Riverwind the Plainsman

by Paul B. Thompson

  “I’m quite giddy myself,” Catchflea sputtered. He was lying flat on his back. Lifting an arm to point to the ceiling, he added, “There’s the hole we passed through, yes. Do you think we could reach it from here?”

  Riverwind rocked back on his haunches to see the aperture overhead. “That’s twenty feet up,” he said. “Even if you stood on my shoulders, you couldn’t reach it.” He suddenly realized how well they could see. The chamber was lit by blue globes. The lamps—each about the size of Riverwind’s head—were spaced irregularly along the wall. Nearly a dozen were lit, but many others were dark.

  The chamber was circular, forty feet across. The walls and floor were black basalt, dense and smooth, speckled with reflective mica. Beyond Catchflea was an open doorway, lit by a blue globe.

  The floor had stopped heaving, and Riverwind’s knees became solid again. He wobbled to his feet, gave Catchflea a hand, and hauled the old soothsayer up.

  “What is this place?” Catchflea asked.

  “I cannot tell you. Whatever it is, I don’t like it.”

  “Oh? We are alive, yes?”

  “Yes, but for how long? How will we get out of here?” Riverwind muttered. He limped to the wall and touched a glowing orb lightly with a fingertip. The stable light writhed within its sphere, arcing from side to side as if to avoid the spot Riverwind had touched.

  “What are these things?” he wondered aloud. Catchflea was at one of the others. He lifted it off the cup-shaped base carved in the rock of the wall and held the globe at arm’s length.

  “At least we have light,” the old man said. “Shall we go?”

  Riverwind pulled his hand away from the seething luminescence and the light quieted. “Where?”

  “To look for a way out, yes.”

  Catchflea picked up Riverwind’s blanket, rolled it tightly, and tossed the resulting bundle over his shoulder. Riverwind drew his saber and started into the tunnel. “Don’t you want a lamp?” asked Catchflea.

  “No. There’s something disquieting about those things.”

  Riverwind stepped into the passage. The tunnel stretched far ahead. At odd intervals a globe could be seen glowing. There were others that were dark. He scanned the ceiling and walls for some clue as to who could have made this place. What sort of strange creatures lived in this dismal underground place?

  The floor sloped slightly downward. Riverwind raised a hand to his mouth to call out, but Catchflea prudently reminded him to keep quiet. “I’ve heard all manner of tales about evil creatures that dwell in the ground—miner goblins, kobolds, tommyknockers. Those who intrude on their domain seldom live to tell of it.” Riverwind glanced back. The old man’s face was pale and bloodless by the blue glow of the odd lamp. He wasn’t jesting. Riverwind advanced more slowly, and kept his back to the cold, hard wall.

  Aside from the strange lamps, there was little to see in the tunnel. The ceiling was arched, and whoever had cut the tunnel was evidently shorter than Riverwind. He had to crouch low to avoid the projecting globes. A light coat of dust covered the floor. Riverwind noticed his own footprints when he turned to speak to Catchflea.

  “Put the light on the floor, old man,” he said intently. “I want to see something.”

  They squatted in the center of the passage. “See, here are the marks of my moccasin boots,” Riverwind said. His large, flat soles made broad smudges in the gray dust. “And these are yours.” Catchflea’s ragged footwear, laced up bits of leather and cloth, made distinctive prints.

  “And there,” Riverwind pointed, “is a third set.” He spoke in a whisper.

  Sure enough, a third set of feet had passed that way. The prints were quite normal-looking, though small and slim. A child, perhaps? The third one had preceded the two men, and had gone right down the center of the corridor. At a run, too; the toeprints were widely spaced and the heel print was almost nonexistent.

  “The thief, yes?” whispered Catchflea. Riverwind nodded solemnly. The intruder had deliberately jumped into the hole, knowing the magic spell would lower him to this place. He and Catchflea were on the thief’s own terrain now. Caution was paramount.

  Riverwind hefted his saber, and they resumed the advance.

  The tunnel bent sharply to the right. The globes here were dark, leaving Riverwind and Catchflea in blackness. Despite the mild temperature, the warrior sweated. It was oppressive, the close confines of the tunnel, especially when Riverwind considered all that rock over his head, heavy and impenetrable, pressing in, pressing down on him. Riverwind straightened his hunched posture slightly, and his head connected with the roof. Solid. Unyielding.

