The Stone of the Stars

by Alison Baird

  “Time to go,” called Jomar behind them. “Be careful to pick everything up—we don’t want to leave any more traces behind than we can help. And find that blasted cat!”

  The clouds above the range grew gray and dense as they rode on, rolling down from the heights to meet them. Before long it was raining again—not a violent tempest this time, but a steady, spiteful drizzle that soon soaked through their clothes and got into their packs and saddlebags. The clouds blotted out the sun, and the mountain peaks were lost behind a pall of gray vapor. They entered another stretch of woodland, but the trees with their sparse spring foliage gave little shelter. Ailia had lost all her enthusiasm for quests. Faerie tales and romantic ballads, she reflected, never mentioned riding in the rain, nor had they anything to say about having to sleep in one’s clothes or wash in cold brook-water, nor what it was like to share a small stuffy tent with other people. Ailia huddled into her heavy Zimbouran cloak, pulling the hood down over her face. Jomar, too, was in one of his sullen monosyllabic moods: shortly after setting out he discovered that Kaligon had played the old equine trick of blowing himself up with air while his girth was tightened, then slowly letting it out again so that the saddle slipped. Jomar made Ailia dismount while he fixed the girth, cursing in three languages. When he remounted, Kaligon reared and threw him into a bush. Ailia was nervous about riding the black horse after that. Why couldn’t Damion let her ride with him on the white horse occasionally? Sometimes he even let Lorelyn ride in front and hold the reins. And how nice it would be to hold on to his waist . . .

  “Don’t mind Jomar,” Damion had told her. “He’s like a volcano, he just has to erupt once in a while. The volcano doesn’t mean any offense and neither does Jomar. He’s had a hard life, remember.”

  Ailia understood, and never quarreled with the Mohara man. He and Lorelyn, however, had already had a number of heated exchanges. Their worst tiff occurred late in the day, when the mizzling rain gave way to a dense fog that hid the mountains from view altogether. Lorelyn suggested they keep going.

  “What, in this? I can’t see two paces in front of me,” argued Jomar. “I say we should stop here and wait for it to lift. The horses need a rest anyway.” He began trying to build a campfire, since the fog would safely mask its smoke: but the damp tinder would not light.

  “But what if the Zimbourans come? We’d never see them in this fog until it was too late,” she persisted. “It’s a much better idea to keep going.”

  “Don’t boss me,” he snapped. “You may think you’re some kind of royalty, but I—”

  “Who’s bossing? I just said it would be a good idea,” returned Lorelyn, indignant.

  Ailia, after one or two unsuccessful attempts to mediate, walked away—she hated scenes—and stood gazing into the trees. Presently she glimpsed, through the trailing mist and the mass of foliage that had at first shielded it from her view, a large dark form—a boulder it must be, big as a horse. But there was something curious about its shape: it was oddly symmetrical, its surface smoother than any rock she had seen, and black as cast iron. An odd pattern of furrows and indentations crossed its front. They looked almost like . . . Ailia gasped.

  There could be no doubt about it: the “boulder” had teeth. They were huge: she could just see them through the screen of leaves, jagged lines that resolved themselves into the spaces between jutting black tusks. The “rock” was the tip of a giant snout. Ailia gave a cry and the others came running, the men drawing their swords.

  “What is it?” exclaimed Damion, catching hold of her shoulder.

  “Now what?” Jomar demanded at the same time.

  Ailia pointed wordlessly. It took them all a moment to see the thing behind its screen of leaves. For an instant they all stood motionless, staring.

  “It’s just a lot of old bones!” Lorelyn said. “Whatever it was, it’s long dead.”

  “I know,” Ailia replied.

  “Why did you yell like that, then?”

  “But don’t you see what it is?” exclaimed Ailia in excitement.

  They all walked toward the dark shape. Behind the huge skull the rest of the creature’s skeleton lay sprawled across the forest floor. These bones were black too, and immense. There were leg bones big as an elephant’s, but ending in claws like scythes; the rib cage arched over their heads like a beached whale’s. Trees had grown up between the ribs, and the limbs were festooned with vines. Greymalkin leaped up onto the bony muzzle and peered into a cavernous eye-socket: a wood pigeon that had been nesting inside came whirring out.

