by Dragonlance
He glanced sideways, expecting an answer. But Hith was gone, vanished into nothingness once more.
Chapter
2
THE BLACKRAIN HILLS, NERON
Noise filled the forest that night, and Shedara was tired of it.
Before coming to Neron, she had loved the woods. The trees of Armach, her homeland, greeted her like a mother’s embrace whenever she came home—even the last time, during the hunt for the Hooded One, when she’d gone back to find the elf kingdom broken, her queen slain, and her own brother maimed and bitter. Evil might have overrun Armach-nesti, but the trees had been the same, the copses and glades soothing and peaceful.
It was not like this place. The jungles known as the Emerald Sea were alive with strange sounds, both day and night. Birds sang and shrieked and cried; beetles buzzed and whined; larger beasts roared and growled and snuffled in the undergrowth. Worst of all, though, were the frogs: it didn’t seem to matter how little they were, for they all made loud, keening chirps that pierced the skull and never stopped. Add the constant din to the pools of death-murk that tried almost daily to devour someone in her company, the gigantic, hungry bloodflies that ripped out chunks of flesh when they bit, and even vines that sought to seize them by their throats and drag them into the treetops to strangle, and Shedara had sworn a hundred times, over the weeks since she’d left Akh-tazi, that once she finally left Neron behind, she would never, ever return.
She had other, more painful reasons for that vow. She had lost two friends there, men she had grown close to in recent months. One, the merkitsa elf Eldako, might have been a lover in better times, a kindred spirit she could have spent many happy hours with, perhaps even a lifetime. Instead, he’d been taken from her twice—first by the mutilating acid breath of a black dragon, then by death when he sacrificed himself to slay the last of the Faceless Brethren. He lay buried at the temple’s foot, his grave marked by only a cluster of arrows left by the cha’asii, the jungle elves.
Hard as Eldako’s loss was, though—and it tore her heart whenever she thought of him—what had happened to Forlo was worse. He had been their leader, a driving force behind their quest. But he, too, was dead. Not everyone believed that, of course, but Shedara did. She had to. The alternative was too horrible to imagine.
None of them had spoken more than they had to, traveling north from the ruined temples to the highlands that once had been the edge of Aurim. The sky, when they could see it through the treetops, grew darker every day, an unpleasant green-brown hue like that of moldering corpses. Eight others walked with Shedara: the barbarian Hult, who was her sole surviving companion from their original quest; Forlo’s wife, Essana, whom they had rescued from Akh-tazi, and his son, Azar, grown to adulthood only weeks after his birth; and five of the cha’asii who had accompanied them from the village of Ke-cha-yat. The rest of the jungle elves had gone back home, bearing the heads of the Faceless Brethren and their servants, the tentacled creatures the cha’asii called akitu-shai, the Crawling Maws.
The five jungle elves carried the heads of several more Maws with them, smoked and dried so they looked like nothing so much like evil octopuses, impaled on the tips of the cha’asii’s spears. The heads were a warning, and they seemed to work: if any akitu-shai remained in that part of the jungle, they hadn’t troubled the party as they threaded their way up into the hills.
At last, their final night in Neron came. The next day they would reach the edge of the Emerald Sea: the jungle would thin, the hills would grow rocky, and they would enter lands that had been inhospitable since the First Destruction. They would be in Aurim. It would be a hard way, but no other lay open to them, and they couldn’t turn back, not with Maladar on the loose. The game had to be played to the end, whatever that might be.
Shedara sat on a rock bearded with moss, listening to the birds and the beetles and the Astar-be-damned frogs, staring north through the trees. She imagined she could see the glow of Hith’s Cauldron from there, though that had to be fancy; the sea of lava was far away, and they would pass well to the east of it, through the ashes of the old empire. Still, there was a strange, ruddy light in the sky, and it didn’t come from Lunis or any other of the moons. She watched the strange light a while, flipping a throwing knife over and over in her hand. Then she stopped, holding it by the blade. Someone was drawing near, and not one of the cha’asii either. She could tell an elf’s footfall from a human’s. Slowly, Shedara turned.
