Riverwind the Plainsman

by Paul B. Thompson

  He draped the blanket around Catchflea’s shoulders. The old man looked grateful, but objected, “You will need this for yourself, yes?”

  “My buckskins will keep me warm,” Riverwind said.

  Catchflea drew the blanket up over his head. His teeth stopped chattering. “Thank you, tall man.”

  They watched the stars, and Catchflea told what he knew of the lore of the sky. As he talked, a star fell flaming from the heavens. It traced a long, fiery path and vanished. The afterglow remained in Riverwind’s eyes a long time.

  “Tell me, old man: why did you hunt for fallen stars when you were young?”

  Catchflea shifted on his narrow haunches. “I wanted to find proof of the gods, our ancestors. I thought, if the gods live in the sky, then anything that falls from there will bear evidence of their presence.”

  Riverwind was startled by the strange but logical premise. “What did you hope to find?”

  “Anything. Some sign that beings greater than ourselves lived in the heavens.” He sighed. “I found four fallen stars, and they were all the same. Lumps of burned stone, yes? It was then I decided the gods of our people were false, and the priestesses of the Que-Shu deluded.”

  “I believe in the old gods,” Riverwind said simply.

  Catchflea’s eyes, shaded by the blanket, sought his companion’s. “That’s heresy, some say.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Have the old gods ever spoken to you?”

  “No, but I see the hand of Paladine, Majere, and Mishakal all around us. Where do you think your gift of prophesy comes from?”

  “Do I know? I’m Catchflea the Daft, Catchflea the Fool.” He grinned.

  “You jest with me. I should call you Catchflea the Fox,” Riverwind said. He leaned back, letting the field of stars fill his view. “When did you gain the power of augury?”

  “In my twentieth year. I was returning from my fourth and last star-finding, which had taken me deep in the forest near Qualinost. I despaired of ever learning the truth. Our way, the way of the Que-Shu, was useless, yes? I felt my life was worthless, so I climbed to the top of a tremendous oak tree and prepared to throw myself off.”

  “What changed your mind?” asked Riverwind.

  “The love of life was strong in me. I hung there with only my fingertips and my hesitation between me and death. I still longed to know the truth, and the god Majere appeared to me.” Riverwind studiedopened wide. “Not in a human form,” Catchflea said quickly. “I heard a great voice, and felt—a presence, yes? Majere told me not to despair, that the gods were not merely legends, and that my life had a purpose.

  ‘What purpose?’ I asked. ‘We cannot speak plainly to mortals,’ said Majere, his voice filling the whole sky around me. ‘But we live. You must strive to regain what the mortal world has rejected. You must strive for truth. Truth is the final act in a long struggle between good and evil. The struggle is yet to come.’ ” Catchflea nodded to himself. “Forty years it has been, and I remember every word the god said to me.”

  Riverwind studied his companion. There was none of the daft, uncouth old man in Catchflea’s story. He said, “You have been honored. No one I ever knew spoke with a true god.”

  “I climbed down from the tree—very carefully—and addressed the air: ‘How shall I strive for truth, Great Majere?’ Three acorns fell from the tree and landed at my feet. Take up these seeds and they will show you the way,’ he said.

  “By the time I got back to the village, I understood the future could be seen in the fall of the acorns. I also realized how deadly such a gift could be. The elders of our people would not suffer me to live if I proclaimed the truth to all.”

  “So you played the fool.”

  Catchflea nodded with vigor. “It was easy enough. Most already thought me a dreamer, yes? I let my hair grow wild and dressed in ridiculous rags. The children named me Catchflea, an insult I bore for the sake of truth.”

  “I call you that, too. I’m sorry.” Riverwind laid a large hand on the old man’s shoulder. He regretted many things at that moment, most especially his harsh words at the spring the previous day.

  “Don’t trouble yourself. I am Catchflea.” He scratched to prove his point and laughed with his usual rusty wheeze. Then he asked, “And what of Goldmoon? Does she know she loves a heretic?”

  “By rights, she is a heretic herself. Her own mother’s spirit appeared to her in the Hall of the Sleeping Spirits and confessed the falsity of Que-Shu religion.” Catchflea’s face showed great surprise.

