The Reign Of Istar (18 page)

“What's going on, Captain?” one of the men shouted, his armor half-on, an axe in his hand.

The bearded captain looked down. All his men were up now, crowding around. “You,” said the
captain, pointing to a red-haired man. “Get down the hill and get the priest up here; we
could be having some trouble. Tell him there's a wizard loose. Take three men with you.
Don't - ow, damn it!” The captain clapped his hand over his eyes, rubbed them vigorously with his fingers, and other men around the camp nearest the fire did the
same. Sparks flew up from the bonfire's flames as a black, powdery rain began.

It was the start of the fireball.

The goblin realized his danger when the black dust came down and the men in the camp
swore. He knew he should get away, but he hesitated just a moment before escaping, because
he couldn't figure out where to go without being seen. That was all the time he had and it
was gone.

The fireball was an explosion of white and yellow light half as big as a city block. It
billowed out over the bonfire, filled the entire clearing, framed the flying bodies of men
at its base for an instant before it swallowed them whole.

A solid blinding wall of superheated flame and air reached for the goblin through the
black branches and leaves, incinerating the trees as it came. The flames found him and
burned the hair from his arms and face, set his rags on fire, and roasted every scrap of
skin that faced the inferno. In agony, the goblin instinctively flung up his hands to ward
it off. There was no time to be truly afraid. He had no time to react, except to move.

He turned and threw himself off the cliff. He fell through space, bathed in firelight, the
wind roaring for a moment in his ears, the distant sloping ground rushing up to meet him.

The ground slammed all of the air from his lungs when he hit. He rolled in a crazy tangle
of arms and legs down the slope until he struck a tree with his back. He couldn't breathe.
A million thorns and sticks had torn his burned skin. A flaming mass of leaves landed
around him. He forced himself to his knees without thinking at all. He fought for air and
felt a dozen sharp knives stab him through the lungs. It was the worst pain he had ever
known, worse than the bums and cuts. He got numbly to his feet, not daring to breathe
again, and staggered forward, heedless of everything, until he fell over a log. Something
struck his forehead like a hammer, and the world went out.

*****

For a minute, the goblin could not remember what was going on or why he was even here. All
he knew was a peculiar numbness. Strange images began to filter back to him, part of some awful dream
that ran around and around in a storm inside his head. He remembered who he was, but
nothing about where he was or what he was doing here. He lay back, feeling some of the
numbness slip away into a slowly building pain that covered his whole body. He dreamed
that he had bathed in lava and been beaten with clubs.

I am out in the night in a forest, he thought. There's a big fire on a hill above me. I
should get away from here, but I don't know where this is or why I'm here.

He started to roll over but didn't, wincing from the awful pain that started deep in his
chest. He slowly began to remember the kender, then the minotaur and elf. He even
remembered the sword, but he had no idea why he should care about it.

After a while, he remembered that, too.

He finally got to his knees, but stayed there, his bruised chest aching with every
wheezing breath he drew. The blast had been the elf's coal-dust fireball, the one he said
he'd worked on with the help of gnomes, who had provided the coal for the enchantment. The
goblin wondered if the kender could have survived the blast, being so far up in the sky.
The elf had warned the kender about staying aloft too long. The spell would fade and drop
the little guy from the clouds to his death. Maybe the kender wouldn't have to worry about
that possibility, if his curiosity had gotten the best of him and he'd tried to watch the
blast close up. The goblin found himself hoping the kender was still around somewhere.
After all, he told himself, the kender did all the work.

Then the goblin remembered the elf and the minotaur. The elf would be looking for the
sword right now, and he had the minotaur's help as well as his spells.

That's all right, the goblin thought suddenly. I'm going to kill that elf. I'm going to
kill that elf and the minotaur, too. I can do it; I've killed lots of men tonight. I'll
just kill everyone. I'm so strong, nothing can get me. I just need to get that sword, and
that's all I'll ever need. I have to do it now.

Carefully, using a tree trunk for support, the goblin got to his feet and began to stagger
back up the hill.