It was like seeing a ghost every time. Azar looked so much like his father that it gave her the shivers. He’d even begun to grow a beard, though it was light and was coming in patchy, finer red hairs mixing with black. Only the eyes gave him away. Forlo’s had been dark, but the young man’s were paler, like his mother’s, shifting from blue to hazel and back.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said.
Shedara grunted, relaxing her grip on the knife, though not entirely. Azar still wore the clothes he’d been clad in when she first encountered him, though they were bramble-torn and mud-spattered: the black cassock and cloak that had been the garb of the Faceless. That unnerved her, though it wasn’t as if there were any other garments to be had, unless it was the bark-and-leaf loincloths the cha’asii wore. At least he no longer had the ugly, curved dagger he’d wielded. They’d left that blade behind, at Akh-tazi, after Essana broke it between two rocks.
“What’s troubling you, Azar?” Shedara asked.
He looked down at his hands, twisting them together. “My mother says you and my father were friends.”
“We were,” she replied. Her mouth crooked into a half smile. “We’ve known each other since before you were born.”
Azar glanced up, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. “I was only born a month ago.”
“I know. It was a joke.”
He nodded but clearly didn’t understand. That was the other thing about him that disturbed her: the Faceless had used their magic to raise him from infancy to what looked like about twenty-five summers—a fair age, for a human—in a remarkably short span of time. His sole purpose, in their eyes, had been to serve as a vessel for Maladar. The Taker, they’d called him. There was much that they simply hadn’t bothered with, leaving nuances aside as unnecessary for one meant to serve as a host body for the ancient archmage. Humor appeared to be one of those things.
That, she thought, will make for a long journey.
“Ask what you came to ask,” she said. “Then be done. I’m not really in the mood to chat.”
“Ah. I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that … well … I never knew my father. I never had the chance.”
“No. You didn’t.”
She couldn’t keep the accusation out of her words. Nor, she had to admit, did she really want to. The young man had been the one who struck the killing blow against Forlo, and though in her mind she knew he hadn’t meant to kill her friend, her heart was still dark with resentment.
At least he understood guilt: his face colored, and he stared at his hands again.
“Azar,” she began.
“Forgive me,” he said. “This is … difficult. My mother tells me he was a good man, but the Brethren said otherwise. They said he deserved to suffer.”
Shedara rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you still believe anything the Brethren told you,” she snapped. “What about Essana? They told you she deserved to die too. Do you still believe that?”
He flinched, and only part of her regretted her tone. Some part of her wanted revenge, to make this young man hurt for what he’d done to Forlo. The need was childish, she knew, but it was no less real than the need for food or water … or love.
“Please,” he persisted. “I said this is difficult. I am confused. I need to hear it from someone else, someone who knew him.”
“What?” she snapped. “Need to know what?”
“Was my father good?”
She rocked back. It was as if he’d slapped her. Memories flooded her in a rush, images of all they’d been t
hrough: Forlo riding off to battle at the Lost Road, Forlo fighting in the Arena at Kristophan, Forlo watching the ancient dragon called the Wyrm-namer as it let out its last breath, Forlo … hurling himself between the falling dagger and his wife.
Shedara looked up at the trees, her eyes suddenly stinging. “Yes. He was the best of men.”
Azar was silent a while. His hands twisted together. “Then I wanted you to know. I am sorry,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t killed him.”
He left her there, with tears shining in her eyes, clambering back down toward the glow of the cha’asii’s campfire. When he was gone, Shedara snarled and flung her knife at where he’d been. It hit a tree, burying its blade an inch deep in the wood. She didn’t pull it out again until morning.
The Blackrain Hills were well named. The precipitation started as a mere drizzle as the group reached the edge of the jungle. There the plants were thin and sickly, their leaves and fronds patched with gray-brown. A smell like old, wet campfires hung in the air as the rain grew into a steady soaking. The water was indeed black—not like ink, but like soot. When she cupped her hands to gather it, Shedara saw the grit floating in it.
