The Magic Of Krynn (23 page)

An old man, his skin the color of parchment, his hands gnarled claws, crawling with thick,
twisted veins. Age? Was that the thing the mage had thought to stave off with the life
spirit of young Daryn? Had he been pirating the youth of others to keep himself alive?
Disgust, empty even of pity, filled Tanis until his stomach knotted.

Wearily he turned, looking for Flint. He found the dwarf in the darkest comer of the
chamber, kneeling beside a small, richly clothed bed. In that bed, covered with thick
robes and blankets, lay a slim, frail boy.

For one long moment Tanis thought that the boy was dead. His breathing, so slight that it
might have been the play of shadows

across his chest, made no sound. “Flint?” The old dwarf shook his head. “He lives, but
only barely.” The boy sighed, then opened his eyes, and Tanis felt an echoing

throb of the pain that he saw there. It seemed an ancient pain, long suffered and too long
denied. Then, for a moment, the eyes filled with pleading, darkened with fear.

“Father?” “No,” Tanis said, dropping to his knees beside the bed. “Father, no more.” Tanis
looked to Flint, who shook his head. The boy was so weak

he could barely see, so weary he could not know that Tanis was not the father he spoke to.
Aching pity filled Tanis then, and he took the boy's hand in his own.

“Be still now,” he whispered.

But the boy tried weakly to lift his hand. “No. No more. Father. Please, I cannot. No
more.”

“Hush, now, lad. Rest.”

“Please, Father. I would-I would stay if I could. Please, Father. No more. I-want no more
of these stolen lives.”

Even as he heard Flint's shuddering gasp, Tanis knew why the mage had fought so bitterly
for Daryn's life. It was for the boy! The boy might have been but twelve or thirteen, but
his eyes spoke of many more years than that. And those years, Tanis realized sud- denly,
had all been winters.

“Father? Let me go. I am so weary ... let me go. Father?”

“Tanis, give him what he wants.” Flint sat heavily down on the cold stone floor, his back
against the boy's bed. It was as though, Tanis thought, the old dwarf could not look at
the boy any longer.

And, in truth, he would have turned away, too. But he could not, though he thought he
could drown in the need he saw in the boy's eyes.

“He wants death, Flint.”

The boy shivered and stirred again, groping for Tanis's hand. The quiet rustle of his
bedclothes was like the sound of Death's soft-footed approach.

“Tanis, help him,” Flint whispered. “He thinks you are his father.”

Tanis gathered the boy gently in his arms and held him carefully. He wanted to hold the
thin spark of life within the boy, as though his pity alone would keep it burning. Across
the room he could see Riana, weeping in Karel's arms, one hand stroking her brother's
face. Against his neck he could feel the faint breath of the dying

boy, warm yet with the life that faded with each moment. He doesn't want death, Tanis
realized then, but only permission.

“Yes.” Tanis whispered the word the boy wanted to hear, the blessing the mage never gave.
Weakly, the boy looked up, searching, and then smiled.

“I love you. Father.”

“I know it,” Tanis breathed, choking on the words. “But go, now, and go with my love.” For
one moment he would have taken back his words. Then the boy sighed, a small shudder like
the fluttering of a moth's wings. Tanis's arms tightened around the frail body, empty now
of life, and he bowed his head.

After a long while, he heard Flint stir beside him. The half-elf did not resist when his
friend lifted the boy from his arms and set him gently back on the bed.

“Are you all right, lad?” Tanis nodded. “What are you thinking about?” "That all these
people were moved by love to do what they did.

Riana and her brother, Karel, and even the mage and his son. But look how bitter the
harvests were."

“Aye,” Flint said, reaching down to help him to his feet. “Some fruits are bitter.”

Tanis touched the peaceful face of the boy on the bed, thinking that it might only have
been sleep that smoothed away the sharp lines of pain and not death. “And some are never
harvested at all.”

Flint was silent for a long moment. Then he smiled, as though to himself. He took Tanis's
arm and turned him gently away from the boy's bed. “Bitter, some, and un-harvested,
others. A harvest depends on the soil in which the seed is planted, lad, and the care it
is given.” He nodded to Riana, quiet now in Karel's arms. “Don't you think that theirs
could yet be sweet?”

