Dark Heart

Chapter 1

Kitiara Uth Matar stood in the shade of a lone oak on a small rise that overlooked a shallow valley. It was barely dawn, and mist clung to tall grasses in the meadow that spread before her. She was a long day's journey away from the familiar vallenwoods of Solace, and this was her first chance to get a look at the rolling countryside that stretched far to the west of that comfortable village.

Darkness had fallen by the time they had reached camp the night before, and no welcoming fires had greeted them. The soldiers did not want to risk revealing their position.

Riding into camp, Kit had heard the muffled clank of armor and weapons being put aside and had dimly made out the forms of men and other creatures preparing their bedrolls. She herself felt nothing like sleep. Her senses tingled with a novel, not unpleasant sensation-excitement combined with a frisson of fear. She was about to see her first battle!

Nonetheless, when Gregor Uth Matar swung easily off Cinnamon, his prize chestnut mare, and handed the reins to a waiting squire, Kit scrambled off her smaller mount to keep up with him. She didn't want to get too far away from the protection of this tall, imposing warrior who was her father.

He strode quickly to the one light in the camp, a carefully banked lantern that shone in the tent of the troop's commander. Nolan of Vinses was little more than a dull-witted farmer, according to Gregor, and Gregor had little use for farmers or anyone else whose work didn't involve handling a sword well.

But it was Nolan who headed the five-man militia in the rich farming community of Vinses, and he who had convinced the village's guardians, finally, to dig into their pockets and pay for a mercenary force to defend the residents against a marauding army of barbarians that had been terrorizing them for more than a year. So he was, nominally at least, in charge.

After making a few inquiries, Nolan had learned of Gregor, sought him out, and hired him. Gregor then recruited fifty or so other worthies. He also advised Nolan to send word to Burek, the head of a band of minotaurs based in Caergoth who hired themselves out for combat. If Nolan's desire was to end the rampage by destroying Swiftwater and his outlaw followers, it would be useful to have minotaurs fighting on their side, Gregor had said.

"I have heard tales of this Swiftwater," her father told Kit as they made their way through the quiet camp. "He is a savage, the worst human scum. They say he fights without a brain-without a heart, as well. With such an opponent, the minotaurs are worth the trouble and expense. His wild degeneracy will inflame them, and they will fight to the utmost."

When they reached Nolan's tent, Gregor motioned for Kitiara to wait outside. She crept as close as possible to the light leaking from the tent's doorway flap, then peered inside. She saw her father standing with his back to the opening, facing a table spread with a large map. Not for the first time did she think Gregor was the handsomest man she would ever see: regal and sturdy, with well-muscled limbs and raven-black hair that curled closely around his head and graced his upper lip with a luxurious mustache.

A blond, clean-shaven man stood opposite Gregor on the other side of the table. He wore a farmer's green tunic and had a sword in its scabbard strapped awkwardly around his waist. His face was grim. Nolan, Kitiara thought.

Looking to the right of Nolan, Kit saw someone step out of the shadows at her father's beckoning. She sucked in her breath. The creature towered over Gregor, who himself stood at over six feet. He wore a heavy leather girdle that flashed with richly colored gems and carried a fascinating array of daggers and other weapons, most prominent among them a huge, double-edged ax. The pair of horns that curved away from his forehead, each at least two feet long, threatened to rip through the top of the tent.

"A minotaur!" Kit whispered to herself breathlessly. She had heard many stories of these fierce and brutish fighters from her father, but never in her seven years had she seen one in her treetop village of Solace.

Burek, the minotaur, spoke in a deep, guttural voice, discussing strategy for the next day's battle. Gregor and Nolan pondered the map. As time went on, Gregor made his own suggestions about the battle plan, some of them seemingly not congenial to Burek. Nolan took Burek's side unexpectedly, and Gregor, shaking with suppressed rage, turned to confront Burek. He pushed up against the minotaur and spoke harshly. Burek did not budge from his point of view. Nor did Gregor back off. The warrior hammered at Burek with his raised voice, his face flushed with anger. Kitiara could see the dots of her father's eyes as they danced above the rise and fall of his extravagant mustache.