  “It’s got wing bones, look!” noted Ailia, pointing to two long shapes like the trunks of toppled trees, half-buried in the underbrush. “Like a bird, or a bat.”

  “They can’t be wings, not on something that size—” began Damion. And then he fell silent.

  “You see?” cried Ailia. “They were real, Damion—real!”

  “You are right. It is the skeleton of a firedrake,” said Ana, speaking what was in all their minds now. “A fire-breathing dragon.”

  Jomar snorted. “Can’t be. There are no such things as dragons. Nothing could breathe fire. It’d burn itself.”

  “Oh, firedrakes were well protected, outside and in,” said Ana. “Their bellies were like great furnaces, full of burning gases. It took great courage for a knight to confront one.” She ran her hand over a giant mossy rib, looking solemn.

  “Men fought these things?” asked Jomar incredulously, waving a hand at the skeleton. “How could you fight something that size?”

  “They fought because they had no choice. The creatures were servants of Valdur: corrupted offspring of the true dragons, the Loänan.”

  “Are—are there still firedrakes in Trynisia?” asked Ailia, her excitement giving way to apprehension.

  “Oh, no. Their kind is long gone from the earth. For that we can thank the Paladins.”

  “It’s been here for ages,” declared Jomar. “Look at those trees growing up around the bones.”

  Damion stared at the tumbled ruin of the monster, the staggering size of it, the gruesome architecture of the jaws and limbs. Dragons. They truly had existed, then, outside the faerie tales. Here in Trynisia, where so many other unique creatures yet lived, the giant flying reptiles that cast their shadows over the ballads and romances and myths of men had once soared through the skies, and menaced towns, and lain coiled in caverns until brave knights came to do battle with them. What eyes had once stared from those empty sockets—what ghastly, scaly flesh had clad these monstrous bones? Damion recalled the picture he had hung over his bed in boyhood, the print of a mounted knight spearing a dragon. He had always thought the monster disappointingly small: the artist was so concerned with the heroic stature of knight and steed that by contrast the dragon looked no larger than a dog, and had seemed to Damion to be in as much danger from the horse’s trampling hooves as from the spear. But to face this . . . how could anyone have summoned the courage?

  “Imagine what it would have been like to look up and see a creature as big as this flying through the skies!” he said aloud. “We’ll never know, but it must have been terrifying.” Damion walked alongside the skeleton, following the massive backbone as it tapered into the long sweep of the tail. “There are hind legs too,” he noted. “Four legs—and wings. Whoever heard of an animal with six limbs? And how could anything as big as that fly? You’d think it would be too heavy.”

  “Firedrakes were magical creatures, able to levitate,” Ana explained. “Their wings carried only part of their weight. As to their shape, you must remember that according to tradition dragons are not of this world at all.”

  “But that’s just a faerie tale,” objected Jomar.

  “Did they really keep hoards of gold and jewels?” Lorelyn asked curiously. “Or is that a faerie tale too?”

  Ana smiled at her. “They really did keep hoards.”

  “What would an animal want with gold and jewels?” scoffed Jomar.

  “Dragons were attr
acted to precious stones because there are powers within them, what the Elei used to call the ‘spirits’ of the gems. Each ruby or emerald or amethyst was said by the ancients to have an indwelling spirit—hence all our tales of fateful diamonds, and genii that live in jeweled rings, and so on. In fact, natural crystals are filled with earth-magic—a sort of power, like the force within a lodestone. Dragons can feel this, being sorcerous creatures and sensitive to any kind of power. As for gold, it is a very potent metal, filled with star-magic.”

  “Star-magic?” repeated Lorelyn.