*****

Smoke drifted across the countryside in the night as flames leaped through the dry trees,
sending yellow sparks skyward by the thousands. The bottoms of the clouds glowed orange.

The goblin began climbing the hill, pulling himself up foot by agonizing foot. His burned,
aching hands clung to branches, bunched weeds, and stones. He climbed until he knew he had
been climbing for years without end. Somewhere along the way, he lost his magical ring.
Several times he felt delirious and babbled about things that seemed to make lots of sense
but never stayed long in his mind. He yelled and sang and grasped a last handful of grass,
pulled himself up on his stomach, and saw that he had made it. He was still singing
something, a tune he'd heard the thugs sing in East Dravinar, but the song faded away as
he coughed on the smoke and the stench of burned flesh. He rested for a moment, then
pulled himself up to look around.

It took a while, but eventually he realized that the fires on the hilltop were going out.
It took a few moments longer to realize that it was probably the doing of the elf wizard.
The goblin watched dumbly as a small fire in front of him died away into a blackened smear
of ash and smoke. Only the much-weakened bonfire still burned with any heat and light.

The goblin shivered as a violent chill passed through him. He knew it was from both fear
and the beating he'd taken, especially from the bums. He had to find the sword. He
couldn't go on much longer. He moved forward on his hands and knees, his body alive with
pain, looking for the supply pile.

As he did, he heard someone stumbling toward him through the scorched remains of the camp.
The goblin coughed and looked around.

A blackened apparition in guardsman armor held out its arms to the goblin as it
approached. Its face was burned beyond recognition, and its fingers were gone, leaving
only the black stumps of its hands. The figure walked stiffly toward the goblin. The man
was blind and unaware, trailing smoke from the remnants of his smol dering clothes.

The goblin shrieked in terror. He couldn't even think of fleeing or fighting; All he knew
was that it was a dead man a dead man he had helped kill, and it wanted him. He knew all the stories about dead men.
He didn't want to know any more.

The burned apparition stumbled over a body on the ground before it collapsed with a
muffled cry. For a moment it tried to rise, then it fell flat and was still at last.

The smell hit him then, and the goblin retched, but he forced himself to look away from
the dead man and began crawling again. He knew he'd find worse as he got closer to the
blast, but it didn't matter. He had to find the sword.

A jumble of blackened wood appeared in the dying firelight, only thirty feet away. With a
burst of energy he didn't think he could find, the goblin gave out a gasping cry, then
hurried forward on hands and knees, heedless of what he had to crawl over or through to
get there.

Restless fingers reached for the smoldering boxes. He saw that they really had been camp
supplies, but it was still possible that the sword was among them. He was so close now, so
close to the only power he would ever know, that he couldn't stop looking. He got to his
knees and tried to examine the boxes in the dimming firelight.

And, almost at once, he saw one that stood out from the rest. It was a weapons case, once
covered with fine elven carvings in the wood but now half-charred. It was just a little
bigger than a sword would be. He snatched at it with an agonized, inarticulate cry,
dragging the case to him as he fumbled for latches or locks. His fingers found one,
snapped it open, and emptied it out.

But it was already empty. He blinked. It was already empty. He checked the inside of the
box again. It was still empty.

Empty. Empty. Someone moved through the camp behind him. The goblin turned around, shivering but feeling no pain at all from his wounds.

“Oh, gods!” cried the elf's muffled voice. His face was white with shock, and he held a
cloth to his nose and mouth with his left hand to ward against the awful stench in the
air. “You're hurt! Don't move!”

The goblin dully dropped his gaze to the elf's right hand, which held a gleaming, jewel-encrusted long sword, point down, at his side.

The elf sheathed his sword in a scabbard that the goblin did not recognize.

“I found the Sword of Change with one of the guards by the horses,” the elf said hastily,
coming up to kneel and check the goblin's injuries. “The man must have won it in a dice
game or something. The minotaur's just down the slope. The slaves ran off into the hills.
Let's get you to a creek and get you washed off. If that kender's around anywhere, we'll
get him to bandage you up. Damn, you're really hurt. How close were you to the fireball?
Couldn't you get away from it?”

