FROM THE CREATORS OF
THE DRAGONLANCE® SAGA
LEAVES FROM THE INN OF THE LAST HOME
COMPILED BY TIKA AND CARAMON MAJERE, PROPRIETORS
THE ART OF THE DRAGONLANCE SAGA
EDITED BY MARY KIRCHOFF
THE ATLAS OF THE DRAGONLANCE SAGA
BY KAREN WYNN FONSTAD
DRAGONLANCE TALES:
THE MAGIC OF KRYNN
KENDER, GULLY DWARVES, AND GNOMES
LOVE AND WAR
EDITED BY
MARGARET WEIS AND TRACY HICKMAN
DRAGONLANCE HEROES
THE LEGEND OF HUMA
STORMBLADE
WEASEL’S LUCK
DRAGONLANCE PRELUDES
DARKNESS AND LIGHT
KENDERMORE
BROTHERS MAJERE
RIVERWIND THE PLAINSMAN
DRAGONLANCE® Preludes II • Volume I
©1990 TSR, Inc.
©2003 Wizards of the Coast LLC.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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eISBN: 978-0-7869-6332-4
640-A1589000-001-EN
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v3.1
For the SFWG, 1988–89
Mutatis mutandis
-PBT
For my parents
And, always, for Greg
-TRC
Contents
Cover
Other Books in the Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part I: Slow Fall
Chapter 1: Three Acorns
Chapter 2: Thunder Notch
Chapter 3: Follow and Descend
Chapter 4: Di An
Chapter 5: City of Smoke and Fire
Chapter 6: The High Spires
Chapter 7: Tears of Blood
Chapter 8: The Golden Fields
Chapter 9: Lost Diamonds
Chapter 10: Blood and Gold
Chapter 11: The Last Choice
Chapter 12: Embassy to the Sky
Part II: Ascent
Chapter 13: The Well of Wind
Chapter 14: Topaz Falls
Chapter 15: Creeping Death
Chapter 16: The Cursed City
Chapter 17: Brud Stonesifter
Chapter 18: Children of the Dragon
Chapter 19: Cinnabar
Chapter 20: The Oldest Trick
Chapter 21: The Warrior’s Way
Chapter 22: From the Depths
Chapter 23: The Hall of Ancestors
Chapter 24: Sapphire Light
Chapter 25: Death On Black Wings
Chapter 26: “Whom the gods favor is a hero born”
About the Authors
Part I
SLOW FALL
Chapter 1
Three Acorns
The Men of Que-Shu gathered, drawn by the steady toll of drums. A hundred men, straight-limbed and stoic, formed two lines and filed into the Lodge of Brothers. They left their herds in the care of sons who were too young to witness the coming solemn ceremony. Fields and forges stood idle for the duration of the rite. The women and children went about their business. It was not for them to be curious.
No one could ignore the drums, however. Least of all Goldmoon, first priestess of the tribe, daughter of Chief Arrowthorn. She stood just inside the door of the chief’s house, far enough in the shadows so as not to be seen. Perspiration sheened her beautiful face, and she bit her lip nearly to bleeding. The ceremony about to begin was the Anointing of the Quester; the man to be tested was her beloved, Riverwind.
Let him be safe, she prayed silently. You elder gods, keep Riverwind from harm!
Goldmoon did not voice her prayers aloud because she appealed not to the tribe’s gods, but to deities worshiped in ages past, before the Cataclysm.
The Lodge of Brothers was nearly full. The windowless interior was stiflingly hot, lit as it was by stands of smoky torches. The men of Que-Shu filled the open space around a low central dais, their leather-shod feet scuffing loudly on the packed clay floor. On the dais, squatting with his face averted and his arms clasped around his knees, was Riverwind. As the drums continued their rumble, he did not move. He might have been carved from oak for all the life he displayed. Yet within, Riverwind was aboil with thoughts and anxieties. He had demanded this rite, in preparation for his Courting Quest. Goldmoon and he had pledged themselves to each other, but it remained for the laws of the tribe to recognize their joining. A man did not ask for the hand of the chieftain’s daughter without proving himself worthy.
The doors of the lodge were closed. Massive wooden beams were lowered, barring them. Warriors with bare blades positioned themselves in front of the doors. The drums ceased their omnipresent beat.
Arrowthorn, robed in his most richly beaded deerskins, gazed at the men assembled. “Brothers!” he declaimed, “we are here to anoint one who would be chieftain after I am gone. One who claims the hand of my daughter, your priestess. But he that would be a god in the next life must prove himself worthy in this one.” A deep murmur of agreement rose from the throats of the tribesmen.
“Riverwind, son of Wanderer, stand.”
Riverwind rose smoothly to his feet. Though not quite twenty, at six and a half feet he was by far the tallest man in a tribe of tall men. Dark hair hung loosely to his shoulders. Riverwind wore nothing but a red breechcloth, and the lines of his rangy form had been daubed with red paint. He looked beyond Arrowthorn’s right shoulder and saw a Que-Shu elder, Loreman, seated on a bench. Hatred seemed to glow from the old medicine man’s face. His consuming ambition to put his own family in the chieftain’s lodge had been thwarted by the death of his eldest son. Now Loreman could only wait, watch, and listen.