  “Long ago, it’s said, when our world was still forming, the stuff of the stars fell into her sphere and was incorporated into it. When some stars come to the ends of their lives, you see, they burst like seedpods, scattering their inner fires across the heavens. That star-stuff is present throughout our world of Mera, in the stones and the earth we walk upon—even in ourselves. But its purest, strongest form is in the metals, gold and silver and iron and so on. Alchemists have tried for centuries to make gold, but in vain: it is born only in the fiery hearts of stars. Deep within it lies the star-magic that is the oldest magic in our universe, and so the dragons loved it. Lying for days upon a hoard of gold and silver augmented a dragon’s own powers, giving it the ability to fly and to use sorcery. Dragons did not care for iron, however. Iron is too potent a star-metal: the magic in it is so concentrated that it overwhelms and negates any other sorcery. That is why cold iron was used against witches and faeries in days of old.”

  “More hearth-tales,” grumbled Jomar.

  “Well, we needn’t linger. I don’t think the hoard would be anywhere near here, and I expect the dracontias has been plundered.” She peered into the eye-socket the pigeon had vacated.

  “Dracontias?” Damion inquired.

  This time it was Ailia who answered. “Dragons had precious stones that grew inside their heads,” she said. “Dracontias-stones, they were called. They looked like gems, and had all sorts of magic properties—rather like the alicorn, the horn of a unicorn. People would do anything to get hold of dracontias-stones, even mount dragon-slaying expeditions. We should take it, if it’s still here—”

  “It is gone. And a firedrake’s dracontias could only be put to evil uses, child,” Ana told her.

  “That’s true,” Ailia admitted. “I know a story—”

  Suddenly Jomar went rigid. “Quiet, you lot!” he hissed. “Don’t anyone move!”

  “What is it?” asked Ailia, her heart beginning to hammer.

  Jomar spun around, his sword already in his hand. “There! Did you hear that? Just to the east of us.”

  Damion whirled, his hand on his own sword-hilt. Footsteps—heavy ones. Not hobgoblins, then. “Men,” he said grimly. “Coming this way.”

  “The Zimbourans!” exclaimed Lorelyn. “Hadn’t we better run?”

  “Too late!” Jomar crouched, ready for battle.

  There were crashing noises in the underbrush. Ana seized Lorelyn by the wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, forcing her to back away as several large shapes plunged through the fog about twenty paces away. Damion counted at least ten tall, thickset men, apparently wearing grotesque masks. Not Zimbourans, then—

  Behind him he heard Ailia cry out. “Monsters! They’re monsters!”

  And then he saw that the hideous faces were not masks at all.

  14

  The Holy Mountain

  DAMION STARED IN SHOCK at their attackers. They were not Zimbouran soldiers—were not men at all. Their bodies were squat and ungainly, with heavy hunched shoulders and massive torsos. One had no nose, just snakelike slits for nostrils; another had tusks jutting through his lips. All were crudely clad in animal furs and leather, and their massive hands were clenched upon weapons—clubs, maces, rusty swords.

  The creatures returned the travelers’ disbelieving stares for the space of a heartbeat. Then they charged, brandishing their weapons. Cursing savagely, Jomar leaped to meet them. Stooping as he ran, he caught up a now-blazing log from the campfire, swinging it in one hand and his sword in the other. The beast-men squealed and yelped in fear at the sight of the flames thrusting toward them, and their noise redoubled as he rushed on two of them, setting their fur cloaks alight. Bellowing, the burning ones rolled over and over in the rain-wet grass, while their comrades recoiled, snarling with rage like animals.

  Damion ran to stand at Jomar’s side. Behind them Ana moved in front of the two girls.

  Suddenly the largest of the creatures, a burly brute clad in primitive leather armor, lunged forward feinting, and then swung his great spiked club at the makeshift torch in Jomar’s hand, smashing it in two. Red sparks flew through the air and died hissing in the grass.

  And then it was all confusion and noise as the warriors engaged in the fog, swords and clubs whistling in the air as they struck out blindly. Jomar thrust out with his sword and killed a man more by accident than by design; Damion slashed the arm of another and it dropped its cudgel, howling with an inhuman voice. The two men kept shouting to each other, lest they attack each other by mistake in the mist.

  “Damion! Blast it, Damion, where are you?”

  “Over here—”

  The women could not see what was happening. They backed away slowly from the noises of combat, feeling their way through the trees. When they were a safe distance away Ana told them to stay put.