The goblin's shoulders slumped, and he seemed to melt into himself. The elf reached out
and gently took the goblin by one arm, trying to help him up. The goblin flinched at the
painful touch, but didn't get up. He sat on the ground and stared at the elf's feet
without a trace of expression.

“Come on,” said the elf. “We have what we came for, and now we must look after your
wounds.” He reached down again with both hands. The goblin looked up stupidly at the elf's
face. Then he looked down and saw the sword.

“Come on,” the elf urged.

The goblin stirred, reaching up to the elf with both hands as he sat back on the balls of
his feet. He took a sudden deep breath and lunged forward through the elf's arms. As he
hurtled past the elf's side, he snatched at the sword hilt with both hands. The sword
snagged, then pulled free of its sheath.

He had the sword. HE HAD THE SWORD! “Gods, no!” shouted the elf, starting for him. The
goblin stumbled backward, nearly falling before he caught himself. The elf almost grabbed him, but the blade came up. The elf dodged and
jumped back, almost a moment too late.

“Please!” pleaded the elf. “You're crazy! You don't have any idea of what you're holding!”

The goblin stared for a moment, then laughed - a wild, mad, painful laugh that rang in the
night across the hilltop. His eyes were glistening balls of blackness in his burned,
filthy face, his mouth open to the black sky. His chest shook as if each breath was
killing him.

“Give me the sword!” the elf shouted. “Give it to me!”

The goblin still laughed and shook his head. He felt giddy, as if his soul were leaving
his body. He seemed to hurt all over. “It my sword,” he managed to say, though the pain in
his lungs stabbed him with every word. “It my sword! My sword!”

“You'll ruin everything, you fool!” the elf yelled. “It's a wish sword! We can fight Istar
with it! We can save ourselves and our people from Istar if we use it right! We have the
chance now! Give me the sword!”

The goblin shook his head slowly. He kept the sword point facing the elf, ready to thrust
in case the elf did something stupid like charge. But the goblin was feeling very tired
now. It seemed like a year since he'd slept last. The sword was very heavy, and his chest
was starting to hurt more than usual. He tried to swallow, but it hurt too much.

The elf held his pose, his arms reaching out to the goblin from a crouched stance. Then he
slowly let his arms drop, and he stood up. “Fine,” said the elf in a different, flat
voice. “I should have known better. I should have known. This is the way you want it, so”
- the elf raised his hands into the air - “I have no choice.”

The elf's hands began to glow.

The goblin's mouth fell open. He raised his sword - and he couldn't remember his wish.

“ALIAKIADAM VITHOFO MILGREYA!” shouted the elf. “SOMALITARAK CIONDIAMAL FREETRA - ”

A huge, dark shape arose from the brush behind the elf, its massive brown bulk and long
horns silhouetted against the light of the dying fire. The goblin saw the minotaur and
fell back with a wild cry. He landed on his backside and knocked the wind out of his
lungs. He didn't release the sword, simply held it before him.

The minotaur swung its arms in a huge, rapid arc. The black iron chain whipped around,
struck the elf in the back, smacking him like a giant's hammer. The elf was thrown forward
into the air, crashing in a heap on the ground. The magic on his hands flared up - and
died out.

The elf writhed on the ground, gasping for air. He managed to roll onto his chest and
pushed himself up to face the minotaur. The elf's chest heaved, and his face twisted in
grotesque pain. The goblin could see in the firelight that the back of the elf's shirt was
stained dark and wet where the thick chain had struck him. Not daring to move or think, the goblin stared
at the minotaur, which was standing upright now, facing the elf. From the minotaur's large
hands dangled the long black chain, readied for another strike.

The goblin tried to remember his wish, but it wouldn't come to him. He couldn't think of
it at all.

“Well,” said the minotaur in the trade tongue, as it looked at the elf, “aren't you going
to throw a spell at me?”

The elf wheezed, seeming to find it hard to breathe. The goblin stared at the huge brown
monster and forgot about breathing entirely.