  “Is the tunnel getting smaller?” he said tightly.

  “Not that I can tell,” Catchflea replied.

  Riverwind moved uncomfortably. He could not stand straight in the tunnel. “Plainsmen were not meant to be moles,” he muttered. He turned to Catchflea. “I want out of here. I want to see the sky, feel the wind on my face. I want to stand up straight!”

  “How will you get there, tall man? Fly up the shaft, yes?” Riverwind had an angry retort ready, but the old man smiled disarmingly. “Your fear is not real, my friend. There is no present danger.”

  “I feel—closed in!”

  “So you are, as am I. Pay no attention to it. I have mastered my fear. If I can do it, you can, yes.”

  Riverwind took several deep breaths. The old soothsayer was right. This tunnel was solid, in no danger of collapsing. There was no reason to be afraid. He said it aloud: “There is no reason to be afraid.”

  Light footfalls sounded ahead of them. Catchflea caught Riverwind’s arm, eyes wide with alarm. Riverwind nodded. The thief was not far away. If he could navigate in this inky hole, so could the son of Wanderer.

  “You, thief! Stand where you are!” Riverwind roared. The sound was deafening in the tunnel. The steps seemed to cease, then resumed rapidly. The odd metallic ringing was louder than before. “Follow,” Riverwind said to Catchflea. He jogged down the passage with his saber in his hand. The floor sloped downward more steeply here. Riverwind slowed. He wasn’t going to be tricked into another hole.

  The tunnel bent back to the left. A misshapen shadow skittered crazily across the wall. When it vanished, so too did the thief’s footsteps fade. Riverwind sidled around the corner and was dazzled by bright light. He threw up a hand to shade his eyes.

  “What is it?” hissed Catchflea from around the corner.

  “A room. The light is bright!” Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the illumination. Riverwind lowered his hand. “Come along, Catchflea, and be quiet.”

  They slipped into a very large, high-ceilinged chamber. The light came from a huge, disk-shaped lamp that hung from the ceiling by brass chains. Fire flickered within, flooding the room with light. Riverwind inched along the wall, his eyes going left and right.

  The room was irregularly shaped. All around them were piles of goods of every description. Things seemed to be sorted according to what they were made of. There was a lot of wood: poles, tool handles, clapboards, shingles, beams of considerable thickness with the mortise holes still showing. Beyond the wooden goods were heaps of leather items: old shoes, boots gray with mildew, belts, gloves, leggings, arrow quivers, peaked caps such as foresters wore, thongs, lacings, a hodgepodge of hide products ranging in quality from the very decrepit to the pristine.

  And there was more. Wicker baskets and glazed pottery. Jars of tar, beeswax, and soap. In all, the chamber resembled a merchant’s warehouse.

  Riverwind and Catchflea wandered among the piles of stuff, pondering the wisdom of thieves who stole old shoes instead of gold. While Riverwind headed to the right, the old man went left down a narrow aisle. There, discarded carelessly with three rolls of homespun linen, was Riverwind’s bag. The lacing was still drawn tight, the contents untouched.

  “Over here! I found it!” Catchflea called hoarsely.

  With his height, Riverwind was able to see over most of the piles. He found Catch
flea and gratefully slipped the bag’s strap over his shoulder.

  “There’s wood aplenty here. Maybe we could build some sort of ladder?” Catchflea said. He reached under the hem of his tattered shirt for the gourd and acorns.

  “What are you doing?”

  Catchflea knelt on the stone floor. “Trying to find out what we should do,” he said. He began the invocation over the acorns. Another sound—droning voices—drifted to them.

  “Someone’s coming,” Riverwind whispered. “No time for that now.” Out came the saber.

  The welter of voices, echoing through the tunnel, grew louder. The speakers seemed unconcerned about being heard, for they were talking in loud, harsh voices.

  Riverwind motioned to Catchflea to stay put, then tiptoed around a pile of sawn planks and climbed up the side. Lying prone on the top planks, Riverwind peered over the end. Six figures poured into the next aisle. Five wore bright steel armor on their chests and legs. Their helmets were curious, shaped like tall, divided cones. The sixth person was smaller and wore a loose shirt and kilt made of some shimmering black fabric. The neck of the shirt rose up in a cowl that covered his face in shadows. He was held firmly in the grip of one of the larger figures. He spoke in tremulous tones.

