The History of Krynn: Vol I

by Dragon Lance

  Wading out to her knees in the cold water, she stripped off her muddy outer clothes and rinsed them in the lake. She filled her cupped hands and dashed clear water on her face. The lake hadn’t lost its hard, mineral tang. Licking droplets from her lips, she remembered the first time she’d tasted it, all those years ago.

  Thoughts of the past reminded her of Nacris. The madwoman was still chained, and by Karada’s order no one had told her what had happened. Karada was still trying to figure out what to do with Zannian, and his fate was linked to that of his demented “mother.”

  “What about me?”

  Karada looked up from her reflection in the shallow water. Balif stood on the pebbled shore, a pace or two away.

  “What about you, elf?”

  He sat, stretching his legs in front of him. “Do you still mean to ransom me to my sovereign?”

  “Certainly. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, we did fight for your cause,” he said, leaning back on his hands.

  “You asked to fight.”

  “So I did. I was thinking I might have earned my freedom in the bargain.”

  Karada rose and wrung out her sodden buckskins. She sloshed ashore and sat down on the rocky beach to let the hot sun warm her. It felt good on her face.

  “You’re right,” she said at last.

  Balif seemed genuinely surprised. “I am?”

  “Yes. You can leave the Valley of the Falls when I do. I’ll escort your people to the Thon-Tanjan, to make sure you leave the plains. Just don’t come back to my land ever again.”

  She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun again. Tiny waves, stirred by a soft western breeze, lapped the black and tan stones of the shore.

  Balif watched the rippling water. He had captured Karada once and freed her. He’d done it to demonstrate his superiority over his human antagonist, to show her elves understood mercy. Karada had been furious the day he set her free. She had thought Balif was mocking her. In fact, he had been discounting her. Bereft of her followers, he’d thought she would be finished.

  How far he had come from the cool halls and gleaming crystal spires of Silvanost. No pampered child of capital and court, he’d been born under the trees, within sight of the Thon-Thalas. He’d been part of a band of hunters called the Oak Tree Alliance for his first hundred years. By the time of the Sinthal-Elish – the great council at which Silvanos Goldeneye was chosen to rule the elven nation – he was leader of the Oak Tree elves. Balif’s followers wanted the throne for Balif, and they had the power to make it happen. He wondered what these barbarians – these people – would think if they knew he might have been Speaker of the Stars.

  In those days he had two thousand forest elves at his back, and the chief of a powerful society of priests, the Brown Hoods, came to him, saying he would also back

  Balif as Speaker. That was a fateful meeting. The Brown Hood’s chief was Vedvedsica.

  It wasn’t lack of support that kept Balif from accepting the crown. He knew, deep within, he was not hard or ruthless enough to rule others. Lead them, yes, if they lodged their confidence in him. But rule? No.

  To confirm his belief, he asked Vedvedsica to send his spirit to a future time. He wanted to see what would become of the nation if he agreed to be Speaker. For seven days Balif sat in the depths of a cave, breathing the fumes of smoldering herbs. The Brown Hoods used their power to send his spirit out of his body. He was shown what the future would be if he ruled and what would come to pass if Silvanos wore the crown. When the vision ended, he remained in the cave a full day, trying to come to grips with what he’d seen. The choice was plain, of course; reconciling himself to his own future, though, had been difficult. At the Sinthal-Elish, Balif threw his support to Silvanos. He never told anyone, not even Vedvedsica, what he’d seen in the shadows of things to come.

  Karada’s sunbath had turned into a nap. She snored loudly beside him.

  Savage, he thought not unkindly. Of all the people in the world, Karada would probably understand his decision. She knew what it was like to lead and to live with a curse. One day his destiny would overtake him and transform him into... something else.

  Balif shook himself slightly, pulling his mind back to the present. “Wake up,” he said, nudging the nomad chief. “You’ll blister, lying in the sun like that.”

  Karada draped an arm across her closed eyes. “Why does an enemy care whether I burn?”