"Don't speak to me of hypothetical situations; give me the iron dice of battle! Anything else is blather! I pledge my life-"

"Pah! I say it is better to wait and watch. Your life means nothing to me. All you humans are in such a hurry to die anyway!"

"If I may say something-"

"No!"

The discussion grew even more heated. It seemed to go on for hours.

Crouched on the ground outside the tent, Kit must have fallen asleep. She woke to find Gregor hefting her gently in his arms and striding to their bedrolls. He looked peaceful now, as he usually did in that deep time of the night when people-and disagreements-slept. The young girl smiled sleepily up at her father, and he smiled back. Their faces were so alike; their mouths mimicked each other, the right corners rising at a slant, giving their expressions a charmingly roguish caste.

"Tomorrow, my little warrior, you shall see the power and truth the sword can bring," Gregor whispered to Kit as he tucked a blanket around her. She shivered with anticipation, curled up next to her father, and fell back asleep.

It was still dark when Gregor woke Kitiara. The summer night had never cooled off, and before dawn the warm air hung around the camp like a damp, heavy curtain. Kit rubbed her fists into her eyes then rose quickly. She strapped on her prized wooden sword, the one Gregor had brought back for her from one of his expeditions two years ago. Kitiara had shown more than a passing interest in the plaything, and Gregor began drilling her in the warrior arts.

The sword was scaled to Kitiara's size, with an exceedingly sharp point. Gregor had decorated the precious half-toy with emblems and sigils. At home, Kitiara wore it belted at her side from the moment she rose until she tumbled into bed at night. She felt about it as she felt about nothing else.

Only now, surrounded by preparations for a real battle, Kit suddenly saw the sword as childish. She started to take it off when Gregor, who had been watching silently, stopped her.

"There are men who cannot use a real sword as well as you can wield your wooden one," Gregor told her somberly. "Don't worry. It won't be long before your skill guarantees you the pick of all the swords you could want. After all," he added, his eyes glinting at her, "you are my daughter."

Grinning in return, the seven-year-old girl busied herself checking Gregor's daggers, sword, shield, bow and quiver of arrows, then helped her father adjust his armor. His body armor consisted of pieces of iron held together with leather straps and bronze fittings. The helmet was open in style, permitting him to move and aim with impunity.

Working next to Gregor, Kitiara looked like a tiny version of the striking warrior. Gregor had cut Kit's long hair shortly after he had smuggled her out of the house for this expedition. Now her cap of dark, curly hair, and the slender yet athletic build apparent underneath her leather jerkin and leggings, made Kit look like a young boy. Like Gregor her eyes were brown, and, almost comically so, little Kit had even modeled her purposeful stride after Gregor's.

When other soldiers came up to him, Gregor introduced Kit as "my importunate son," catching her eye and winking when no one was looking. Seven was a young age to bring such a lad into camp, but none of his fellows would have stood for Gregor bringing a daughter along, since girls were seen as little more than a potential burden.

The ruse made no difference to Kit. She didn't long to be a boy. She only felt sorry for people who weren't able to take the full measure of a person because of their sex or what they appeared to be. She never intended to make that mistake.

As they continued preparing for the battle, Kit noticed a commotion at the edge of the camp. In the dim pre-dawn light she thought she saw a cluster of children scatter among the bedrolls.

"Look, Father, perhaps I can practice my sword fighting with one of those children at the end of the day," she said, motioning toward the distant forms.

'Those aren't children. Those are gully dwarves." Gregor spat out that benighted race's name as if it were an epithet. "It's amazing how they turn up sooner or later, no matter what the danger or where you pitch camp."

As Gregor was speaking, one of the gully dwarves had the misfortune to scurry near and start nosing around their equipment. An unpleasant odor wafted from the smallish creature. Moving a step closer, Gregor swung his foot back and gave the gully dwarf a boot that hurled him halfway across the camp. "Pleasure of your acquaintance!" Kit heard the unfortunate creature cry out as it soared. Apparently unharmed and unfazed, the gully dwarf picked himself up and scampered off in the opposite direction.

Kit smiled to herself. Even gully dwarves added to her pleasure at being part of camp life. She was brought back to more pressing matters when Gregor began outlining the battle plan for her.

