Dragonlance 08 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies (49 page)

16

The dead and the living.

he wolves had fled, but the danger had not. Derek had gone off to the dragon’s lair to find the orb. Laurana and the others remained in the tunnels beneath a castle under siege. Sounds of fighting echoed faintly down the tunnels. The Ice Folk had managed to fight their way inside the castle and were battling the enemy within its walls. Their day was not finished. The wizard was dead, but those who served him were not.

Sturm sheathed his sword and knelt down to compose the bodies of his comrades. He shut the staring eyes and covered Aran’s ghastly face with his own cloak. He washed the blood from Brian’s face with handfuls of snow.

Laurana had feared Gilthanas would rush off after Derek, perhaps even fight him for the dragon orb. Gilthanas did not leave. He stared at the bodies of the two knights, remembering that only last night they had been alive, laughing, talking, smiling, and singing. He bowed his head, his eyes filled with tears. Laurana stood at his side. He put his arm around her, and together they knelt in the snow to pay their respects to the dead. Flint made a swipe at his eyes and cleared his throat. Tasslehoff smeared blood over his face as he blew his nose on Caramon’s handkerchief.

The dead lay in some semblance of peace, their arms crossed over their breasts, their swords clasped in their still hands.

Sturm raised his eyes skyward and prayed quietly, “‘Return this man to Huma’s breast, beyond the wild, impartial skies; grant to him a warrior’s rest, and set the last spark—’”

“Time for that later,” Derek interrupted.

He came from the dragon’s lair and he held a leather sack in his hand tied with a drawstring. “I have the dragon orb. We must get out of here before we are discovered.”

He glanced down at Aran and Brian, lying on the blood-stained ice, and a spasm passed over his face. His eyes dimmed; his lips trembled. He pressed his lips tightly together. His eyes cleared.

“We will return for the bodies after we have made certain the dragon orb is safe,” he said, cold, impassive.

“You go on, my lord,” said Sturm quietly. “I will remain with the fallen.”

“What for? They are not going anywhere!” Derek rasped angrily.

Flint scowled and growled deep in his throat. Laurana stared at Derek in shock.

Sturm stood quiet, unmoving.

Derek flashed them all an irate glance. “You think me callous, but I am thinking of them. Listen to that!” He gestured down a tunnel. They could all hear the unmistakable sounds of battle—clashing metal, shouts and oaths and screams—and those sounds were growing louder.

“These knights gave their lives to secure the dragon orb. Would you have their sacrifice go to waste, Brightblade? Perhaps you think we should all stay here and die with them? Or do we finish our quest and live to sing of their bravery?”

No one said a word.

Derek turned and walked off, heading back the way they had come. He did not look behind to see if the others were following.

“Derek is right,” said Sturm at last. “We should not let their sacrifice be in vain. Paladine will watch over them. Harm will not come to them until we can return to claim them and take them home.”

Sturm gave a knight’s salute to each of the fallen, then he walked after Derek.

Gilthanas retrieved what arrows he could find and went after Sturm. Flint harumphed and rubbed his nose and, grabbing hold of Tasslehoff, gave the kender a shove and told him to get a move on and quit standing there sniveling like a big baby.

Laurana lingered in the chamber with the dead. Friend. Foe. Picking up the frostreaver, stained with the wizard’s blood, she walked to her destiny.

The Fall of Ice-Reach Castle

A
N
I
CE
F
OLK
S
ONG

By Lester Smith

Attend now, Ice Folk, to my tale,

Of the day that Ice Wall Castle fell,

And heed the lessons it reveals.

The tower had stood for ages long,

With walls of ice on walls of stone;

And wizard Feal-Thas called it home.

This dark elf magus held in thrall

A thousand thanoi to man its walls—

Fierce walrus-men. Nor was this all:

Draconians, too, in their hundreds

Upon the Ice Tower’s walls abounded,

To do whate’er Feal-Thas commanded.

And more than this, a great white dragon

Served the wizard’s will! Its might again

Affirming Feal-Thas’ right to reign.

For the dark elf had resolved to rule

With iron fist, and intent cruel,

Where long our people had endured.

The Ice Folk seemed to face their doom.

Against this threat, we had no boon.

Our hope upon the wind was strewn.