Riverwind knew that Loreman blamed him for his son’s death. Not even the sworn word of Goldmoon, who had witnessed the fight, had lessened Loreman’s hatred of Riverwind.
Arrowthorn was describing the way of the true warrior. Riverwind broke his gaze from Loreman in time to hear the chieftain say, “The path of a leader is often bitter. Are you prepared for the bitterness?”
Riverwind nodded. He was not yet allowed to speak.
Arrowthorn held out his hands. Far-runner, another tribal elder, gave him a thick clay cup, which Arrowthorn in turn offered to Riverwind. A viscous red liquid filled the cup to the brim. By the ruddy torchlight it looked very much like blood. Riverwind accepted
the cup, raised it to his lips, and drank.
The brew was made from nepta berries, fruit so vile not even goblins would eat it. Riverwind’s jaw locked, and his stomach threatened to rebel. Still, he swallowed the noxious juice and gave the empty vessel back to Arrowthorn. He kept his teeth firmly together and breathed quickly through his nose. Sickness gnawed at his empty belly, but Riverwind mastered it and kept the bitter brew down.
“A chieftain must be evenhanded and balanced in his judgment,” Arrowthorn said gravely. “If necessary, he must suffer for his choice. Are you prepared to suffer for the sake of justice?”
Riverwind inclined his head curtly. It was a good thing he wasn’t supposed to talk; he wasn’t sure he could speak with the sour berry juice constricting his throat. An elder lifted the heavy cape from Arrowthorn’s shoulders. Another man placed two pairs of baskets on the floor, one set for the chieftain, the other for Riverwind. They were deep reed baskets, the kind women used to gather eggs. Snowy white eggs filled them now. Arrowthorn took up his baskets and held them out at arm’s length. Riverwind lifted his. He was surprised by their weight. Each basket held only ten eggs. Why were they so heavy?
Loreman was smiling. Riverwind wondered briefly at that sly, knowing smile, then concentrated on his test. He had to hold his baskets up just as long as Arrowthorn held his. If he weakened, if he lowered his arms or wavered enough to break an egg, his test was over. There would be no second chance.
Arrowthorn was thirty years older than Riverwind, but his shoulders were straight and his arms taut with good muscle. Time grew long in the lodge. The Que-Shu men, ever solemn, became restless. There were coughs and uncertain shiftings on the hard wooden benches. Arrowthorn’s arms were as straight as iron and as unwavering as the smooth waters of Crystalmir Lake.
Riverwind held steady, too, though his shoulders ached and his joints burned. The nepta berry juice was still trying to come up. Sweat trickled down his chest. The baskets were so heavy! He didn’t think he could hold out much longer—he knew he could not—
Riverwind inhaled loudly and deeply. Since standing with his feet rooted and his knees stiff was causing him to tire and sway, he began to stamp his feet. A rhythm came to him, much like the cadence played by the lodge drummers. Soon he was dancing in place, eyes fixed on Arrowthorn, hearing the music his heart played for him.
Arrowthorn was startled when Riverwind began to dance. No one had ever moved during the Weighing before. His own arms hurt, the stretched muscles quivering and tingling as if a thousand ants crawled across his skin. He kept control by sheer force of will. Blood pounded in his head, a throbbing only made worse by Riverwind’s stamping feet. Too much. It was too much.
The chieftain’s left arm wobbled as a shudder went through his body. An egg rolled off the pile in the basket and splattered on the floor.
“It is done!” cried Far-runner, most senior of the elders. Both men lowered their arms with groans of relief. Arrowthorn slipped his cape over his aching shoulders.
“You have earned your voice,” he said, breathing heavily. “Speak, son of Wanderer.”
“You are a strong man, Arrowthorn,” Riverwind said, massaging his biceps.
Whispers behind the chief abruptly burst out into loud clamor. Loreman was remonstrating with Far-runner.
“The test is not valid,” Loreman said. “Riverwind moved.”
“He did not bend his arms, nor did he lose an egg,” Far-runner replied. “There is nothing in tribal law that says a man cannot move his feet.”
“Riverwind makes mock of the ceremony!”
Riverwind knelt down to examine his egg baskets. As he did, Far-runner said, “Ridiculous! He showed great perseverance and ingenuity.”
Loreman was about to protest further when Riverwind wordlessly poured the contents of his baskets on the dais. There were only five eggs in each, and beneath them, five smooth, river-washed stones painted white. To demonstrate their hardness, Riverwind lifted one of the stones and let it drop. It landed with a loud, accusing thud. The Que-Shu men muttered angrily among themselves at the trick played on Riverwind. Soon all eyes turned to Loreman. Even Arrowthorn gave his elder a suspicious glance, but forestalled any accusations by saying, “One irregularity cancels out another. The test stands. Riverwind has won the right to continue.” No one raised his voice after that.
The chieftain sat, flinging his cape back to free his arms. “There remains one final reckoning,” he said. “He who would be chieftain must be free of fear. Will you take the final anointing, Riverwind?”
“I will.”
