Dragonlance 08 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies (36 page)

“Bah, he’s missing his liquor, that’s all,” said Derek in disgust. “He’s having a drunkard’s dream.”

“I am not!” said Aran, speaking with dangerous calm. “You know me better than that, Derek. Someone had hold of my arm.”

Brian caught Elistan’s eye.

The cleric smiled and winked.

The Ice Folk made them welcome. They offered them smoked fish and water. One took off his own thick fur coat to wrap around the half-frozen kender. The red-bearded warrior was their chief, and he refused to talk or answer any of their questions, saying they were all in danger of frostbite. He hustled the group back to the camp, which consisted of small snug tents made out of animal hides stretched over portable frames. Trickles of smoke rose from the center holes in each tent. The heart of the camp was a longhouse known as the chieftent. Long and narrow, the chieftent was made of furs and hides draped over the large rib cage of some dead sea beast whose carcass had been frozen in the ice. The small tents were used only for sleeping, being too cramped for much else. The Ice Folk spent most of their time either fishing the glacial pools or in the chieftent.

Those gathered in the chieftent sewed hides, braided and repaired nets, hammered fishhooks, fashioned spear and arrow heads, and performed countless other tasks. Men, women, and children worked together, and while they worked someone would tell a story or the group would sing, discuss the fishing prospects, or share the latest gossip. Little children played underfoot; older children had their tasks to perform. In this harsh clime, the tribe’s survival depended on every person doing his part.

The Ice Folk gave their guests clothing designed for living on the glacier, and they snuggled thankfully into the warm fur coats, slipped their feet into thick fur-lined boots and thrust their chilled hands into heavy gloves. Laurana was given a tent of her own. The three knights shared another, and Sturm, Flint and Tas had a tent to themselves. Elistan was on his way to his tent when he found his way blocked by an elderly man with a long white beard, heavily bundled and wrapped in furs and a gray robe. All that could be seen of him was a hawk-like nose poking out of a gray cowl and two glittering eyes.

The old man planted himself squarely in Elistan’s path. Elistan halted obligingly and stood smiling down at the old man whose bent body did not come to his shoulder.

The old man snatched off a fur glove, revealing a gnarled hand with enlarged joints, permanently crooked fingers, and spider webs of blue veins. He lifted his hand toward the medallion Elistan wore around his neck. He did not touch it. His hand, shaking with a mild palsy, paused near it.

Elistan took hold of the medallion, removed it, and pressed it into the old man’s hand.

“You have waited long and patiently for this, haven’t you, my friend?” Elistan said quietly.

“I have,” said the old man and two tears trickled down his cheeks and were lost in his fur collar. “My father waited, and his father before him, and his father before him. Is it true? Have the gods returned?” He looked up anxiously at Elistan.

“They never left us,” Elistan said.

“Ah,” said the old man, after a moment. “I think I understand. You will come to my tent and tell me all that you know.”

The two walked off together, deep in conversation, and disappeared into a tent slightly larger than the others that stood near the chieftent.

Laurana sat for a time alone in her tent. Her grief burned, her sorrow ached, but she no longer felt as though she was lost at the bottom of a dark well, with the light so far above her that she could not reach it. Looking back on the past several days, she could not remember much about them and she was ashamed. She saw clearly that she had been walking a terrible path, one that might have led to self-destruction. She remembered with horror how, for a brief moment, she had wished the stranger in Tarsis would kill her.

The griffons had saved her. This frozen, white, stark world had saved her. Paladine, in his mercy, had saved her. Like the white bear, she had come back to life. She would always love Tanis, always mourn him, always think of him, but she resolved now that she would work for him, work in his name to bring about the victory over darkness he had died fighting to achieve. Laurana said a silent prayer giving thanks to Paladine, then went to join the others in the chieftent.

Peat fires burned at intervals in the tent, the smoke rising through the holes in the ceiling. The Ice Folk sat cross-legged on the floor on furs and hides, going about their work. Their songs and tales were silenced, however, as they listened to the conversation their chief was holding with the strangers.

The chief’s name was Harald Haakan. He spoke to Derek, who had taken it upon himself to announce he was the group’s leader. Flint huffed at this, but was quieted by Sturm.

“You said ‘draconians’ attacked the bear,” Harald said. “I have not heard of such creatures. What are they?”

“Monstrous beings never before seen on Ansalon,” Derek replied. “They walk upright like men, yet they have scales, wings and the claws of dragons.”

Harald nodded, scowling. “Ah, so that’s who you meant. Dragon-men we call them. The foul wizard, Feal-Thas, brought these monsters to Ice Wall castle, along with a white dragon. None of us had ever seen a dragon before now, though we have heard tales that they lived here in ancient times. None of us knew what the great white beast was, until Raggart the Elder told us. Even he did not know these dragon-men, however.”

“Who is Raggart?” Derek asked.

“Raggart Knug, our priest,” Harald replied. “He is the eldest among us. He reads the signs and portents. He tells us when the weather is about to change, when to leave the pools before they are fished out and he shows us where to search for new ones. He warns us when our enemies are coming, so that we may prepare for battle.”