Swiftwater's outlaws occupied a heavily wooded ridge at the far end of the valley. The location offered the barbarians a commanding view of the landscape to the east. At their backs, the ridge sloped away steeply, offering little cover except for widely scattered rocks. Potential attackers had few options.

Gregor's forces were within striking distance, sequestered among rocks and trees on a sharp rise to the south. So far, they had managed to remain undetected.

Burek had wanted to wait until the hovering storm broke and provided a distraction, obscuring their attack, Gregor explained. Then, being both proud and impatient, the minotaur had wanted to attempt to lead a frontal assault, hoping to draw out Swiftwater and his group from their sanctuary. Part of the hired troops would also circle around and attempt to besiege Swiftwater's camp from the rear, despite the rough terrain.

Gregor had disagreed, and eventually he won the argument. Scouts loyal to the mercenary leader had reported that the barbarians sent out a large foraging party every morning, often with Swiftwater himself in command. Gregor wanted the minotaurs to split up and creep forward along both sides of the valley, under cover of foliage, to just below the ridge where the outlaw band was camped.

When the foraging contingent emerged into the meadow, the minotaurs would cut in from the rear while Gregor and his reserves attacked from the front. With any luck, Swiftwater would be in the surrounded party. Once he was killed, his immediate troops could be expected to panic and flee into the woods. Some of Gregor's soldiers would be hanging back among the trees to eliminate them.

The plan placed the minotaurs in a difficult position, Gregor acknowledged, since there would be close fighting with members of the foraging party, as well as danger from the rear when those who remained at Swiftwater's camp joined the battle. But Gregor's troops would press the attack from all sides and attempt to draw off fire from the minotaurs.

Burek had conceded the boldness of Gregor's scheme. Valiant race that they were, the minotaurs had accepted their risky assignment with dignity. Before they divided up, Kit noticed that the mammoth creatures, outfitted in all their glittering armament, knelt as a group to exchange hushed vows amongst themselves, secret words that no human would ever be permitted to overhear.

The other mercenaries observed their ritual with respect. The long minutes of silence were almost unbearable.

Then, with Burek in the lead, the nearly two dozen minotaurs rose as one and marched off. After them, with great solemnity, came Gregor and his men. Her father was riding a borrowed steed, a silver-gray charger. He had left behind his precious Cinnamon for Kit, so that she would have a reliable means of escape in the unlikely event of a rout.

Her father did not pay her any attention now. His eyes were trained resolutely on the task ahead, his mouth set in a grim line. This was the first time Kit had seen Gregor riding into battle, and that scene was how she would always think of him-proud, erect, invincible.

Trailing them all, serving as little more than a buffer in the battle, were Nolan and his small volunteer brigade of locals. Unlike the more professional soldiers, Nolan's farmers clutched roughhewn clubs and shovels and odd tools. But these could be every bit as deadly as more sophisticated weapons in the hand-to-hand struggle that would follow the first clash.

From the vantage Gregor had chosen for her, underneath the oak tree, Kitiara strained to see the minotaurs moving through the tall grass, past the brush and occasional trees that lined the valley. But she could see nothing.

Suddenly, Kitiara caught the sound of horses snuffling and snorting in the still morning air. Birds flew out from the underbrush on the opposite side of the valley, and a group of roughly forty barbarians filed out of the woods. They rode a high-strung breed of horses renowned for their speed. Kitiara wondered how the minotaurs, who were afoot, would fare against them.

The barbarians sat easily in their saddles. From a distance, they looked to Kitiara to be wearing leather capes decorated with multicolored feathers. She thought she spied their chieftain, Swiftwater, trotting in the lead, stocky and arrogant. Then another of the horde caught her eye. He alone was shrouded like a wraith, his garb devoid of all decoration or color. From his saddle dangled a multitude of vials and potions. A magic-user, thought Kit.

After more than a year of raiding the countryside virtually unchallenged, the barbarians were careless of any possible threat. Their horses seemed to float through the grass. The riders said little to each other as they rode, though the small dogs trotting alongside yapped and growled occasionally.

