by Dragon Lance
On those occasions he had run for days before the Grandfather Ram had appeared. The magnificent animal, horns curling a full three spirals on each side of a broad-skulled head, had regarded Kagonos from on high. It remained lofty and distant, yet a searching presence in the huge, golden eyes had been undeniably close, intimate.
The Elderwild wondered if anyone else had ever seen the ram. He didn’t think so, though he wasn’t sure why he should believe this. True, there had been something about the expression in the magnificent animal’s eyes, something so profoundly personal that Kagonos believed implicitly that it had been a message intended for only him. And surely, even if others had seen the animal, they had not been the beneficiaries of that knowing, soothing gaze.
A shadow flickered across the wall of the gorge above Kagonos, and he flinched, knowing it was too late – he must certainly have been spotted by some flying creature. He spun to look at the sky, realizing that the shade had been far too large for a vulture or eagle. Quickly he saw the broad wings – a span easily twenty feet across – and the bulky body, four legs sweeping backward, confirmed his original impression. A griffon!
Instinctively the wild elf ducked beside the shelter of a large boulder. The hawk-faced creature must have seen him, but it would probably not attack – not unless it was starving, and even from below Kagonos could see that this was a sleek, healthy specimen.
Then he got the real shock. As the griffon flew onward, Kagonos saw a trailing plume of golden hair flowing freely above an armored shirt – a rider on the griffon’s back! Appalled, the wild elf realized that a House Elf had somehow captured and tamed one of the beasts. Kagonos grimaced. It was bad enough that the elves of the house clans should master and saddle horses – must they now bind even the savage flyers of the skies?
As the griffon and rider disappeared around the shoulder of a looming mountain Kagonos resumed his run, but in the flash of that brief encounter his exertions assumed a bitter, fatiguing edge. He no longer felt the tingling joy of pathfinding, not now, when another saw his route before he did. His sense of solitude had been violated in a way that stirred deep resentment in his soul, bringing outrage to the forefront of his emotions. What right did a House Elf have to these heights? The fellow didn’t even sweat as he traveled here – he merely sat on his saddle and discovered places, overlooked paths that should have been the province of the lone Elderwild runner.
Another jolt shook Kagonos as he remembered the Grandfather Ram. Would the mighty mountain sheep show himself to this House Elf? Would he be spotted inadvertently? The thought sent a bolt of alarm through his cloaking fatigue. A deep and fundamental fear drove the wild elf upward with renewed strength, his momentary lassitude forgotten as he all but flew over the jagged rocks of the steeply climbing riverbed.
For hours Kagonos hurled himself higher into the mountain range, through rough gaps in the foothills, over granite, crested ridges, along trails that no elven foot had ever before trod. He ran without thought of direction, yet he knew exactly where he was going. Always he climbed, pressing ever higher, working toward the loftiest peaks in the range.
When he emerged onto a high mountain ledge, coming around the shoulder of a looming peak, he was not surprised to see the griffon of the flying elf tethered in the valley beyond. A saddle of supple leather, studded with gold and gemstones, covered the creature’s back, and the beast’s hawklike face remained fixed on a scene below.
Next Kagonos saw the House Elf creeping downward. The intrusive rider was a hunter, to judge from his bow and arrows, but a wealthy one – perhaps even a noble. He wore pants of golden silk and gleaming black boots, with a tunic of bright white wool. The fellow’s bow was strapped across his back, and in his hand he bore a long-shafted axe with a blade of silvery steel. Carefully the hunter descended, looking toward something in a dip of the mountainside below.
Even before the wild elf stepped forward, he guessed the nature of the House Elf’s quarry.
Then Kagonos saw the white fur of the Grandfather Ram, showing in stark contrast to the gray rocks. From a hundred paces away Kagonos could see the crimson stain blotting the animal’s heaving flank. The feathered shaft of an elven arrow jutted upward from the wound.
Springing forward, Kagonos took vague note of the ram’s proud head, flanked by its triple-spiraled horns. The animal kicked its feet, its long tongue trailing from its mouth as it labored for breath. The elven hunter was barely a dozen paces away, advancing with the axe upraised, fully focused on his prey.