Finding the Faith Mary Kirchoff

The heat of the camp's communal peat fire warmed my old hands, numb from a hard days work.
I, Raggart Knug, true cleric of the Ice Folk, had just completed the long, cold task of
forging another frostreaver. Sighing with contentment, I munched on raw fresh fish,
wiggling my toes a little closer to the flames.

As the sun dipped below Icemountain Bay, others of the camp came to warm themselves as
well.

“Tell us again about the time of the strangers!” Men-dor pleaded, his eyes shining with
excitement.

Laina, a pretty girl with hair the color of melted walrus blubber, joined in. “Yes, tell
us how the beautiful elf woman and her companions charmed an ice bear and fought the
wicked Highlord with-”

“Wait a moment! Who's telling this story?” I interrupted her with a chuckle.

Tired though I was, I could not resist the chance to tell my favorite story, about the
time I became a true cleric. Wiping greasy hands on the skins of my leggings, I leaned
forward to begin the tale, moving away from this time to another, just yesterday it
seemed, when . . .

Nine strangers came from the north, from Tarsis they said. The guards noticed them some
distance from the camp, their colorful robes and thin animal skins making them stand out
like spring flowers against the whiteness of the glacier.

I did not wish to join those sent to meet the intruders. With the talk of raiding bands of
minotaurs, I was forging the Ice Folk's favored weapon, the fros-treavers, as quickly as
possible. Even so, the making of each one still took many, many days. I was alone in my
work since, as cleric of the Ice Folk, I am the only one on Krynn with the knowledge,
passed down through my family, of how to forge these remarkable battle-axes from solid
chunks of incredibly dense ice. I hoped to complete the one I was working on before the
sun left the sky, so I kept my face down when our leader came searching for men to go
confront the strangers. It didn't work. For reasons of his own, the Great Harald ordered
me to join the party.

Grumbling, I snatched up my staff and pack of curatives before heading for the harbor.
Almost absent-mindedly, I poked the frostreaver I was working on into the pack. I have no
idea why I did that, since I was not strong enough to use it. I had seen sixty winters,
and my muscles just weren't what they used to be. Besides, my job would be to moderate
with the strangers, not fight them. Although I was once the most knowledgeable guide among
the Ice Folk, I saw less and less of the world beyond the camp as the years went by.

My old bones creaked belligerently as I climbed the ladder over the wall of hard-packed
snow and made my way to the boats in the harbor. Soon, our lone iceboat, sail extended
like a billowing cloud, skittered across the frozen wasteland, carrying twelve Ice Folk
toward the dot of color that marked the strangers.

“There are nine,” called Wilmar, Harald's lookout, perched on the port bow.

“And a polar bear, a good omen!” Harald exclaimed. “Trim the sail!” Admired for their
strength and endurance, polar bears have long been revered by Ice Folk.

The iceboat swept in a wide, graceful arc, stopping about one hundred feet from the group
of travelers. With a wave of his hand, Harald ordered us to advance on the strangers.

Harald, his massive form swaying, stepped ahead of us some twenty feet. “I am Harald
Haakan, chieftain of the Ice Folk, the people whose land you trespass. Return from
wherever you came and we will not harm you.”

“Harm us?” a young, heavily armored man scowled. His moustache bristled with disdain.
“Derek Crownguard, Knight of the Crown, is ordered by no one!”

I watched as irritation swelled Harald's seven-foot frame to full size and weight. In a
moment he would order us to attack.

Suddenly, a young, slender elven maiden twisted her way past the knight to stand before
the strangers. I must confess, my breath caught in my throat at the loveliness of the
woman. Her skin was clean and creamy, not like the soot-stained complexions of the women
of the camp. She looked as fragile as an icicle, yet her eyes held the strength of its
cousin, the frostreaver.

“I am Laurana, princess of the Qualinesti elves,” she began, her voice light, musical,
enchanting. She introduced the rest of the party, though I was so entranced by the sound
of her voice that I was only half aware of their names. But I knew Harald might ask my
counsel, so I forced myself to listen to her words.

There was another elf among them, a quiet, handsome young man Laurana introduced as her
brother. He said little, but his eyes flashed with love every time he looked at his sister.