  “The priestess of the people a heretic? Does the chieftain know this?” he sputtered.

  “Arrowthorn hears and sees only what suits him. He listens to the poisonous mutterings of Loreman as often as he does his own daughter’s good advice. His love for her at least allows him to tolerate my suit for her hand. Otherwise, I would have been stoned or cast out long ago,” Riverwind said darkly.

  “Cast out? You mean, like now?” Catchflea gently observed.

  “The chieftain thinks he has bested me with an impossible quest. Yet I shall come through.” Riverwind gripped the old man’s hand. “You see, I believe it is the old gods’ will that you follow me on my quest. You have heard Majere’s voice and see into the future by his favor. Together, my friend, we will find proof.” He released his hold. Catchflea massaged his hand gratefully.

  “As for Goldmoon,” Riverwind said quietly, “our love is not bound by tribal customs or village law. My life is pledged to Goldmoon, as hers is to me.”

  Chapter 3

  Follow and Descend

  Riverwind stood at the edge of a chasm. Below, hidden by billowing smoke, something deadly lingered. As he stood, he heard a sweet voice call his name.

  “Goldmoon!”

  On the opposite side of the chasm, Goldmoon waited, her fine, bright hair and white gown whipping about in the wind. She called to him plaintively. Riverwind felt helpless, desperate to reach her. There was no way across—no bridge, no rope, not even a vine to cling to.

  Tall figures emerged behind Goldmoon. One was Loreman, the other, her father, Arrowthorn. They took her by the arms and pulled her back. She fought them, but they were too strong. Riverwind’s heart raced. He must get across! He would go back and seek another route.

  He turned abruptly, and there was Hollow-sky, grinning fiercely. He had a corpse’s pallor, and his clothes were mottled with grave mold. Without a word, they grappled. Riverwind was bigger, but the dead man’s strength was inexorable. Riverwind was pushed back. He dug in his toes, bent his knees, tried to get low on Hollow-sky’s chest to get better advantage. It didn’t help. His heels hung in the air. With one mighty shove, Hollow-sky hurled Riverwind into the chasm.

  He hit bottom almost at once. Stunned, he could hardly move. Smoke filled his eyes and nose. The sound of movement filtered through his dazed mind. Riverwind’s blood turned to ice water when a howl rent the thick haze.

  The wolves! They were all around him. He tried to rise, got to his knees, but they were on him in one savage, silent rush. Riverwind broke their bones with his bare hands, but fangs tore into his arms and legs. The wolves knocked him onto his back and held him there. The largest wolf stalked up to his spread-eagled form. Kyanor. The beast’s head lowered, his red eyes boring into Riverwind’s. Razor-sharp fangs pierced the plainsman’s throat …

  Riverwind sat up so swiftly that he rapped his elbow against the limestone boulder behind him. A nightmare. His breath came hard and rough, leaving a plume of warm vapor in the mountain air. Not far away, Catchflea snored peacefully.

  Be calm, he told himself. It wasn’t real.

  Or was it?

  Somewhere on the dark escarpment, Riverwind heard a rustling noise, followed by a trickle of falling pebbles. The terror from his dream returned, but he mastered it. He’d been helpless in his nightmare. He was definitely not helpless in the waking world.

  “Hsst, Catchflea!” he whispered, reaching for his saber. The old man missed a beat i
n his snoring, then resumed his usual ripsaw rhythm. “Wake up!” Riverwind repeated, punctuating his words with a prod. Catchflea snorted and his eyes batted open.

  “Wha—? It’s a dark morning, yes?”

  “Ssh! There’s someone out there!”

  “Who could it be? Most travelers avoid the mountains.”

  “The Nightrunners,” Riverwind said grimly.

  “The wolves? What shall we do?”

  “You do nothing. Stay here!” Riverwind drew his saber in one quick motion and rolled to a standing crouch. Though he listened with all his hunt-honed senses, he heard nothing. The night was still.

  None of Krynn’s moons shone at that hour, and the stars were feeble lanterns at best. Riverwind surveyed the gently sloping field of stone. It could have been a night-scavenging fox or bird. Or only his imagination, sparked by his terrible dream.

