by our own hands or perish in the attempt.”

  Nacris was silent for a time, then said, “As you wish, Zanni. You’re chief of this band.” She smiled. “Now go! You have wild game to catch, don’t you?”

  “Aye! I’ll be back soon!” He dashed off, brimming with newfound enthusiasm.

  As soon as he’d gone, Nacris’s fingers closed on the willow twig, snapping it in two. The Arkuden’s desperate plan to find Karada did not worry Nacris. In fact, she wished his plan every success. She hoped Karada was alive and could be found. Let Karada ride headlong to her own destruction!

  Nacris raised herself with her crutch and hobbled outside. She made her way slowly to the river’s edge. A gang of slaves was washing clothes, preparing food, and repairing broken weapons. She scanned those guarding the busy captives, looking for one face in particular.

  “Where is Harak, Siru’s son?” she called out. The slaves kept their heads down and continued their labors.

  “Horse corral,” replied an emaciated woman.

  The raiders had set up a temporary corral to hold their spare horses and the goats and oxen taken from the village. Nacris had no problem finding Harak. The young raider was exercising a sable mare injured in one of the earlier attacks on Arku-peli.

  She watched Harak closely as he rode. He was not hard to look at. His long hair, pulled back in a horsetail, was the same color as the sleek mare he rode. The early morning sunlight cast his chiseled features into sharp relief.

  Work before pleasure, she mused, and called, “Harak! Come here!”

  He pulled the reins sharply, bringing the mare around in a tight turn. The horse approached Nacris at a trot. Five steps away, Harak swung a leg over the animal’s neck and slid to the ground.

  “Greetings, Mother,” he said pleasantly.

  “Don’t call me that. I’m not your mother.”

  “As mother to our chief, aren’t you mother to us all?”

  “Mind your tongue, hoy, or the chief will have it out.” Nacris limped on her crutch to the shady side of the pen and sat on a convenient slab of rock. “Come here. I have something to tell you.”

  Harak folded his lean body gracefully, and propped an elbow on the stone, close to Nacris. His expression was calculatedly winsome, and because he was so handsome and so obvious, she found herself smiling at him.

  “How long have you been in my son’s bad graces?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

  His pleasant expression didn’t alter. “You know very well. Since the captives broke free during our march across the plain.”

  “The escape wasn’t your fault.”

  He shrugged. “Tell your son that.”

  “Zannian distrusts you.” Harak feigned surprise. She chuckled, saying, “Yes he does, and you know it. He’s afraid you’re smarter than he is, and he resents your prowess on horseback.”

  “I am as my ancestors made me,” said Harak with blatantly false modesty.

  “So you are,” Nacris retorted dryly. “Well, I have need of you. I want you to be my man, Harak.”

  His dark brown eyes widened. “You flatter me. I thought you were Hoten’s mate.”

  Nacris backhanded him. An old warrior herself, she had plenty of strength in her arms. The blow sent the insolent young man sprawling.

  “Don’t banter with me, boy! I’ve known men who were worth ten of you, as warriors and as lovers. Don’t mistake me for a fool.”

  Harak picked himself up. Brushing away dirt, he knelt again, this time out of her reach. His tanned cheek bore the red imprint of her hand.

  “All right, Nacris. I’m listening. What do you want of me?”

  “I want you to go on a journey. A secret journey, kept even from Zannian. Are you interested?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Power. Wealth. What else? You know I am favored by the Master. I have free access to his lair in Almurk. He’s collected many treasures in a thousand years of life. Do this task for me, and you’ll also be doing it for him. He will reward you.”

  “What sort of treasure?”

  “Bronze, copper, gold, rare ointments and poisons, and weapons of spirit power. Any of these can be yours for the asking.”

  “Your word as a plainsman?”

  Nacris put out her hand. “My word as a plainsman.”

  Harak gripped her forearm briefly, sealing the bargain. “Where am I going?”

  “Do you know the mountains that border Khar land on the northwest?” He nodded. “I want you to go there and seek out a certain chieftain named Ungrah-de.”

  His handsome face drew down in a frown. “That’s no plainsman’s name.”

  “No indeed. Ungrah-de is an ogre.”

  She waited for him to exclaim or laugh. He did neither. By his silent wariness, Nacris knew she’d chosen the right emissary.

  “You’re not afraid of ogres?” she asked.