“It is as if a city has been burning,” said Hult, who would know. His people had put the towns of Malton and Rudil to the torch before being all but wiped out at the Battle of the Run. He held up a hand and watched the raindrops slide across his skin, leaving grimy trails. “Is this from the old empire?”
Le-nekh, the leader of the cha’asii, had called a halt and was looking nervous. He shook his head, fingering the feathered amulet he wore at his throat. “We do not know. My people have never gone beyond these hills to see. The land is cursed. Only evil lives here now … ghosts and fiends. We must return to Ke-cha-yat.” He looked at Shedara, his dark eyes pleading. “You can still come with us. It is not too late, and you would live as heroes among the trees.”
“Thank you, Le-nekh,” Shedara said, smiling. “In more peaceful days, the offer might tempt me. But we must go on, or nowhere will be safe before long. Not even your friendly lands.”
The cha’asii regarded her gravely, then crossed his arms. “Farewell, then, my friends. The ancestors will watch over you. We go.”
And they did, at a swift gesture from Le-nekh. The jungle elves melted away into the forest, swiftly and completely. Shedara swallowed, then turned to face the others.
Hult stood nearby, one hand resting on the sword that hung by his side. That hand was missing two fingers, lost on their journey. He stared north, past the rocky, scrub-dotted cliffs, into the pitchy fall of the rain. He had changed much in the past weeks, and no longer seemed the young man of eighteen or nineteen he’d been when she first met him. He’d matured: grown harder, angrier. Hult ran a hand over his head, where his fine black hair hung down past his ears. Once, his pate had been shaven but for a single, long braid: the mark of an Uigan warrior, along with the blue tattoos upon his cheeks. The minotaurs of the League had docked that braid, though, and he had chosen not to regrow it. The Uigan had no warriors anymore—not after the Run. Hult was a man with no home.
“This will be a hard walk,” he murmured. “Especially for the lady.”
Shedara followed his glance. Standing apart from them, trying to shelter under the scorched boughs, were Essana and Azar. Forlo’s wife had nearly recovered from her torments at the hands of the Faceless, but she was still dangerously thin, her muscles wasted from her imprisonment. She looked twice her forty years, her lustrous black hair streaked with white, her skin spotted and frail. However, there was also a diamond hardness to her eyes, showing the strength that had helped her survive months of captivity at Akh-tazi. Still, she was weak, and the mission they faced would take them across some of the harshest lands in Taladas.
Le-nekh had been right: the remains of Aurim were blasted, lifeless, and haunted by evil things. Shedara had visited them once before, years ago. Food and water were scarce and foul, and enemies plenty. It was a land that killed Taladas’s hardiest warriors. Essana might not survive the crossing. But she had been adamant: she was going with them. She would not stay behind with the cha’asii. It was folly, but Shedara understood. Essana’s husband, the man she loved, was out there somewhere—in body, if not in spirit. Hope was a hard thing to give up.
Besides, they might need her where they were going.
“I’ll see to our needs,” Shedara said. “I have my magic. I can conjure food and water to keep us all alive after our supplies run out. It’ll taste terrible, but even so. As to keeping her safe … you’re a protector, aren’t you?”
Hult scowled. “Not a very good one, I must admit. I was tenach to Chovuk Boyla, but he was slain. Then I protected Forlo.” He chewed his lip. “You know how that ended.”
“It wasn’t your fault. The Faceless had you paralyzed, just like me.”
“Perhaps,” Hult agreed, but his frown didn’t go away. “But my oath was chakta yani anchak—my life for my master’s. Twice now I have broken that vow. You should not trust me to keep it the third time.”
“Oh,” Shedara said. “I get it. You’re the proud savage who’s lost his honor. I recognize you from my bedtime stories when I was a child.” His face darkened, but she kept talking. “Listen to me, Hult. We don’t have time for self-pity. Essana needs your eyes watching over her and your sword keeping bad things from eating her. Any failures in the past, keep them between you and your god. I don’t care.”