  He’d almost convinced himself that there was nothing out there when he heard another sound: the distinct ringing of metal, like chain—or a sword hilt against armor?

  The sound came from ahead, on his left. Riverwind pressed close to the perimeter of boulders and worked his way toward the noise.

  Something scraped the rock behind him. He swung the saber in a backhand cut. The blade struck the boulder just an inch in front of Catchflea’s nose.

  “I told you to stay where you were!” Riverwind whispered fiercely.

  “I saw something!” hissed the old man.

  “What?”

  “A blue light, like a will o’ the wisp.”

  “Where?”

  Catchflea extended his right arm. “Out there.”

  “I’ll circle left. You stay here, unless you want me to trim that beard of yours the hard way.”

  Riverwind was a dozen yards away from Catchflea when he saw the eerie blue light. It was small and round, a feeble glow, about knee-high off the ground. It wobbled a bit back and forth, but didn’t move away. Riverwind approached in a low crouch. Nearer, he saw a vague shape above the blue light. It was too lightly built to be Kyanor or one of his pack.

  Abruptly, the silence of the chase ended when Riverwind’s quarry stumbled and fell with a loud jingle. He’s wearing mail, the plainsman surmised. Gripping his saber tightly, he sprinted toward the light. The broken shale almost cost Riverwind his footing, though, and he skidded but kept his feet.

  On the ground was a dimly glowing globe the size of Riverwind’s head. Warily, he poked at it with his sword. There was a brass handle affixed. It was some sort of lamp. Riverwind picked it up. The globe was very lightweight. The blue radiance roiled and seethed within as he turned the strange object in his hands. A tingle passed through the handle to Riverwind’s arm, so he hastily dropped the globe. This was no time to fool with magical devices.

  A shadow darted across open ground a few yards away. Abandoning stealth, Riverwind followed the evasive intruder. The dim figure led him back toward his camp. The interloper paused just long enough to snatch Riverwind’s deerskin bag and carry it off.

  “Hold there!” the plainsman shouted. “Drop that!”

  “He’s over this way!” Catchflea cried.

  “Get down, Catchflea!”

  Riverwind picked up a hefty rock and threw it at the sound of fleeing feet. There was a soft thud and a faint gasp of pain. Riverwind gave a cry of triumph and charged after the intruder. He went only a few steps before bowling into Catchflea.

  “Oof! Look out there!”

  “Watch your feet—ow! Mind that sword—”

  Riverwind untangled himself in time to see the silhouette of the thief as he righted himself and scrambled over a pile of boulders along the eastern rim of the clearing. The phantom had a familiar form: a head, two arms, two legs, but he couldn’t tell if it were human, dwarf, or kender. The intruder paused briefly, then leaped over the rocks and was lost from sight.

  “Come back with my pack!” Riverwind yelled. Almost all his meager possessions were in that bag.

  He and Catchflea got to their feet. “Get the blanket and follow me,” Riverwind said hastily. He sheathed his saber and made for the rocks where the thief had gone. The boulders were jagged and brittle, but Riverwind clawed his way to the top. He crouched on the crest and tried to pierce the deep gloom of the ravine below. It was like trying to see into a well of midnight.

  A stone flew out of the dark and struck him stingingly on the chin. Losing his balance, Riverwind sat down hard and started to slide. He slowed his descent by digging in his heels, but decided this was as easy a way to get to the bottom of the slope as any.

  The slope ended, but instead of the bottom of the hill, Riverwind’s feet met empty air. As his legs sailed into space, he tried to grab ground on each side to stop his headlong plunge, but the ground was loose and rocky. Trailing a train of gravel, Riverwind slid off into a void and fell, and fell, and fell.

  “Catchflea, look out!” was all he could shout. Agonizing, slow seconds passed as Riverwind fell feet-first into darkness. Any moment, the hard bottom would rush up and smash him, crush the life from his body.