Arrowthorn gestured to Stonebreaker, another elder. Stonebreaker had been famed in his youth for his strength. He’d gotten his manhood name because he could cleave stones in two with his sword. Now old and bent, Stonebreaker hobbled to the dais and placed a tall pot before Riverwind.
“This is the Oil of the Quester,” Arrowthorn said. The lodge fell deathly quiet. “Take it, and rub it on your skin. But be warned: there is great magic in the oil, and dire phantoms will come to you once you have put it on.”
“I am not afraid,” Riverwind declared, though he was.
He lifted the pot lid. The oil was dark brown and odorless. Riverwind smeared the ointment across his chest and neck. It was warm, and after his hand passed away, his skin grew warmer still as the oil soaked in. The drummers began a slow cadence. Working down his legs, Riverwind rubbed his oily hands over his knees and calves.
The pulse of the drums reverberated in his head. Someone in the room was chanting. Riverwind straightened. His head swam. He staggered back a few steps, nearly tumbling off the dais. Men were chanting, but not the men in the lodge. Riverwind whirled, but no Que-Shu man present was making a sound.
He recognized the chant. It was the lament uttered at funerals. Who was dead? Riverwind looked down at himself. Rivulets of red ran down his chest and legs. It looked like blood.
“I am wounded!” Riverwind cried. He tried to stanch the flow of blood. The drumbeat thundered at him, keeping time with his thudding heart.
He felt weak. His knees sagged, and Riverwind folded down into a kneeling crouch. Blood pooled around him. His life, his strength, was flowing unchecked from his veins. He couldn’t stop it.
“Goldmoon … Goldmoon …” Calling her name did not help. He heard laughter. Raising his head, Riverwind saw Hollow-sky standing by the lodge door. Hands planted on hips, Hollow-sky grinned arrogantly at him.
“Hollow-sky, you’re dead,” Riverwind protested.
“So are you!” the phantom retorted. “You’re too weak, Unbeliever. How could a soft fool like you ever imagine he could lead the Que-Shu?” The dead man laughed again. “Or capture Goldmoon’s heart?” Riverwind’s own heart constricted in his chest. No one else seemed to notice the ghost. Loreman didn’t cry out at the sight of his lost son.
“Lie down and die,” Hollow-sky urged. “Stop fighting. It’s easy being dead.”
“No. You died. I did not.”
“You cannot resist death, Unbeliever.”
The drums—or was it his heart?—beat slower and slower. Riverwind’s head bowed to the floor. He was weak and so very, very tired. All he had to do was lie down. His eyes fluttered closed. Sleep and rest were what he craved. So easy. Painless. The beautiful face of Goldmoon faded from his eyes.
“My son! is this as a warrior should act?”
Riverwind’s eyes opened. Beside the grinning Hollow-sky was another ghost, dimmer and smaller, but definitely there. It was Wanderer, Riverwind’s long dead father.
“I can’t stand,” Riverwind said weakly, lifting his head an inch.
“It’s only paint,” Wanderer said. His figure grew more distinct. “Stand. Be a man.”
“He’s no Que-Shu,” Hollow-sky said. “He’s a worthless unbeliever, like his father.”
“Rise, my son! She who awaits you commands it!” Bright light surrounded Wanderer.
“Goldmoon?” said Riverwind. He glanced down and saw that
the widening pool of blood was in fact only a few drops of paint. Paint covered his hands, too.
“Stand, Riverwind!”
“Father,” he said, shaking off the cold lethargy that had gripped him. Putting his hands on the floor, he pushed. He rose unsteadily to his feet. The image of Wanderer shone brightly in the dim lodge. The men around the brilliant figure paid no heed to the apparition.
“It’s too late.” Hollow-sky sneered. “You’ve failed!”
“Begone,” said the spirit of Wanderer. “Go back to your unquiet grave.” With a parting sneer, the phantom son of Loreman faded from sight.
“Father, how is it I can see and speak to you in this way?” asked Riverwind.
“The oil you bathed in contains roots and herbs that have the power of heightening the senses. For centuries our people used these magic herbs to communicate with the dead. After a time, the people confused these spirits with the true gods. The worship of ancestors, the making of our dead leaders into gods, came from this confusion.”
Riverwind stepped to the edge of the dais. “Then the old gods truly live?”
“As they always have, my son.”
“Why do they not make themselves known?”
The glowing form of Wanderer flickered. “I do not know the mind of the Most High,” he said. His voice had dwindled to a whisper. “But their time is almost here again. You will have signs, my son …”
“What signs, Father? What signs?” But the interlude was over. Wanderer vanished.
The lodge was filled with smoke. The men of the tribe were gone. Doors, barred and guarded earlier, stood open. It was dusk. Riverwind felt a breeze blow through the dark house. It chilled his sweaty skin.
Suddenly, Arrowthorn and the elders were with him. Riverwind wiped his forehead and mouth with the back of one hand and stepped off the dais. He was exhausted.
“What has happened?” he asked his chieftain.
“You have passed your Anointing,” Arrowthorn said.
“How long have I been here?”
“All day. The elders and I have been discussing your problem.”
Riverwind the Plainsman Page 1
