Chosen of the Gods

Chapter Seven

The orb caught the candlelight, gleaming as she opened the box’s golden lid. There was something else to it, though-a faint, blue-white shimmer that owed nothing to the tapers burning within the tent. Ilista held her breath, watching the ghost-light dance. like most Istarans, she found sorcery strange and a little frightening-even the magic of the elves, whose wizards wore the White Robes as a rule. Her apprehension had been enough, so far, to keep her from using the orb. Now, though, was different.

She looked at the scroll, resting in her lap, and the simple words on it. The Knights had searched and searched but found no trace of whoever had left the message. She practically had to beg Sir Gareth not to stand guard within her tent, and she knew he was just outside, even now, in case of trouble. She’d read the scroll fifty times, its words chilling and exciting her all at once. Loralon had to know, as soon as possible, so she reached into the box and lifted out the flickering orb.

It was lighter than it looked-perhaps hollow-and cold as snowmelt. The bluish light swelled as she cupped it in her hand, swallowing the candles’ dim glow and making her shadow huge upon the tent’s wall. She caught her breath, glancing toward the flap, but Sir Gareth didn’t burst through as she feared.

The Knights didn’t see the witchlight, which was good. Istarans mistrusted magic, hut the men of Solamnia loathed it. Dista swallowed, gazing into the orb. Its shimmer caught her gaze and held it She muttered a quick prayer, asking Paladine’s forgiveness for meddling in sorcerous ways, then drew a breath.

“Loralon,” she whispered.

For a time, nothing happened, and she began to wonder if she’d done it wrong, and the spell hadn’t worked. As she was looking up, though, the magic took hold, so quickly she nearly dropped the orb. The crystal warmed in her grasp, and the light began to spin and swirl, making a sound like a mad flautist’s song. She peered into its depths when she recovered, trying to make out shapes within the boiling glow-and slowly they emerged, resolving into a blurred image, like a fresco painted in bad plaster, then sharpening until it became Loralon’s bearded face. It was past midwatch now, morning closer than sunset, but the Emissary looked neither tired nor disheveled. Instead he smiled at her, a little sadly. Her skin rose into bumps at the sight of his disembodied visage, resting in her hand. She would have to say a long cleansing prayer, when this was done.

“First Daughter,” Loralon said. “I have been hoping you would contact me. I have grave tidings.”

He told her about Symeon’s illness, and though the King-priest had seldom been warm toward her, she found herself weeping all the same. The Kingpriest still could not speak, and his right arm and leg remained paralyzed. The people of the Lordcity, on hearing of his condition, had gathered in great numbers outside the Temple to pray for him, but no one in the church believed he would survive.

As for Kurnos, he was proving more assertive. Already he talked of sending the army into Taol after all, but Loralon had stayed him thus far, still counseling caution. The bandits had not struck in the highlands in some time, and the chance that they had stopped altogether was enough to curb the First Son. Loralon seemed to think it a hopeful sign that Kurnos listened to reason, but Ilista was less sure. The First Son’s temper was short, and she feared the slightest flare-up would give him the excuse to wage war on the Taoli.

In her mind, she saw an army advancing through craggy hills, and she shivered. Her dream on the night Paladine had appeared to her was coming true. She hoped she could complete her quest before the Scatas marched.

“You did not use the orb because of His Holiness, though,” Loralon said, his eyes glittering. “What has happened? Have you found the one you seek at last?”

Her free hand strayed to her medallion. “Not exactly. I think he may have found me.”

She told him of the mysterious scroll, reading its message to him. His eyes widened.

“Whispering limbs and leaves,” he said when she was done, surprising her. She had never heard him swear before. “The message truly says Lighibringer? Have you mentioned the prophecy to anyone else?”

She shook her head. “Have you?”

“Not even the Kingpriest.” He stroked his beard, the shock smoothing out of his face like ripples from a still pond. “What of the map?”

She held it up, tracing along its lines with her finger. “These are the mountains near here,” she said. “Sir Gareth has traveled to Xak Tsaroth before, and he knows the roads. There is an old monastery this way-it belonged to monks of Majere once, he says, but it’s been abandoned for years.”

“Not any more, evidently.” A smile ghosted Loralon’s lips. “Efisa, the choice is yours, but I think you should follow the map.”

Ilista nodded. It would mean turning from her planned path, true, but what good had that path done her so far? Who was to say that it led to anything but more failure? Looking again at the scroll, she could barely keep her hopes from spilling over. I am the Lightbringer-how could it be anything else?