  “We are not ordinary foes, you and I. I’m not certain what we are....”

  Not wanting this line of conversation to continue, Karada rolled suddenly to her feet.

  “I don’t have time to waste idling here,” she said, snagging her horse’s dangling reins. “Don’t you have tasks that need doing?”

  “I do,” said Balif, squinting into the afternoon sun. “I am curious about one thing: What’s to become of Zannian?”

  “He’ll be dealt with. He at least is still a true enemy.”

  *

  Late that night, unable to sleep, Amero wandered out of Yala-tene. He went up the shoreline toward the falls, pausing to inspect the ruins of his foundry. So many days he’d labored here, seeking the secret of bronze. They had been good days, and he wondered if he would ever know their like again.

  As he kicked around the broken and blackened stones, the rhythmic thump of wings sounded overhead. He turned toward the noise and saw the dark shape of Duranix alight on the shore. The dragon bent his long neck to the water and drank deeply. Amero ran down the hill, calling to him.

  “Duranix! Old friend, how are you?”

  The dragon raised his head, and Amero skidded to a stop. One draconian eye regarded him solemnly; the other had been battered shut in his battle with Sthenn.

  Taking stock of Duranix’s various wounds, Amero asked quietly, “Will you be all right?”

  “Right enough.” Duranix turned away and began walking toward the cliff behind the falls which contained his cave home. Amero trotted after him.

  “Is Sthenn dead?”

  “He is.”

  “You should be happy, then – or at least relieved.”

  Duranix stopped suddenly and swung around, facing the far smaller human trailing him. “Happy?” he rumbled. “He cheated me again! Four and a half days! He lived only four and a half days. My mother was three times as long dying!”

  “Does it matter now? Sthenn can do no more harm. You’ve avenged your family and saved us all.”

  The dragon considered him silently for a moment, then said, “And now I’m going to my cave. I will sleep a while, and heal, and when I waken, I have a decision to make.”

  Amero’s brow knotted. “What decision?”

  “I don’t know whether I shall stay here any longer.”

  If Duranix had used his fear-inducing breath on Amero, he couldn’t have shocked him more. Choking, Amero asked his mighty friend what he meant.

  “I’ve flown around the world,” Duranix said, lifting his horned head to the stars. “I’ve seen places and things no creature of this land, dragon or human, has ever seen before. Chasing Sthenn, I could not stop to study these distant countries. Now that he’s dead and the danger to Yala-tene defeated, I no longer feel at home in the Valley of the Falls.”

  Duranix switched his steadfast gaze from the sky to the stone-walled village behind him. “My home is polluted,” he said flatly. “One human was stimulating. A nest of five hundred humans was barely tolerable, but this – hundreds of humans, horses, elves, ogres...” He flexed his battered claws. “I shall rest, then decide.”

  Amero watched helplessly as Duranix spread his wings and flew to the mouth of his cave. The words, the arguments that came so easily to him a hundred different times a day, refused to form in his throat or his mind. How could Yala-tene continue without Duranix? How could he?

  In a spray of phosphorescent foam, the bronze dragon pierced the rumbling waterfall and vanished into his lair.

  Chapter 15

  When next the gang of f
ormer raiders went out to the crater made by the falling dragons, they found it gone – which is to say, completely filled in. In fact, it was mounded with earth to the height of a horse’s back. The ex-raiders leaned on their shovels and pondered this while their nomad guards muttered among themselves about spirit power.

  Karada was sent for and arrived a short time later with Pakito, Samtu, and Bahco.

  “You’ve been busy,” Pakito remarked to the prisoners. “Did you work all night?”

  “Don’t be daft,” said his mate. “Two hundred men working all night couldn’t pile up this much dirt. What does it mean, Karada?”

  Their chief rode slowly around the new mound, looking for clues to its formation. Her comrades and the defeated raiders trailed behind her. The ground around the pile was well tracked with the raiders’ footprints and the marks of the nomads’ horses but no other prints.