  Riverwind did not understand their speech. These folk spoke like no one he’d ever heard before.

  The loudest soldier, who had to be the leader, stood gazing around the room. He made a sharp demand of the little one in black. When an answer was not forthcoming, the leader rapped him with a short metal baton. Riverwind frowned. He didn’t like cruelty, whatever its logic.

  The little fellow spoke slowly, gesturing at the array of goods around him. With rapid, angry words, the leader pointed in the direction Riverwind and Catchflea had come, and then to the way they themselves had entered. The small one made plaintive sounds. The leader seized him by the shirt and flung him into the arms of the other soldiers. They dragged the protesting fellow away.

  Riverwind climbed down and got Catchflea from his hiding place under the homespun. Come with me, he signed to the old man. Say nothing.

  They skulked along an aisle parallel to the soldiers and their cringing captive, always keeping bales of booty between them. In the heart of the chamber was an open space. There, two soldiers forced the captive to his knees. The leader approached from the side with his sword raised.

  Riverwind acted. He knew a pending execution when he saw one.

  “Ha!” he cried, springing into the clear. The soldiers started back. They were considerably shorter than the plainsman, whose height seemed to intimidate them. They drew stubby swords and closed together, armored shoulders clanking as they fell into line. Their helmets were closed with hammered metal visors resembling very stylized faces, with embossed grimaces and chiseled eyebrows. The condemned fellow, whose features were still hidden by the drooping cowl, pointed excitedly at Riverwind and chattered volubly. Riverwind didn’t need an interpreter to understand a triumphant “I told you so!”

  The soldiers’ leader stood forward. He raised his short, heavy-bladed weapon.

  “Well, now, bully,” Riverwind said. “You’re fine with unarmed boys. Let’s see how you do with me.”

  He was easily two feet taller than they, and his saber twice as long as their short swords. Still, there were five of them. The leader barked an order at his men. They fanned out behind Riverwind and presented the blunt points of their swords.

  “My friend,” said Riverwind to the reprieved victim. “I’ve saved your neck, but it may cost me my own.” The little fellow, still on his knees, regarded the warrior with a quizzical tilt of his head. “I hope you’re a good person. I’d hate to die saving a scoundrel.”

  The leader attacked, slashing overhand at Riverwind’s chest. Riverwind parried and gave ground. The other soldiers joined in halfheartedly. Riverwind scowled and shouted at them, and they flinched, never closing to a threatening distance.

  He traded cuts with the leader, at one point scraping his saber on the bizarre leering helmet. The leader staggered back, shaking his head. Riverwind pressed home, shouting a Que-Shu war cry that made the chamber ring.

  Then, two quick surprises changed the odds of the battle. The small, unarmed stranger got off his knees and leaped quickly out of the way as the fighting threatened to overwhelm him. As he flung himself out of harm’s way, the cowl that had heretofore covered his face fell back. Riverwind glanced at him and halted in surprise. “He” was a she! A crop of short, spiky hair ruffled out of the black cowl and stood straight up on her head. Her skin was pale ivory, and her eyes enormous and black. Her pointed ears stood out from her close-cut hair. Riverwind had never seen an elf before, but he’d heard enough about them to know he was looking at a girl of elvish blood.

  At that precise moment, Catchflea appeared, a knout of wood in his hand. He’d heard Riverwind’s war cry and was rallying to help. “I’m with you, tall man!” he shouted gamely.

  Unfortunately for Catchflea, the four timid soldiers were between him and Riverwind. They obviously decided the daft-looking old man couldn’t be very dangerous, so they swarmed him. The firewood was struck from his hand, and down he went.

  Riverwind had stared too long at the elf girl. The soldiers’ leader struck him from behind with the baton. Riverwind fell against a stack of clay pots and sent them clattering to the stone floor. Before he could regain his feet in the potsherds, the leader advanced and struck the plainsman again on the head. The burning lantern flared wildly in Riverwind’s eyes, then all was dark.