She and Loralon spoke a while longer, of smaller matters, then bade each other farewell. Within the orb, the elf spoke a word, and his image flickered, then faded back into the maelstrom of the orb’s light. That dimmed as well, returning to the ghostly glimmer she’d first observed when she picked up the crystal. The orb turned cold again, and she signed the triangle over herself to ward off ill fortune as she put it away.

She lay awake in her bed after, staring at the pavilion’s silken roof. It was some time before she slept.

The day dawned gray, the mountains shrouded by fog, and a light drizzle fell as Ilista and the Knights rode south, away from Xak Khalan. The peaks loomed on either side of the road, jagged and steep, more barren with every mile. Their snowy summits disappeared into the cloudrack. Ashes and firs clung to the rocks, and creeping brambles Sir Gareth called Hangman’s Snare. Here and there, stones littered the path from where they had broken free of the slopes above, and once they even heard the crack and rumble of a not very distant slide, echoing amongst the crags.

Well after midday the road forked, a smaller path breaking off and running deeper into the wilds. An obelisk of white stone leaned among the bushes, overgrown with ivy. At its crown was a copper spider, now green with age-the holy symbol of Majere, the god of thought and wisdom. Ilista paused before the monolith to study the strange map, then bit her lip, looking from one fork to the other. In the end, though, she had little choice. They could rest the horses and themselves at the monastery and continue in the morning. So they turned from the main road to follow the spider. She prayed it wasn’t leading her to a web.

The going from there soon grew harder, the path rougher and steeper, cracked and littered with scree. Bracken covered it over in places, so they had to dismount and lead their horses through. Cave mouths yawned in the slopes above, like the eyes of skulls. The Knights eyed these warily, their hands on their swords. Kharolis was a wild country, and Gareth knew many tales of terrible creatures that lurked in the mountains, preying on goats and lizards… and now and then unwary travelers. Goblins, in particular, were rife in some places. Ilista had never seen a goblin outside a bestiary, but she still shuddered as she imagined the squat, twisted creatures shrieking down upon them from the caverns above.

Drizzle gave way to downpour. The horses grew skittish, tossing their heads and whinnying, and the Knights did too, several drawing their swords, Ilista hunched low in her saddle, her sodden robes weighing her down. The clouds sank lower still, hungrily devouring the mountains. They changed color, too, first darkening to near-black then shifting to a sickly green. The wind grew strange-utterly still one moment, then hammering the next-and the gold of lightning flashed in the distance. Thunder muttered in reply.

Gareth’s blade wasn’t out, but his hand strayed to its hilt as he rode up alongside Ilista. Water streamed off his winged helmet as he lifted its visor, and he shouted for her to hear him above the wind.

“The storm will be on us soon, Eflsa! Have to find shelter before it breaks!”

Ilista frowned, glancing up at the anvil-shaped clouds, towering above the mountains like a great wave. The way they boiled and flashed, they almost seemed alive. Her gaze dropped again, to the path ahead. She wanted to go on, yearned to reach the monastery. It was only a few more leagues-surely they could cover that ground before things grew too hard.

Lightning flared close by, making her jump as it struck a wooded outcropping only leagues ahead. Trees became torches, and the stone burst, sending rubble and burning wood pouring down the hill. The thunderclap that followed, a heartbeat later, made the ground tremble beneath them, and set Ilista’s ears ringing. The horses reared and snorted, the Knights struggling to keep them calm.

Hopes of further progress dashed, she nodded to Gareth. “Go.”

A few barked orders later, the party had reined in, and all but two of the Knights were off their horses, clambering up the slopes toward the caves. They climbed around boulders and scrabbled across gravel, grabbing tree trunks to steady themselves as they went. Soon they disappeared, swallowed by the rain and gloom.

A small mace hung from Ilista’s saddle. She hadn’t wanted to carry it, being untrained in arms, but Sir Gareth insisted. Now she thanked him silently as she reached down and pulled the weapon free. She gripped it tightly, heart hammering. Though Gareth was near-his sword finally unsheathed-and the two Knights who held the horses hovered close by as well, she felt horribly helpless beneath the looming thunderheads.

The wind howled. The rain became icy knives. Thunder’s growl rose into a bellow. The Knights did not return.

Worried, Gareth guided his horse to the path’s edge and called out, but the storm smothered his words. The horses were near mad with fear, and the Knights fought to keep them from bolting. Ilista twisted her own reins, repeating a warding prayer over and over as she stared at the thunder-heads. “Palado, me ofurbud op to me bulfant bronint…”

Paladine, be my shield against those who would do me ill…

Out of nowhere, something appeared in the sky, streaking down out of the seething clouds. Dista gaped as she watched it plummet and saw it glint as lightning flashed nearby. Armor, she thought, but couldn’t find her voice. A heartbeat later, it struck the rocks with a horrible crash and tumbled down the slope to stop on the path.