  Two-thirds of the way around the mound, she stopped. “Do you smell that?” she asked.

  Fetid but faint came the smell of decay from the heap of dirt.

  “I know that stink.”

  The speaker was the same tall, impertinent raider from yesterday. Harak, was it? He was leaning on his shovel behind the mounted nomads. When Karada turned to him, he gave her an impudent grin.

  “What is it then?” she snapped.

  “The green dragon’s den in Almurk smelled like this.”

  Karada told Bahco and Pakito to ride to the west end of the valley to see whether Duranix and the green dragon were still there. The two men galloped off.

  “Why bother?” Harak said. “Sthenn’s in that hole, moldering away.”

  “Shut up, raider.”

  They waited in silence until Pakito and Bahco returned. Both dragons were gone, Pakito reported. Duranix must have buried Sthenn’s body in the pit.

  Since the prisoners’ task had been done for them, Karada ordered their shovels be exchanged for axes. They would cut wood – a great deal of wood – to construct a funeral pyre. Not only for villager dead, she intended it for Ungrah-de as well. She ordered it built here, next to Sthenn’s burial mound, and square, ten paces to a side.

  “It will take many days to cut that much wood,” Pakito noted.

  Karada reined her fractious mount about and said, “You have two days. Corpses can’t lie around forever; we’ll have disease.”

  She rode off, leaving the giant in charge of the prisoners. Sullenly, the captive raiders marched back to camp to get stone axes. On the way, two of Zannian’s former lieutenants sidled up to Harak.

  “Listen,” one hissed. “To cut that much wood, they’ll have to take us into the mountains.”

  “Hmm,” Harak responded, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

  “We can escape!”

  The raider on Harak’s right, a runty bully named Muwa, said, “A lot of our men have already gone away! Why should we stay here and work like slaves? Let’s go!”

  Harak glanced back over his shoulder at Samtu, riding nearby. “You won’t get half a league,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “These people know the mountains, we don’t. They’ll be on your backs like hungry yevi.”

  “So we’ll kill them and take their horses! Are you afraid, Harak? What would Zan say?”

  “Zannian’s in Karada’s hands. He put us here, so I don’t much care what he has to say about anything.” Harak spat on the trampled grass. “I don’t intend to live out my life as a slave, but I do plan to live longer than tomorrow.”

  Scowling, the two raiders moved away. Harak saw them whispering to the other men, pouring their bitter poison into more eager ears. Fools, he thought. They still don’t know who they’re dealing with! Karada’s people could hunt them down and kill them without breaking a sweat.

  Nevertheless, he said nothing to the nomads about his fellow prisoners’ plots. He lived by a simple code: Eat when you can, sleep when you need, and let those with power do as they will. When they clashed and fell, it was Harak who would survive, Harak who would thrive.

  He was so lost in thought he didn’t hear the command to halt. He continued on, not noticing the quick clatter of hooves behind him. Someone dealt him a stunning whack across the shoulders, and he pitched facedown on the ground.

  “Stop that!”

  “The fool didn’t do as he was told —”

  “That’s no reason to strike him! Will you be like the raiders and abuse your captives?”

  Struggling to regain his wind, Harak rolled over. A slender, strong arm braced him as he tried to sit up. Towering over him was the dark-skinned nomad with one arm in a sling: Bahco. He held his spear reversed, and it was obvious he’d hit Harak with the shaft. More intriguing was who had helped him. It was the beautiful black-haired girl, Beramun.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Aye, soon as my vision straightens,” he mumbled. In fact he could see just fine and had to force himself not to stare at her.

  She helped him get to his feet, then rounded on Bahco. “I’ll speak to Karada about this!” she said. “It’s one thing to fight warrior to warrior, but you can’t beat your captives just because they’re slow or disobedient!”

  “Don’t be a fool, girl,” replied Bahco sharply. “Any one of these men would cut your throat if they thought they’d get away with it.”

  “That was Sthenn’s teaching. We must show them a better way,” she insisted.