Listen, Ice Folk, to my tale!

Then Habakkuk, our old god, came

To Aged Raggart, in a dream,

And promised victory in his name.

And strangers, too, were come to join

The Ice Folk’s cause, for which they gained—

Knights, elves, and dwarves—welcome as kin.

Chief Harald, frostreaver in hand,

Called all true souls to take a stand

And cleanse the ice of Feal-Thas’ stain!

The day that Ice Wall Castle Fell!

Our ice boats launched as day dawned fair.

And though our hearts had long held fear,

A breath of hope was in the air.

Then we a miracle beheld!

Even as Habakkuk had vowed:

When we set forth, the dragon fled!

Heed the lessons here revealed!

Cheered by this sign, our sailors

sailed With joyful hearts; while alongside

The ice boats, camp dogs raced and bayed!

But tower’s shadow dimmed our mood,

For high and mighty still it stood,

With thanoi taunting—the ugly brood.

Then Aged Raggart, with Elistan—

A priest of foreign Paladine—

Debarked their boats with this command:

“Watch now, and learn how gods of light,

Prepare a path for those who wait

And trust, so men may do what’s right!”

Hearken, Ice Folk, to my tale!

Then these two graybeards walked alone

Toward the evil wizard’s home

Through hail of arrows, and boulders thrown.

Untouched, they stopped below the tower,

And, catching sunbeams from the air,

Brought them upon the walls to bear.

Beneath those beams, the ice walls steamed, Then cracked in giant rifts and seams, And fell—while thanoi plunged and screamed.

And now from every ice boat’s deck

Our warriors rushed into the wreck,

To Feal-Thas’ fiends delivering death!

And as for Feal-Thas and his magics:

The dark elf fell to an elf maid’s axe

And bled his life out on the ice.

The day his mighty castle fell!

Where once a mighty fortress stood,

Now Ice Folk warriors freely strode,

The threat of Feal-Thas done for good.

Think on this tale, when hope seems far,

And let its lessons guide your heart,

For we, my brethren, Ice Folk are.

We, O brethren, Ice Folk are!

BOOK IV

1

The Oracle of Takhisis. Kit Gives an Ultimatum.

he winter deepened on Ansalon. Yule came and went. The hunt for Kitiara continued, though it was half-hearted. Ariakas did not send his troops out after her. He did send assassins and bounty hunters, but they were ordered to conduct their search circumspectly. After a time, it seemed they forgot about her. No longer were bounty hunters handing steel coins about, asking if anyone had seen a warrior woman with black curly hair and a crooked smile.

Kitiara did not know it, but Ariakas had called off the hounds. He was starting to regret the entire incident. He realized he’d made a mistake with regard to Kit. He began to believe in her claimed innocence. He tried to place the blame for his belief that Kit had betrayed him on Iolanthe. She cleverly shifted it to the elf wizard, Feal-Thas. The elf had proven to be a vast disappointment to Ariakas, who had never expected much from Feal-Thas in the first place, for word came that the blasted elf had gotten himself killed and Ice Wall Castle had fallen.

At least the knight, Derek Crownguard, had fallen victim to Ariakas’s scheming. He had taken the dragon orb back to Solamnia, and Ariakas’s spies reported that contention over the orb had caused a rift between elves and humans and was further demoralizing the knighthood.

Ariakas wanted Kit back. He was finally ready to launch the war in Solamnia and he needed her expertise, her leadership skills, her courage. But she was nowhere to be found.

Queen Takhisis could have informed Ariakas of Kit’s whereabouts, for Her Dark Majesty was keeping a close watch on the Blue Lady. But Takhisis chose to keep Ariakas in ignorance. Ariakas might have welcomed Lord Soth’s entry into the war, but he would not be pleased to see a Soth/Kitiara alliance. Kit already had an army behind her, an army loyal to her. She commanded a wing of blue dragons, also extremely loyal to her. Add to this a powerful death knight and his forces, and Ariakas would start to feel the Crown of Power resting uneasily on his head. He might try to stop Kitiara from going to Dargaard Keep, and Takhisis could not allow this.

The bounty hunters were a nuisance to Kit, though never a danger. None recognized her in her guise as a high-ranking spiritor, and no one bothered her. She even had an enjoyable conversation with a bounty hunter, giving him a description of herself and sending him on a long and fruitless search. When she took the road leading to Nightlund, pursuit ended. None would follow her into that accursed land.