Ilista’s horse bawled, nearly throwing her. By the time she got it under control again, Gareth was off his steed and sprinting toward the tangled ruin on the ground. Feeling ill, she coaxed her mount forward as the Knight knelt down on the ground, raising his visor to see. He looked up as she came near, his face ashen, and raised a hand to warn her off. It was too late, though-she could already see.

It was Sir Laonis-or had been, once. Now she recognized the young Knight only by the etchings in his armor. The rest was a ruin, battered and ravaged, a few jagged slashes even tearing through his breastplate. His left arm was gone, and the rainwater pooled around him was pink with blood, darkening as she watched.

She swayed in her saddle, wanting to vomit, and Gareth was beside her in an instant, steadying her with a firm hand. When the tide of nausea ebbed, she fought for her voice. “What-what did that to him?”

Gareth shook his head.

“There!” cried one of the other Knights. He stabbed a finger skyward.

They turned to look, squinting against the slashing rain. At first, Ilista saw nothing amid the darkness, but then a flash lit the sky and there was something there, silhouetted against the coruscating clouds: a huge, serpentine shape thirty feet long from its head to the tip of its tail. It flew on broad, leathery wings, its body twisting as it banked high above them. Thick, stone-grey scales covered the rest, pale as death on its underbelly. Long, wickedly curving horns swept back from its head, and its narrow eyes gleamed green. Fangs the length of a man’s hand filled its snarling mouth, and its dangling legs sported talons like scythe blades. At the end of its tail was a wicked, bony barb. Its mouth stretched wide, and a shriek like tearing metal rose above the storm’s din-then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, wheeling and disappearing back into the clouds.

“Palado Calib,” Ilista croaked. “Was that a dragon?”

Gareth shook his head. “No, Your Grace-the dragons are gone from the world, as the legends say. That was a wyvern.”

Ilista had heard tales of wyverns. They were kin to the long-vanished dragons, but were smaller and much more stupid, though every bit as cruel as the wyrms that had once filled Krynn’s skies. They possessed no fiery breath, nor did they use magic as true dragons did, but they were still deadly. The barb on the creature’s tail was a stinger filled with venom that could kill in moments. They fed on anything they could find-Gareth’s goats and lizards leaped to Ilista’s mind-and while they were usually too vicious to hunt in packs, they sometimes gathered in swarms.

The Knights cried out again, and sure enough, a second wyvern swooped out of the clouds. This one’s scales glistened black, but other than that it resembled its brother in every way. There was something odd about it, though, Ilista noticed- something in the way it moved. It struggled rather than soared, moving slowly, jerkily.

“Huma’s silver arm,” Sir Gareth swore. “It’s carrying something.”

Lightning blazed, and they saw it: another young Knight clasped in its claws, arms and legs dangling. As they looked on, the monster’s tail shot down, driving its stinger into the man’s body. Then it pulled up, opening its talons and letting the remains plunge earthward like a giantling’s discarded toy. The body smacked into a cliff face, then rolled down in a tumult of stones and broken bones until it stopped, tangled in a mass of Hangman’s Snare.

High above, the black wyvern screeched, tucked in its wings, and dove.

Ilista watched in sickened fascination as it plunged straight toward her, its mouth a forest of fangs, its eyes blazing orange. Her mace fell, unnoticed, from her grasp. Beside her Gareth raised his sword high, shouting and slamming his visor shut. He brought the flat of his blade down hard on her horse’s rump.

The mare leaped forward at once, plunging down the path with Ilista clinging to the reins. Glancing back, she saw Gareth dashing toward his stallion, sword flashing in his hand. The wyvern was too fast, though, and he had to throw himself on the ground, rolling over and over as its talons clutched at the air, missing him. Instead, it snatched up his steed and lifted it off the ground, beating its wings furiously as it fought to rise.

The horses were all wailing with terror, but Gareth’s screamed loudest of all, struggling mightily as the black-scaled monster bore it away. Its stinger drove into the horse’s flesh once, twice, three times, then the animal gave one last thrash and sagged, twitching. Gareth struggled to his feet, stunned and glaring as the wyvern let his steed drop, then he raced to the other horses and leaped astride one. Above, the wyvern banked and disappeared back into the storm as Ilista reined in again.

There was shouting now from the hillside. Several men were scrambling down the slope-the Knights, or what remained of them, five now instead often. Sir Jurabin limped behind the rest, his right leg ripped bloody, scowling against the pain as he stumbled and nearly fell.