The griffon shrieked a warning – the sound something like an eagle’s cry, but bellowed with the force of a roaring lion. Immediately the golden-haired elf spun, his blue eyes flashing as he spied the naked figure lunging toward him.
“Hold, Wild Elf!” shouted the warrior.
Kagonos slowed his advance to a walk, studying the other. The House Elf hunter wore a steel breastplate and carried a small dagger in his left hand. In the right he brandished a long-bladed axe – a mighty weapon. Emblazoned on his armor was a golden shield marked with the crossed claws of a rampant griffon.
“Leave the ram. Go.” Kagonos spoke sharply, without considering the possibility that he would not be obeyed.
The House Elf threw back his head and laughed, a mocking, bitter sound. “Leave? This is a trophy more splendid than any I have seen. I intend to take this head, use it as my standard!”
The Elderwild did not reply, though he continued his measured advance. He didn’t understand what the other meant about a standard, but Kagonos knew that a great wrong was being enacted before him.
“Stop there. Come no closer!” barked the golden-haired elf.
“Who are you?” Kagonos asked, halting ten paces away.
“I am called Quithas Griffontamer! Remember that name, savage – I sit at the right hand of Silvanos, and when the great war comes it will be I who commands his armies, who defeats the ogres and their dragon-spawn allies!”
“Leave the ram, Quithas Griffontamer. He is not your trophy.”
Quithas laughed again. “Do you intend to stop me? A naked boy, no weapon, no armor? I do not wish to kill you, Wild Elf, but if you try to claim my rightful prey, I shall.”
Kagonos moved with the quickness of thought. His sleek body flew toward the other elf, then tumbled to the ground as the keen axe blade whooshed through the air above him. The wild elf hit the hunter hard, both of them going down in a tangle of limbs. Kagonos grunted as the metal hilt of the dagger smashed against his forehead, but the fury of his onslaught sustained him. He threw his fist into Quithas’s flank, avoiding the metal breastplate, driving the breath from the House Elf’s lungs. Staggered by the impact, the hunter tumbled sideways across the loose rock of the mountainside.
The axe skidded away, and Kagonos leapt forward, stomping one foot on the weapon’s long wooden shaft. Up the mountainside, the griffon shrieked in agitation, but the tether prevented it coming to its master’s aid. Slowly, precisely, the wild elf reached down and picked up the axe. The weapon was surprisingly heavy, though the edge had been honed to a razor’s sharpness. Holding it upward, brandishing it toward the elf who still sprawled, speechless, on the ground, Kagonos trembled under the onslaught of an almost uncontrollable hatred.
“This is a bad thing you have done, to hurt the Grandfather Ram. You said that I could not stop you, for I had no weapon. Now I have a weapon, Quithas Griffontamer, and I send you away.” The wild elf reached forward and snatched the arrows from the other’s quiver. Contemptuously he snapped them, casting the broken pieces at the House Elf’s feet. “Mount your animal and fly, or I shall kill you.”
Sputtering in fury, his eyes flashing a hatred that matched Kagonos’s, Quithas nonetheless scrambled backward, rising to his feet beyond the range of the axe.
“Give me my weapon!” he demanded harshly. “It is more precious than you can know – forged by the master smiths, enchanted by Silvanos himself!”
“The axe shall be my trophy!” retorted t
he wild elf, tautly. “Now leave, before I claim your head as well!”
The House Elf’s eyes flared, burning into Kagonos like a physical assault. Full of menace, the Elderwild raised the weapon, his own eyes narrowing as he watched Quithas back toward the prancing, agitated griffon. The House Elf spoke no further as he climbed onto his gilded saddle, seized his reins, and rode the beast’s powerful spring into the sky.
Kagonos watched until the flying creature disappeared over the rim of a nearby mountain. Then he turned to the Grandfather Ram and knelt beside the stricken creature’s head. His heart nearly burst with sorrow as he saw the growing crimson stain on that glorious white fur, saw the pleading expression in the gold-flecked eyes, the tongue lolling carelessly on the rocks.