When she’d first known him, saying such a thing would have ended with drawn swords and possibly blood. Though he glowered at her, he didn’t reach for his blade. Instead he nodded, his gaze shifting back to Essana.
“I will watch over her,” he said, “but I will take no oath. Not this time.”
“Fine,” she said. “No oaths. I don’t care, as long as she makes it to the Rainwards alive.”
“She will,” he said. Above, green lightning ripped the sky. Thunder echoed, booming from hill to hill. “And the boy?”
Shedara shrugged. “Protect him too, if you can manage it.”
“I don’t trust him. He was one of them.”
“Not by his will,” she said, watching Azar. He had drawn up his hood to ward off the rain and looked so much like one of the Faceless that the hairs on the back of her neck rose. “He never got to learn how to be human.”
Hult’s lips pressed together, becoming a tight line. “I sorrow for him, and for his mother. But if it comes to a choice to save one of them over the other, I will leave him to his fate.”
“I won’t argue with that,” Shedara replied and hiked her pack, settling it on her shoulders. “Now enough talk. I want to be out of these hills by the end of tomorrow. They give me a bad feeling.”
“Everything here gives me a bad feeling.”
She grinned. “So I’ve noticed.”
The ground grew rockier, loose with shale, slick with sooty water. They slid and stumbled, using their hands as much as their feet to clamber their way over the shoulders of hills. Essana had the hardest time of all, but each time she stumbled, Hult was there to catch her.
Night came quickly; with the sun obscured by the pall overhead, the only sign of its setting came when the sky grew even darker, cloaking the land in shadow. Shedara called a halt when she realized she was using her elf-sight more than the normal kind and began to search for shelter. It wasn’t hard to find in the craggy lands; there were overhangs and shallow caves everywhere. She got them settled in one such cavern, out of the rain, then had Hult and Azar gather a small pile of stones. There was little fuel for fires there, and any wood they did find would be wet. From then on, they would need her magic for warmth as well.
The moons’ power was flowing sluggishly that night, with Lunis and Solis both at their nadir, but she didn’t need much. She dragged their magic into her, forced it into shape with words that crawled over her tongue. Her fingers danced as they made passes over the little cairn the others had built and coaxed silent fire out of the stones. She shudde
red as the magic flowed out of her, and the rocks began to glow ruddy orange. Dry heat came off them in waves. She sighed, smiling, then ducked outside to make sure the magical campfire was hidden from view. The rain had gotten worse, driving and drenching. It stung her eyes, and she had to wipe it away.
“Is it safe?”
Shedara whirled. Essana had come up on her so quietly, she nearly put a dagger in the woman’s throat.
“Safe?” she asked. “We’re in Old Aurim, milady. We won’t be safe again till we leave it. Where’s Hult?”
“There,” Essana said, pointing. The barbarian lurked in the shadows, his eyes flicking this way and that. “You set him to watch over me.”
“I did,” Shedara said. It occurred to her that somehow, since Forlo was gone, she’d become the leader of the ragged band. “You have my blades as well, but I have spell-work to do if we’re going to make this crossing.”
Essana glanced at the Uigan, her eyes narrowing. “Strange. His kind would have killed me if they’d won at the Run. They would have sacked Coldhope and put me to the sword.”
They would have done more than that, Shedara thought, but she kept it to herself. Essana was no fool; she knew what barbarians did with captive women, particularly the beautiful ones.
“Your husband trusted Hult with his life,” Shedara said instead. “To tell the truth, at first I thought he was an idiot. But … well, we’ve been through a lot. Hult’s proven himself. There isn’t a sword in all of Taladas I’d rather have at my back. Not even my own brother’s.”
She left out that her brother, Quivris, didn’t particularly like her anymore. Perhaps things could be better between them if she defeated Maladar and avenged her queen. Perhaps not. Family was difficult.
“You misunderstand,” Essana said. “I didn’t come to criticize you, Shedara. I wanted to thank you for thinking of me. I know what you lost at Akh-tazi. I wouldn’t blame you for being—what was that?”