Her journey was long and wearisome, giving Kitiara plenty of time to think about her confrontation with Lord Soth. She required a plan of attack. Kit never went into any battle unprepared. She needed information about exactly what sort of enemy she faced—solid information, not legend, myth, granny stories, kender tales, or bard’s songs. Unfortunately, such information was difficult to come by. Of those who had encountered Lord Soth, none had come back to tell of it.

All she had was the information Iolanthe had provided following their brief and eventful encounter in the Temple in Neraka. Kit wished she’d taken more time to listen to the witch, asked her more questions. But then, she’d been fleeing for her life. Not the right moment for chit-chat. Kit went over everything Iolanthe had said, mulled over it all, hoping to devise a strategy. All the stories agreed on certain points: an army of undead warriors, three heart-stopping banshees, and a death knight who could kill her with a single word. So far as Kit could see, developing a strategy for this encounter was rather like developing a strategy for committing suicide. The only question was how to die as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Kit had the bracelet Iolanthe had given her. Iolanthe had instructed her in its use, but Kit wanted to know all there was to know about this bracelet. Not that she didn’t trust Iolanthe. The witch had saved her life.

It was just that Kit did
not
trust Iolanthe. She took the bracelet to a mageware shop.

The owner—a Red Robe wizard, as most tended to be, since they had to deal in black, red, and white magic—latched onto the bracelet and was loathe to let it go. His eyes lit up at the sight of it; his mouth watered. He stroked and caressed it. His voice grew husky as he spoke of it. The bracelet was very rare, he told her, and very valuable. He knew of such bracelets only by reputation. He’d never seen one before. He mumbled magic over it, and the bracelet did prove to be magical. Though he wouldn’t swear by his god the bracelet would do what Iolanthe had promised—protect Kit from magic-induced fear and magical attacks—he thought it likely the bracelet would perform as required. Finally, holding the bracelet lovingly in his hand, he offered her the pick of any object in his shop in exchange. When she refused, he offered her his shop.

Kit eventually pried her bracelet from the man’s hands and left. The Red Robe followed her down the street, begging and pleading. She had to spur her horse into a gallop to get away from him. Kit had been rather careless with the bracelet, stuffing it into a sack and not thinking much about it. From then on, she treated it with more care, checking frequently to make certain she still had it in her possession. The bracelet did not make Kit feel easier in her mind about her upcoming encounter with the death knight, however. Quite the opposite. Iolanthe would not have given Kit a gift this precious unless certain Kit would need it.

That was very disheartening.

Kitiara decided she would do something she’d never done in her life—seek the help of a god. Queen Takhisis was the one responsible for sending her on this mission. Hearing of an oracle not far from the border of Nightlund, Kitiara made a detour to visit the old crone to request Her Dark Majesty’s aid.

The oracle lived in a cave, and if the stench counted for anything, she was extremely powerful. The smell of body waste, incense, and boiled cabbage was enough to gag a troll. Kit walked into the cave entrance and was ready to turn around and walk right back out when a beggarly youngster, so filthy it was impossible to say if it was a he or a she, seized hold of her and dragged her inside.

The crone had lank, ragged, yellow-white hair that straggled about her face. Her flesh hung flaccid off her bones. Her breasts beneath her worn garments sagged to her knees. Her eyes were blurred and unfocused. She sat cross-legged in front of a fire and appeared to be in some sort of stupor, for she mumbled, drooled, and rolled her head. The youngster held out a hand, demanding a donation of a steel piece if Kitiara wanted to ask a question of the Dark Queen’s oracle.

Kit was dubious, but also desperate. She handed over the steel piece. The youngster inspected it to make certain it was not counterfeit, then muttered, “It’s good, Marm,” and remained to watch the spectacle.

The crone roused herself long enough to toss a handful of powder onto the fire. The powder crackled and hissed; the flames changed color, burning green, blue, red, and white. Tendrils of black smoke coiled around the crone, who began to moan, rocking back and forth.

The smoke was noxious and made Kit’s eyes water. She could not catch her breath and she tried again to leave, but the youngster grabbed hold of her hand and ordered her to wait; the oracle was about to speak.