“Water. Bring me water.”
Kagonos blinked, then nodded. He had leapt to his feet and sprinted toward the stream at the base of the slope before it fully dawned on him that the animal had spoken. When he reached that clear brook, he knelt and, lacking any vessel, filled his mouth from the cool, sparkling flow. Racing back to the ram, he allowed the water to trickle over the animal’s tongue, watching in wonderment as a trace of luster returned to the eyes.
“Shelter … we must find shelter. There is … a cave nearby. Carry me there.”
The Grandfather Ram spoke haltingly, but Kagonos sensed this was due to the creature’s wounds more than to any awkwardness with speech. The voice bore a suggestion of deep resonance and timbre, wrapped richly around his sparely chosen words.
The elf knew that the creature must weigh several hundred pounds, but Kagonos nevertheless reached under the ram and gently eased it upward, careful not to prod the flesh around the arrow. Surprisingly, he lifted the animal with ease. Following the ram’s directions, he soon carried it to a small niche in the rocky mountainside – a “cave” only in the loosest sense of the word.
“The arrow … can you remove it from my side?”
Kagonos worked the missile gingerly, wincing every time the ram grunted in pain, but eventually he pulled it free of the deep wound.
“It’s out, Grandfather. Rest now – do you need more water?”
The ram shook its head. “That’s better. I fear some enchantment, some lethal elixir was laid upon the arrowhead – else it would not have felled me so readily.”
With a grunting effort, the mountain sheep rolled onto its stomach, legs curled underneath. Already the bleeding from the arrow-wound had slowed to a trickle, and the animal’s breathing grew stronger, more regular.
But was it an animal at all?
“I have seen you before, Pathfinder,” spoke the sheep. This time those luminous eyes – the orbs that twice before had touched Kagonos from mountainous heights – seemed to penetrate through to the wild elf’s soul, and he could only nod at the words.
“You travel the mountains with the grace of one who belongs here. You seek the trails, and you discover them – places where neither elf nor man, not even ogre, have trod before. You are a worthy chieftain of the Elderwild.”
“I thank you, Grandfather – but I am no chieftain. Indeed, there are some in my tribe who think me mad, others who wait only for the time I depart my people and go to live in the hills. Perhaps my true worth may be measured in the tending of you. Can you tell me who you are?”
“Outside. Now I must come out of here,” the sheep declared, standing weakly and taking several steps from the mountainous niche. The ram settled to rest on a smooth patch of shale, looking at Kagonos with a suggestion of amusement.
The wild elf gasped and stepped backward, startled by something he couldn’t explain – the ram was changing!
Silver gleamed where that white pelt had been, as if a shimmering cascade of metal coins had suddenly spilled forth. At the same time the creature grew with impossible speed, extending incredibly. A long, sinuous tail curled outward, shining silver like the rest of the suddenly huge body. The already broad skull lengthened, the snout growing fearful, into a monstrous maw that bristled with sharp, curving fangs. The twin horns fell from the ram’s head, tumbling onto the shale as the last vestiges of the mighty sheep vanished, replaced by leathery – but still silvered – wings and powerful, crouching legs. Hooked talons, like silver sword blades, curved from the massive fore and rear paws.
By the time the transformation was complete the serpentine body coiled in a great arc, half-encircling the dumbstruck wild elf. Kagonos felt no fear – just an incredible sense of awe, a knowledge that he beheld a miracle. He sensed, too, that his life from this point on was irrevocably changed.
“You ask who I am, Pathfinder? I am known by many names in the world, but you may call me Darlantan.”
“Yes, Lord,” Kagonos replied, dropping instinctively to his knees. The Elderwild had never bowed to anybody or anything in his life, yet now as he knelt he did so not only willingly, but with a sense of profound joy.
“I name you, Kagonos, as the true Pathfinder of the Elderwild. Your people shall need you in the centuries to come. If they are to survive, it will be because you have shown them the way.”
“But … but how will I find the path?”
“Have faith, my brave son. I do not charge you with an easy task – it will be more difficult than you can ever know. But I know that you have thought of leaving your tribe, of becoming a lone elf in these mountains. A hermit.”