  Bahco shook his head at her foolishness and resumed herding the ex-raiders to their pen.

  Beramun stood staring after Bahco, a frown on her face, until Harak spoke.

  “Sitting high on a horse starts you thinking those on foot are just another kind of ox, to be goaded and beaten,” he said.

  She turned her thoughtful gaze on him, but he pretended not to notice. Taking a step forward, he feigned pain, and Beramun rushed to his side to bolster him. She fit neatly under his arm. Harak settled his weight against her, and she easily bore up under the burden.

  A fine girl and well made, he thought. Strong, too – in more ways than one.

  “Is that better?” she said.

  “Better.” Her eyes were like beads of jet, swept by long, soft lashes as black as her hair.

  He must have looked too long or too hard, for Beramun grew nervous and slipped out of his grasp.

  “You!” Pakito’s powerful voice carried all the way from the prisoners’ pen. “Tall one with the fast mouth! If you’re through pawing the girl, get over here!”

  Beramun blushed and hurried away. Harak smiled slightly and started toward the towering nomad. He affected a stoop, exaggerating the effect of Bahco’s blow.

  Risk death in some foolish escape attempt? Harak would have none of it. Things in the Valley of the Falls were much too interesting to leave, and they promised to get more interesting in the future.

  *

  Karada had to hunt a bit to find Amero. He wasn’t with the villagers reconstructing demolished houses, nor was he across the lake with those trying to save the gardens and orchard. To her surprise, she found him in the ruined foundry between Yala-tene and the waterfall, and he wasn’t alone. Riding up the rocky slope, she heard voices ringing loudly off the cliff walls behind the broken building. Thinking there was trouble, she drew her sword and kicked her horse into a trot.

  “... can’t possibly make that much heat!” Amero declared.

  “With bellows you can,” said an unknown, Silvanesti-inflected voice.

  “But how can the melting point of bronze be higher than the melting point of tin and copper? Shouldn’t it be somewhere in between?”

  Balif interrupted the discussion by raising a hand and calling, “Greetings, Karada.”

  Sitting on her stalwart horse, sword bared, she looked every bit the nomad hero. When she realized Amero and the five elves clustered around him were arguing about metal-making, she felt a little foolish. She started to sheathe her blade.

  “No, wait,” said Amero. “Your sword – may we see it?”

  Face
hard as granite with embarrassment, she dismounted and handed her brother the weapon. It was a spare, taken from Balif’s tent when he was captured – which she wore while the sword she’d used in the great battle with Ungrah-de was repaired.

  “This is elven bronze,” Amero said, holding up the sword.

  “A fine example,” Balif agreed.

  His ironic tone was lost on Amero, who was frowning at the weapon. “How do you manage to make your blades so long? I know about wax and sand molds, but I’ve never been able to cast copper blades more than two spans long.”

  “Copper is difficult,” said a mature elf with hair so darkly gray it was almost blue. “In molten form it tends to form bubbles, and it doesn’t like to flow into sharp corners —”

  “What is all this?” demanded Karada.

  “Meet Farolenu, a master bronzesmith of Silvanost,” Amero said enthusiastically. “I happened to mention my metal-making woes to Lord Balif, and he said he had an experienced smith in his company. We’ve been talking bronze all morning.”

  “How exciting.” She took the sword back and slid it slowly into its sheath. “Why is a master bronzesmith carrying a spear as a common soldier?” she asked Balif.

  “All my soldiers have other skills,” he said. “House Protector, our caste of warriors, is not large enough to provide all the fighters the Speaker requires. When needed, warriors of the house raise retinues from the Speaker’s other subjects. Males of fighting age serve under those captains to whose house they owe allegiance. Master Farolenu belongs to the Smithing Guild of House Metalline. They lend service to House Protector. On this hunting expedition, he repaired weapons and metal tools.”

  “Two years after you’re dead, words will still be spilling out of your mouth,” Karada commented, bored by the complexities of Silvanesti society.