There were three other men dressed like Derek, ob- viously knights as well, though there
the similarity ended. The one named Aran, tall and red-haired, seemed easygoing and
affable, though it was only an impression- there was nothing to laugh about in our
encounter. Another, a quiet one named Brian, exuded a subtle strength.

The fourth knight was more interesting than the rest, mainly because he was not so easy to
read. Laurana called him Sturm. There was something unsettled and mysterious about the
knight with the double moustache. He stood tall and proud, and honesty shone from his
eyes. But

surrounded by people, he seemed oddly alone. “We mean you no harm,” Laurana continued. "We
are

traveling from Tarsis to Icewall Castle on a mission vital to the safety of Krynn."

Harald's chest stopped heaving with anger, but he remained cautious. “You did not bring
the bear from Tarsis,” he growled.

The maiden paled at his accusatory tone. “No, he was being tortured by minotaurs, so we
freed him,” she explained hastily. “We released him, but-”

“He's fallen in love with Laurana!” a small, childlike creature with a long tassle of hair
cried, leaping forward with delight.

Completely undaunted by Harald, the creature started forward, small hand extended. “How do
you do? My name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot and . . .”

“Hush up, you doorknob,” a stocky dwarf growled, yanking the excited kender back by the
arm, “or I'll feed you to a minotaur myself!”

Laurana smiled embarrassedly and glanced at the massive white bear. “He does seem rather
fond of me.”

Like Harald, I found the presence of the ice bear in- triguing. I knew the bear was young
from its awkward, clumsy gait. I'd seen many of these lumbering creatures on the glacier,
but never had I seen one willingly serve any master, human or otherwise. An iron collar
strained at the bear's thick neck and deep red welts marred its white fur, witness to the
elf woman's story of the minotaur's tortures.

But Harald's interest turned to the talk of minotaurs. “How many bull-creatures were
there? Did you kill them?”

I could see the elf woman trying to gauge Harald's reaction. Perhaps the Ice Folk were
friendly with minotaurs. “There were seven-and yes”-she gambled, watching him closely-“we
killed them all. We've seen no others since.”

Though Harald's wide face spread into a grin, I could see that he did not trust these
strangers yet. “Bull-men have long plagued us. We owe you a great debt. Come to our camp
and rest. We will feed and clothe you properly before you continue across the glacier.”

This was not just mere politeness. I knew that Harald wanted to question the strangers
further and he felt more comfortable back on his own ground. And, if he did not like their
answers . . . they would never leave our village alive.

The sour-faced dwarf stepped forward and hitched up his gear. “Well, I certainly could use
some warm food and clothing,” he grumbled. “This wild-goose chase the kender has us on for
some silly dragon orb we know nothing about is enough to freeze a man's bones!”

The knight, Derek, could hold himself in check no longer. “We can't waste time in revelry!
Besides, how do we know we can trust these barbarians? I say we leave immediately!”
Reaching out, Derek grabbed hold of Laurana, intending perhaps to emphasize his point by
forcing her to look him in the eyes.

It didn't work.

The huge white bear had been standing calmly next to Laurana. When Derek caught hold of
the elf maid, the bear roared in anger and suddenly stood up on its hind legs. Its massive
frame stretched to a height that dwarfed even Harald, and it swayed menacingly over the
knight, snarling and growling as if daring him to move again. All color drained from
Derek's face; he hastily dropped the maiden's arm. The Ice Folk around me fell back
slightly, knowing the bear's sharp, protruding claws had the power to rip out Derek's
throat in a second. The frigid air fairly crackled with tension, broken only by Derek's
ragged breathing.

“D-d-down, bear,” the elf maiden finally managed to stammer. But the creature remained
suspended over Derek. Realizing that she alone had the power to persuade it, Laurana
bravely reached up a slender hand to pat the beast reassuringly. “Down!” she com- manded
more firmly. The bear hesitated for a moment, then, reluctantly, it dropped back to all
fours, eyeing Derek and giving one last snarl. Though obviously relieved that the bear no
longer threatened him, Derek's face burned red with humiliation.

So THAT'S why this slender young female is a leader of men, I thought to myself. The bear
has chosen her. I saw Harald take note of this, too.