“Yes, Lord. My time to do this is – was – soon.” Even as he spoke, Kagonos realized that he would not become a lone elf. Had not Darlantan told him that his destiny lay with his tribe?
“I believe you to be worthy, Pathfinder. But know this: If you are to lead your people through the age to come – an age when the House Elves will grow mighty, will seek to seduce your tribesmen into their cities, an age when danger will soar from the skies on wings of red and green and blue – you must be faithful to me, and to me alone.”
“You have my pledge, Lord.”
“As Pathfinder, you are a leader greater than a chief, a spiritual counselor above any shaman. Your task will take all of your life, all of your soul. Take no wife, for she would distract you from the importance of your tasks. And never venture to the cities of the House Elves, for they will know you, and seek to enslave you.”
“As you command, Lord.”
Darlantan looked down, and for the first time Kagonos saw a hint of sadness in those golden eyes – the eyes that were the same as the ram’s eyes, though everything else about this mighty creature had changed.
Following the glance, the elf saw one of the triple-spiraled horns lying on the stones at his feet. Like the ram, the horn had changed – though it retained its original shape.
Kagonos hefted the coiled object, feeling from its lightness that it was hollow. The wide end flared into an open bell, and the pointed end was carved, or somehow shaped, into a mouthpiece. Without being told, the elf knew he should raise it to his lips.
Placing the narrow tip between his teeth, Kagonos blew a long breath, feeling the mournful notes emerge from the horn, hearing the music keening through the mountain valley, a portent of danger and fear – yet a song that ended with a high note of hope and triumph. He had never played an instrument such as this, yet the notes came to him with intuitive clarity, and he raised his song with the fluid grace of his thoughts.
“This Ram’s Horn is my gift to you,” Darlantan said. “It will be heard by me, or my people, and if there is a way that we can aid you, we will.
“Play it in times of joy or sorrow, and it will speak to your people of hope and promise and pride. Play it in times of danger, and it will show you the path to safety.
“I shall keep the other horn,” Darlantan continued. “And forever may these two spirals be a symbol of the bond between our peoples. Their sound is a thing beholden to your people and to mine, heard by none except a silver dragon or a wild elf.”
“This is a precious thing,” Kagonos declared. “But why do you bestow it upon me?”
“You are the Pathfinde
r,” replied the dragon, and his powerful voice took on a firm sense of command. “Your people shall depend on you – and this horn is a sign of your high station. Even the shamans will hear your song of faith, and through it they shall better know their gods. Return with it to your tribes, to the council of Highsummer. When the Elderwild hear your song, they will know the truth.”
“I shall do this thing – though I still do not understand why.”
“That is of no matter. You need most to remember the two Ram’s Horns, Pathfinder. When either is played alone it may bray a song of hope and friendship, a lasting bond between our peoples. Either horn may cry for aid or offer comfort, and their songs will ring through the centuries of our lives.
“And someday in the future, perhaps, the two horns may be played together. The song they raise will be an anthem of hope and promise for the future of the world.”
The Dragons
Part I (continued)
CHAPTER 6
RESTMATES
(3553 PC)
Darlantan coiled along the crest of the high Kharolis, content to allow the sun to glisten from his silver scales. He felt the warm breeze of summer ruffling his wings and tugging at the mane that had begun to bristle around his jowls. Lord of all within his sight, the silver dragon was pleased to reflect on his own invincibility.
The Valley of Paladine was a sprawling landscape below, vast and peaceful, but somehow confining as well. Darlantan realized the great mountain-flanked vale was shrinking in the same way the grotto had seemed to diminish so many centuries ago.
He knew it would soon be time to move, to once more fly toward new corners of Krynn. Of course, he had often explored the regions beyond the valley. He and his nestmates were well known among the griffons, Ravenclaw’s descendants, who dwelt in the High Kharolis, as well as to the elves of the vast woodlands. Touching the curling bell of a ram’s horn that Darlantan wore on his silver chain, he thought with deep affection of one elf in particular.