The crone sat up straight. She opened her eyes and they were suddenly focused and lucid. The mumbling voice was clear and strong, deep and cold and empty as death.

“‘I will pledge my loyalty and my army only to the Highlord who has the courage to spend the night with me alone in Dargaard Keep’.”

The crone collapsed back into herself, mumbling and mewling. Kitiara was annoyed. She’d spent good steel for this?

“I know about the death knight’s promise,” said Kit. “That’s why I’m going. What I need is for Her Dark Majesty to look out for me. I won’t be of any use to her if Soth slays me before I even have a chance to open my mouth. If Her Majesty would just promise me—”

The crone raised her head. She looked directly at Kitiara and said snappishly, in a querulous tone, “Don’t you know a test when you see one, you stupid chit?”

The crone sank back into her stupor, and Kitiara left as fast as she could.

A test, the oracle said. Lord Soth would be testing Kit. This might be comforting. It could mean the death knight would refrain from killing her the moment she set her foot in the door. On the other hand, it could also mean he would keep her alive just for her entertainment value. Perhaps he only killed people when he grew bored of watching them suffer.

Kit continued her journey north.

She knew she had crossed the border into Nightlund when she started seeing abandoned villages and the road on which she traveled could scarcely be termed a road anymore. Solamnia had always been known for its system of highways. Armies marched faster on roads that were in good condition. Merchants traveled farther and reached more cities. Good roads meant a strong economy. Even after the Cataclysm, when there was so much turmoil and upheaval, those in charge of the cities made highway upkeep a priority—everywhere but in Nightlund.

Many of the roads had been destroyed during the Cataclysm, sunk under water when the river flooded or shaken apart in the earthquakes. Those roads that had survived fell into disrepair, and in some parts they disappeared altogether as nature reclaimed the land. The roads Kit traveled now were overgrown with weeds, dusted with snow, and devoid of travelers. Kit went for days without seeing another living soul.

She had made good time up to this point. Now her progress was slowed. She had to ride miles out of her way to find a place to ford a river because the bridge had washed out. She had to fight her way through tall grass that came up to her horse’s flanks and was as tough as wire. Once, the road dumped her in a ravine, and another time led her straight into the side of a cliff. She would sometimes cover only a few miles in a single day, leaving herself and her horse exhausted. She also had to spend time hunting for food, for the only inns and farm houses she came across were long-since abandoned.

Kit had not used a bow and arrow since she was young, and she was a clumsy shot at best. Hunger sharpened her skills, however, and she managed to bring down the occasional deer. But then she had to butcher it and dress it, and that took more valuable time.

At this rate, she would be as old as the crone by the time she reached Dargaard Keep—if she reached it at all.

Not only did she have to deal with broken roads and impassable forests and near starvation, she had to keep constant vigilance against the outlaws who now made this part of Ansalon home. She had discarded the garb of a wealthy cleric, foreseeing that would make her a valuable target. She replaced it with the clothes she had been wearing when she escaped Neraka: her gambeson and some leather armor she had picked up along the way. She resembled a down-on-her-luck sellsword again, but even that wouldn’t save her. There were those in Nightlund who would kill her for her boots.

During the day, she rode with her hand constantly on the hilt of her sword. Once, an arrow struck her in the back. The arrow hit the armor and bounced off. She was ready to fight, but the coward who fired the arrow did not have nerve enough to confront her.

By night, she slept with one eye open, or tried to, though sometimes she would be so weary she’d sink into a deep slumber. Fortunately for Kit, the horse of Salah Kahn had been trained to keep its master safe from the assassination attempts that were a way of life in Khur. Kit was constantly jolted out of sleep by the horse’s whinny of alarm. Leaping to her feet, she had to grapple with a knife-wielding thug, or, drawing her sword, watch a shadowy shape slither off into the darkness.

Thus far, she had been lucky. She had been attacked by assailants acting alone. But the night or the day would come when a roving gang of thieves would fall upon her, and that would be the end.

“I can’t do it, Your Majesty,” Kit said one day as she was trudging through the snow, leading the horse by the reins, for the road was too rough for the beast to traverse without risking injury. “I am sorry to break my vow, but it will be broken anyway, for I will never live long enough to even see Dargaard Keep.”