Another cry sounded from above, and Jurabin turned toward a third wyvern-this one the color of rust-as it bore down on him. A lesser man would have fled from such a sight, but Jurabin was a Solamnic Knight and trained to meet an honorable death. Bracing himself, he brandished his blade and faced down the beast. Ilista, Gareth, and his fellows could only watch as the monster swooped in.

It hit him hard, claws furrowing his armor, spattering blood across the stones. Somehow, though, the brave Knight didn’t drop his sword, even as it lifted him off his feet; instead he stabbed wildly, the beast’s scales turning away his blade once… twice…

The third mad thrust drove home, as Jurabin buried his blade into the flesh beneath its wing. The wyvern’s triumphant cry became a shriek of pain, and it wavered, sinking as the Knight managed to twist the sword, working it deeper. Finally, it stung him and let him go-and his sword snapped, leaving two feet of steel lodged in its flesh.

Jurabin was dead before he hit the ground. The wyvern, however, had a moment of struggle before it plummeted as well, crunching down atop a broad, flat boulder. The surviving Knights cheered at its death, but Sir Gareth shouted them down, waving his sword at the sky. Dista looked up, and her mouth went dry. Five more wyverns circled overhead.

“Ride!” Gareth roared. “Ride, all of you!”

Ilista was already moving, digging her heels into her horse’s flanks. It hurled itself down the pass, terrified by the storm and the smell of blood, leaping recklessly over stones and bracken alike. She heard the rumble of hoofs behind her as the Knights charged after. She pulled on her reins to let them catch up, but the panicking mare wouldn’t slow. All she could do was hold on and pray as the horse flew down the trail.

She heard a wyvern shriek above her and looked up to see one of them bank and begin its dive, streaking straight toward her. It was the same gray beast she’d first spotted, its eyes blazing and jaws agape. Its talons and stinger glistened red. Gareth was bellowing in Solamnic somewhere behind her, but the wyvern paid no notice, arrowing toward her-the one unarmored morsel in the lot. She threw herself forward, flattening herself against the mare’s neck and laughing madly. She’d been afraid of goblins!

Her breath blasted from her lungs when the beast struck, and for an instant there was no sound but a howling roar, no sight but red mist, no taste but blood in her mouth, no feeling at all. Then she came back to herself, and the pain came with it, her shoulder bathed in liquid fire where the wyvern’s claws grazed her, plunging through skin, sinew, and bone alike. The other talon missed her flesh altogether, snagging her robes instead and clutching her. She felt herself lifted in the air. She stared at the ground as it fell away beneath her, her stomach lurching. There was Gareth, gazing up at her in horror, there were his Knights, mouths agape. She tried to call out to them, but it hurt too much to draw breath.

The wyvern wheeled, and her companions disappeared from view. She rose higher and higher, the wyvern soaring toward the raging stormclouds, and Ilista closed her eyes, waiting for the stinger to strike, the burning poison in her veins. Please, she prayed silently, let death be quick.

The stinger didn’t strike. Instead, there was a deafening boom, and the wyvern lurched sideways, jarring her and sending fresh spikes of pain through her body.

The stink of roasting flesh flooded her nostrils, and she opened her tearing eyes. The wyvern’s right wing was on fire, the membrane curling like burning paper. It screeched in agony, its tail whipping about, as it began to whirl and flutter.

Merciful Paladine, she thought as the ground started rushing toward her. Lightning struck it!

That was when she saw him, standing on a ledge beneath her: a lone figure in a gray cassock, his hood pulled low against the wind. He was too far away, the storm too fierce, the pain too great, to make out any more details. She watched as he raised his arms, head thrown back, shouting at the storm. Thunder roared again, making her skull buzz, and a blinding lightning bolt flashed down, ripping through the wyvern’s other wing. Shrieking even louder, it dropped like a meteor and let her go.

All at once, Ilista was tumbling free, spinning as she fell, now looking at the storm-wracked sky, now the wyvern, all aflame, now the ground rising toward her with sickening speed.

Suddenly, it stopped-or rather she stopped, her shivering body slowing, then halting in midair as the blazing wyvern slammed into the ground below. She gasped, astounded, as she hovered there, then looked down and saw the man in gray again, the one who had summoned the lightning to kill the beast. He was looking at her now, hands outstretched, and she knew he was the one holding her aloft. He moved his arms, and she moved toward him, floating through the air like a leaf on a stream… then he lowered her, slowly, onto the rocky ledge beside him.

Firm stone pressed up against her, and she lay wheezing, trembling with pain as she stared up at him. She tried to make out his face, but shadow hid his features.

“Welcome, Efisa,” he said.

The world went black.