  Riverwind flailed his arms and legs, and still he fell, air flowing up, rippling the sleeves of his jerkin and making the tassels on his pants slap against his legs. Riverwind quickly realized something else: he was falling too slowly—far too slowly. His downward speed seemed no more than if he were running at a casual lope. Or was it that the air itself was thick, clinging to him like syrup, retarding his plunge? Something was slowing his fall. Something not natural. Magic.

  That realization was frightening enough to make sweat break out on his face. As the fall continued, however, Riverwind overcame his fear. He looked up. He couldn’t see the hole he’d fallen into. Around him were vague suggestions of wall moving past, but when he put out an arm to make contact, his balance shifted and he tumbled face over feet. After some frantic scrambling, Riverwind regained his poise. Thereafter he kept his hands at his sides.

  He had no idea how long he’d been falling. He had no idea of time. Nothing but the wind and black walls surrounded the falling plainsman. “Where am I falling to?” he asked out loud.

  “And how do we get back up?” replied a distant voice above him.

  Riverwind called, “Catchflea, is that you?”

  “It is me, yes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I should say thirty feet above you.”

  Riverwind tried to see him, but it was too dark. “Did you fall into the hole too?” he said loudly.

  “No, I jumped after you.”

  “What!”

  “Follow and descend, the acorns told me, yes?”

  “Do you do everything those oak nuts tell you?” Riverwind asked.

  “Everything, tall man.”

  Riverwind shook his head ruefully, but, somehow, he felt better knowing he was not completely alone in this bizarre plunge. Catchflea’s thin voice drifted down: “How do we get back up?”

  A blue glimmer appeared below. Gingerly, Riverwind bent at the waist to see it better. The light was the same color as the strange globe he’d found above. The glimmer grew closer. Then, it—or rather, he—swept past. It was another globe. Just like the first, except that this one was mounted on the wall of the shaft.

  The fall went on so long that Riverwind became impatient. The blue globe vanished overhead, though he saw Catchflea outlined briefly in the feeble aura. When another azure dot appeared far below his feet, Riverwind decided to try to knock the globe loose. He wanted to take it with him to provide some illumination. He gauged his position. The sphere should just brush his outstretched fingertips.

  His precarious equilibrium failed as he reached farther out. Riverwind crashed into the wall and bounced off. His hand rapped the globe smartly. There was no chance to grab it. The globe jostled free of whatever was holding it in place and, instead of falling with him, floated up and away. It narrowly missed the old man, still falling above Riverwind.

  “What was that?” Catchflea cried in alarm. When
Riverwind explained, the old man cried, “Don’t meddle with them! You could disrupt the spell that cushions our fall.”

  The air, which had been crisp and cold as they went down, gradually got warmer and heavier. In quick succession, Riverwind passed through several rings of fiery hot stone, radiating dull red heat into the shaft. By this fleeting light he saw that the shaft at this point was about eight feet wide. The walls were smoothly polished.

  He heard Catchflea exclaim as he dropped through the hot rings. After a word of encouragement to the old man, Riverwind decided to make one last effort to halt his descent. He drew his knife and attempted to drive it into the hard stone wall. The flame-hardened tip struck sparks, but didn’t so much as scratch the dark rock. Riverwind lost his grip and the knife fell from his fingers. It fell far faster than he was going. A few seconds later he heard a clang from below. His knife had hit something. The bottom, perhaps?

  All at once the shaft constricted to a narrow neck, as in a funnel. The strange force that restrained his fall brought Riverwind nearly to a halt in midair. Riverwind crossed his arms over his chest and slipped through the shaft’s neck, banging his left hip and shoulder smartly before landing in the chamber below. Riverwind’s legs folded under him, and stars swam in his eyes.

  He lay stunned long enough for something soft to drape over him. By the smell he knew it was his horsehair blanket. Hard on its heels, Catchflea arrived at the funnel mouth. He hung for just a second by his fingers, then let go. The old soothsayer landed with a thud across Riverwind’s chest.

  “My apologies! You are not hurt, yes?” he gasped.

  Riverwind coughed and lifted the skinny old man off him. “Nothing is broken,” he replied. “Considering how far we’ve fallen, we can thank the gods for that.” He tried to stand but became dizzy and collapsed again.

  “My head is swinging like a dry gourd in the wind,” he said, clasping his head between his hands.