“Is this man a priest of the white bear, then?”

Harald was clearly put out. He glared at Derek. “What do you take us for, Solamnic? Savages? We do not worship bears. The bear is our tribal guardian, honored and respected, but not a god.”

Harald had a temper to match his fiery hair, it seemed. He muttered to himself in his own language, shaking his hairy head at Derek, who said many times he was sorry for the mistake. Eventually the chief calmed down.

“We worship no gods at the moment,” Harald continued. “The true gods left us, and we wait for them to return. That could happen at any time, according to Raggart. The white dragon is a portent, he says.”

“By the true gods, do you mean Paladine, Mishakal and Takhisis?” Sturm asked, interested.

“We know them by other names,” Harald replied, “though I have heard them called such by the fisher folk in Rigitt. If those are the old gods, then, yes, it is for their return we wait.”

Laurana looked about for Elistan, thinking he would be interested in this, but he had not come with them into the tent and she did not know where he had gone.

Derek steered the conversation to the Dragon Highlord, Feal-Thas.

Harald said that Feal-Thas had resided in Icereach for hundreds of years and up until now the wizard had kept mostly to himself. Harald had heard that Feal-Thas was calling himself a Dragon Highlord, but Harald knew nothing about that, nor did he know anything about dragonarmies or the war raging in other parts of Ansalon.

“I care nothing either,” he said, waving it away with his large hand. “We are locked in a never-ending war waged on a daily basis—we fight every day just to stay alive. We fight foes far older than dragons and just as deadly—cold, disease, starvation. We fight the thanoi, who raid our villages for food, and so we care nothing about what is happening in the rest of the world.” Harald fixed Derek with a shrewd stare. “Does the rest of the world care about us?”

Derek was discomfited, not knowing what to say.

Harald nodded and sat back. “I didn’t think so,” he grunted. “As for the wizard, he is stirring up trouble, bringing in these dragon-men to join with the thanoi to attack us. His armies have wiped out smaller tribes. They slaughter women and children. Feal-Thas has told us openly he means to destroy us all, so that no Ice Folk will be left alive in Icereach. Our tribe is large and my warriors are strong, and thus far he has not dared attack us, but I fear that may be about to change. We have caught his wolves prowling about, spying on us, and he has sent small forces against us to test us. I mistook your group for his soldiers.”

“We are the foes of Highlord Feal-Thas,” said Derek. “We are pledged to the wizard’s destruction.”

“We would welcome your swords in a fight, Sir Knight,” Harald returned, “but you won’t meet Feal-Thas in battle. He stays holed up in his ice palace or in the ruins of Ice Wall castle.”

“Then we will go there to fight him,” Derek stated. “Are there other tribes in the area? How large an army could we raise in a short time?”

Harald stared at him a moment, then the big man let out a laugh as hearty as himself. His large guffaws shook the ribs of the tent and caused all the people gathered within to join in.

“A rare jest,” Harald said when he could speak. He clapped his hand on Derek’s shoulder.

“I assure you, I was not jesting,” said Derek stiffly. “It is our intent to go to Ice Wall castle to challenge the wizard to battle. We will go by ourselves if need be. We have been sent to Icereach on an important secret mission—”

“We’re here to find a dragon orb!” Tasslehoff called out excitedly from the opposite end of the tent. “Have you seen one around anywhere?”

This brought Derek’s conversation with the chief to an abrupt end. Rising angrily to his feet, the knight excused himself and stalked out of the chieftent. He motioned for Brian and Aran to accompany him. Derek cast a scathing look at Tas as he passed, which look went in one side of Tas’s head and shot out the other without the kender ever noticing.

Shortly after the knights’ departure, Gilthanas rose to his feet. “I beg you to also excuse me, Chieftain,” the elf said politely, “but I find I cannot keep my eyes open. I am going to my tent to rest.”

“Gil,” Laurana said, trying to detain him, but he pretended not to hear her and walked out.

The three knights were a tight fit inside the small tent. None of them could stand upright, for the ceiling was too low. They crouched on the floor, crowded together, shoulders jostling, practically bumping heads.

“All right, Derek, we’re here,” Aran said cheerfully. He was hunched nearly double, his knees up alongside his ears, but he was in a good mood again, the chief having provided him with a replacement for his brandywine. The drink was clear as water and was distilled from potatoes, which the Ice Folk received in trade for fish. Aran gasped a bit at the first gulp and his eyes grew moist, but he claimed that after one was used to it the liquor went down quite smoothly.

“What was so important you had to insult the chief and march us out of there in such a hurry?” Aran asked, tilting his flask to his lips.

“Brian,” said Derek, “pull aside the tent flap—slowly. Don’t draw attention to yourself. What do you see? Is he out there?”

“Is who out there?” Brian asked.

“The elf,” said Derek.

Gilthanas was loitering nearby, watching some children drop lines through a hole in the ice to catch fish. Brian might have thought the elf was truly interested in the fishing, except he gave himself away by casting sharp glances at the knights’ tent.