  “I serve a green dragon. Why should I fear ogres? What do I say to this Ungrah-de?”

  “I’ll instruct you on the message. You will leave today. Take a horse and plenty of provisions. You must be back by Moonmeet. Do you understand?”

  Harak rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “That’s not much time.”

  “You’re the best rider in the band. That’s why I chose you.”

  He laughed. “You chose me because I hate your son and will keep your secrets from him.”

  It was nothing more than the truth, and Nacris let the matter drop. She patted the rock beside her. “Sit here,” she invited. “I’ll teach you the message I want you to deliver.”

  *

  The air was still and cold. Since sunrise, Duranix had been flying at extreme heights, trying to spot Sthenn. During the night, the green dragon had eluded him after they crossed the coast of a large continent, hundreds of leagues northwest of their homeland. Sthenn had vanished among the dark hills and heavy forest of the unknown land below.

  Day arrived, bright and cloudless. Duranix could see for many leagues in all directions. The continent so far was featureless, except for a low mountain range he’d followed since arriving. It ran north-south, dividing the sandy coastal wastes from greener territory inland.

  The bronze dragon glided in a great circle, head sweeping from side to side as he searched for his enemy. Sthenn was down there somewhere. Duranix could sense him. Hiding was just another ploy to aggravate him. The treacherous beast wanted Duranix to waste time and strength while Zannian’s raiders savaged the Valley of the Falls.

  He descended in a slow, wide spiral. The country below was vast. Past the mountain range were few distinctive landmarks – no rivers, no settlements. Dropping lower still, Duranix felt strong and ready, and was anxious to put an end to this ridiculous chase.

  A break in the trees caught his eye. On the crest of a high ridge he spotted an area of blighted trees, their normal verdant foliage gone brown as though a huge shower of mud had fallen on them. Duranix studied the dying trees. The stain was not mud. Leaves had shriveled and died on the branches. It might have been due to some arboreal plague but could just as easily have been caused by the poisonous breath of a green dragon.

  On guard, Duranix landed on the blighted ridge. The top was barren of trees and covered with fractured limestone boulders, some of enormous size. The sea had once washed this pinnacle as part of an ancient shoreline.

  Constantly checking above and behind, Duranix advanced down the slope on foot.

  A few paces along, he stopped dead in his tracks. Ahead was an open pit, partially covered by vines. The creepers had been disturbed recently, though they were still green and growing.

  It was a ridiculously obvious trap. Girding himself for whatever he might find, the bronze dragon leaped feet-first into the hole. He plunged through the thin veil of vines and was swallowed by
darkness.

  After dropping more than twice his height, Duranix hit a stone ledge. His powerful hind legs took up the impact, and the ground trembled with the force of his landing. He expected an immediate ambush. When no attack came, he took a better look at his shadowy surroundings.

  He was in an enormous cave, hollowed out of the limestone ridge by centuries of rainwater filtering down through the rocks. The air was heavy with moisture, cold and clammy. The cave was cluttered with stalactites and stalagmites in fantastic shapes, and blacker than Sthenn’s rotten heart.

  Just the sort of place a green dragon might hide, Duranix thought. He pierced the chilly gloom with his powerful senses, seeking Sthenn in the depths of the cave. He saw and heard nothing of his foe, but he had an overwhelming sensation of the green’s proximity.

  Lowering himself to his belly, Duranix slid forward, eeling around the limestone protrusions. The floor of the cave was coated with hardened lime. It looked like a frozen cascade of milk shot through with orange and yellow mineral swirls. Small creatures, pale and eyeless, scurried away from the slithering dragon.

  Duranix followed the passage down until it arrived at a three-way split. He had no distinct feeling as to which way Sthenn had gone.

  “A pretty choice, isn’t it?”

  Duranix kept still. The green dragon’s words echoed through the cavern, a directionless whisper. The old wyrm was a master at throwing his voice.

  “Which tunnel will you choose, little friend?”

  Duranix let his barbels trail over the glassy concretions on the floor. He searched for minute cracks in the mineral that might reveal where the heavy green dragon had trod. He found none.

  “I am fog, little Duranix. I am the veil of mist arising from every forest glade. I walk on thin air and dwell wherever death and decay hold sway.”

  Braggart, Duranix thought at him. Do you think you can frighten me with words?

  “Choose a path. Come find me. I will wait for you.”