  “I am going back to help them,” she said.

  “I want to go too!” cried Lorelyn.

  But Ana had already slipped away into the mist, moving through its gray opacity with impossible ease. The tall blonde girl gazed after her for a moment, then made as if to follow her.

  “What are you doing?” cried Ailia, plucking at her arm. “You can’t fight, Lori—you don’t know how!”

  Lorelyn glanced toward the faint shapes of the horses, still tied to the trees a short distance away. Her face brightened, and before Ailia could stop her she ran to the white horse and loosed his tether. “Toss me a sword,” she said.

  “But—”

  The girl snatched a weapon from a horse’s pack and vaulted into the palfrey’s saddle.

  “Lori—you can’t!” Ailia called after her desperately. But the other girl galloped off through the fog unheeding.

  Damion spun, his curved Zimbouran blade whirring, trying to defend himself on all sides at once. He called out to Jomar but received no answer. A shadow moved in front of him, and uttered a rumbling growl. He thrust, missed as the monster dodged him with surprising agility, and something struck him a glancing blow on the temple. He staggered sideways a couple of steps, dazed and momentarily blinded with his own blood. The attacker pressed his advantage, bringing his club down on Damion’s sword with a ring of steel on steel.

  Steel—it was the spiked club. Only the leader, the big bristly warrior, had a spiked club. Damion dashed his left arm over his face, trying to wipe the blood back from his eye. The ground was rain-wet and slippery, treacherous under his feet.

  “Jomar!” he gasped.

  No answer—was the Mohara man unconscious? Was he, Damion, all that stood between these monsters and the women?

  The women! Damion saw the great shadow loom up before him again, the shape of the club being raised. He lifted his sword, the faces of Ana, Lorelyn, and Ailia floating before him in his mind’s vision. They musn’t get to the women—

  The giant shape lunged. So did Damion. He felt the club strike his sword with a clashing shock, pulled back the blade, and then thrust out with it as the leader raised his club once more. In the same instant there came a screaming neigh and a white form charged up out of the mist: the palfrey, with Lorelyn crouching in its saddle. She brandished a sword and yelled something at the warrior, who half turned at the sound.

  Damion seized the moment to attack, felt his blade make contact with the other’s body—felt the thrill of that contact run up the sword into his arm. There was a hoarse howl of agony.

  A light blazed out behind him: in its gl
ow he saw the leader impaled on the end of his sword, the blade embedded in the man’s upper chest under the raised arm. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Ana stood there, a burning branch in one hand. Across the clearing he saw Jomar rise from the ground, covered in mud and blood, while the white horse reared and plunged a few paces away, Lorelyn by some miracle managing to keep her seat on its back. A man lay dead at the Mohara’s feet. The others fled into the mist.

  The leader backed off Damion’s blade, wheezing. Then he stumbled backwards with a grunt, fell to the ground, and lay still.

  AILIA STOOD MOTIONLESS, listening. The noises of battle ceased. She watched as the mist trailed away, turning thinner and losing its opacity, leaving behind it only a scattering of droplets on twig and leaf. Sunlight slowly redefined the forest, shaping the trees and underbrush around her. Somewhere in the distance a bird twittered, and was joined by another, and soon a whole chorus rang out around her. As the air cleared she saw to her amazement that the slopes and mighty double peak of Elendor now filled the northern sky. They had arrived at their goal in the mist, unknowing. She murmured a silent prayer there in the woods. Please don’t let any of them be injured. And please, please don’t let anything happen to Damion.

  As she stared into the forest depths she saw Greymalkin coming toward her through the undergrowth. The cat’s tail was fluffed to twice its usual size, but she showed no sign of panic, and when Ailia called her softly she went to the girl and rubbed against her ankles. The feel of the thick soft fur was somehow reassuring: Ailia reached down and stroked it.

  And then she heard voices coming from the direction of the clearing where the fight had taken place. With relief she identified these as the voices of her companions. Ana, Jomar, and Damion came toward her, and Lorelyn was with them, riding the white horse, which still snorted and tossed its head.