  Chapter 4

  Di An

  The soldiers dragged Catchflea and Riverwind out of the chamber, to a wide corridor, and dumped them against the wall. The black-eyed elf girl knelt by Riverwind and put the neck of a copper bottle to his lips. He coughed and opened his eyes.

  “By the gods!” he sputtered. “Is that water or brine?” The girl kept the bottle at his mouth even when he tried to turn his face away. His hands were chained tightly to his sides.

  “Enough!” he said and shoved the bottle with his head. The girl took the bottle away. She tugged Catchflea to a sitting position and gave him some salty water, too. The old soothsayer choked and shook his head.

  “Are you trying to poison me?” he said groggily.

  “It’s all right, Catchflea,” Riverwind said. “She means to be kind.”

  “Oh, my head. What happened?”

  “We were bested by these underground elves.”

  “Elves!” exclaimed Catchflea.

  “So it would seem. Did you not notice the girl’s features?”

  Catchflea squinted at the spiky-haired creature, now withdrawn to the opposite side of the tunnel. “Branchala bless me,” he said. “You’re right, tall man.”

  The gruff leader appeared. He flipped the leering visor up. His countenance was like the girl’s—pale skin, prominent eyes, sharp chin, and long, thin nose. When the girl piped a few words at him, he raised his baton as if to hit her.

  “You’re a brute,” Riverwind said matter-of-factly. “A blustering bully who beats on defenseless children.” The leader, distracted, rattled off a long interrogative sentence at him. Riverwind shook his head. “I don’t understand.” The useless exchange went on until the leader quit in disgust.

  The soldiers, bolder now that the tall plainsman was chained, prodded him and Catchflea to their feet. The tunnel ceiling here was even lower than the one before. Riverwind’s head bumped the black stone. He had a momentary rush of claustrophobia, but it receded quickly. He didn’t want to show any weakness in front of his captors.

  The girl and the leader led them down the passage. Riverwind stumbled along, back bent and arms tied. Catchflea was likewise chained. Blue globes lit the way, but there were as many that did not shine. Riverwind wondered what fueled the strange spheres, and why so many were dark.

  “Where do you think they’re taking us?” asked the old man.

  “To the surface, I hope,” Riverwind repli
ed.

  “In Silvanesti, yes?”

  “That I can’t even guess at.”

  One of the soldiers trailing Catchflea decided to trip him. The old soothsayer sprawled hard on the floor, bashing his nose. Blood flowed from one nostril to his tangled beard.

  Riverwind turned around. The four elves had their visors open, and one had a smirk on his face. Riverwind lashed out with one long leg and caught the smirker in the chest. Propelled by the powerful kick, the elf sailed back into the darkness and landed with a jingle of falling metal. His comrades laughed, and even the leader smiled.

  “At least they’ve some idea of fair play,” Riverwind said. Catchflea got to his feet shakily.

  “And a rough sense of humor, yes,” he said sourly.

  The girl dropped back from the leader’s heels and walked slightly ahead of Riverwind. He said, “I wonder why a child like this is off prowling dark tunnels?”

  “She may not be a child. Elves are longer lived than us.”

  “Oh?”

  Catchflea coughed. “This child might be a hundred or more years old,” he said.

  As the two men spoke, the girl studied them both unblinkingly. Most of her attention was for Riverwind. He kept his voice as calm and unthreatening as he could.

  “Thank you for the water,” he said. “If water it was. It wasn’t as bad as Arrowthorn’s nepta berries, at any rate.”

  The girl rubbed the tip of her nose. He wished she hadn’t; it made his itch, and he couldn’t scratch.

  “What’s your name?” asked Riverwind. “I am Riverwind, son of Wanderer. This is Catchstar—”

  “Catchflea,” corrected the old man.

  “We are Que-Shu. Who are you?” finished Riverwind.

  She yawned, displaying small white teeth and a carrot-colored tongue.

  “I’m wasting my breath, aren’t I?”

  “You are, yes,” Catchflea said.

  “At least my head’s still on my shoulders.” Riverwind gave the girl a slight smile. “And yours too.”

  The tunnel zigged and zagged through the bowels of Krynn. So far did they travel that Riverwind had a fleeting thought that he might end up returning to Que-Shu, only miles underground. Of course, he had no idea which direction they were traveling, or how far underground they actually were, or where Que-Shu was, for that matter.