As the party moved out into the open sweep of the meadow, Burek and his companions burst from the mists that still clung to the lower reaches of the valley. Their wild bellows caused several of the barbarians' horses to rear up in fright, and at least two of the riders lost their purchase and were trampled in the ensuing confusion.

One of the barbarians put a hollow gourd to his lips and sounded a shrill call for help. Already a few men were scrambling from the dense pine trees on top of the ridge behind the minotaurs, alerted by the commotion. Kitiara could see other fighters move to the edge of the trees and start fitting arrows in their bows, taking aim at Burek and his gallant troop.

As the first arrows started flying, Kitiara heard a shout and saw a brigade of her father's soldiers charge up along the sides of the ridge on horseback, forcing the archers to retreat. At the same time, reinforcements swung up on their horses from behind bushes and trees where they had been camouflaged, attacking the advance guard of barbarians from the front. Swiftwater's men, neatly bisected, recoiled in surprise.

Smoke and flame indicated that the magic-user had managed to cast a spell. Up above the melee rose a garish phantasm that dripped blood and flashed horrid yellow fangs. Kitiara knew that it was an illusion intended to paralyze nerves and terrorize opponents. Gregor, with his wisdom of many battles, had predicted this tactic. He and many of his men had rimmed their eyes with an ointment to counteract the spell.

Fortunately, Kitiara had been forewarned. She, too, had protected her eyes. Otherwise, she would not have been able to fend off the panic she felt inside, even at this safe distance from the ghastly bloodthing.

Dire screams could be heard. Whether emanating from the barbarians' or Gregor's side, Kit could not be sure. Everything was intermingled now.

Kitiara saw one brave warrior-she thought it must be her father-plow into the vanguard and challenge a barbarian on a large horse, one wearing not only a leather cloak, but a mottled helmet covered with feathers. No, she was wrong before; the man Gregor faced, not the arrogant barbarian she had spied earlier, must be Swiftwater. The two men leaned over their mounts, lashing out with their swords.

Kitiara locked her eyes on the two warriors. The smoke and noise were dense now. She willed herself not to lose sight of the pair, for Gregor was hard at it and Swiftwater was matching him blow for blow, giving good proof of himself. Around them, the battlefield was chaotic, full of harsh sound and movement and gore.

Almost unconsciously, Kitiara pulled out her wooden sword and began thrusting and parrying in the thick summer air, imitating the combat on the field…

"Aha! Not bad for a skinny whelp using a wooden sword."

Kitiara was shaken from her daydream by the sound of a voice and a soft thud behind her. She whirled around to confront a tawny-haired man with glittering dark eyes. He wore brown leggings and a close-fitting tunic. One hand held a shiny red apple and the other rested easily on the handle of his sword. He looked like he knew how to use it.

"Where did you come from?" she demanded, humiliated at her wooden weapon and angry at being caught off guard.

"When preparing for battle, never forget to look up to the gods for a blessing, and while your eyes are thus occupied, to check for enemies hidden in the trees. It's an old Solamnic saying. I'm surprised such a stouthearted warrior as yourself isn't familiar with it," said the stranger with mock seriousness. At that he sat down, crossed his legs, and took a hungry bite out of his apple. He flashed her a teasing smile.

In no mood to be ridiculed, however mildly, Kitiara flushed with annoyance before pointing her sword in his direction. "Then, if you are trained in Solamnic traditions, you must know you cannot refuse my challenge to a match without seriously compromising your honor."

"That would presume I have some honor left to be compromised," he said indifferently, taking another eager bite.

With a precocity remarkable for a child of eight, Kitiara stepped up and deftly knocked the stranger's apple from his hand by slapping the flat of her sword against his knuckles. His smile vanished, replaced by stern, pursed lips. He stood up to face her.

"I am sorry that you are so disrespectful of your elders," he said ruefully. "Someone has neglected to teach you your manners. I shall endeavor to fill the void."

He moved toward her, but Kit scuttled to the left, her sword point outstretched, keeping him at bay. He circled around, a look on his face every bit as resolute as Kitiara's. Though only slightly more than half his size, she was determined to run him through, wooden sword or not.

The stranger dropped his shoulder and made suddenly as if to reach for his sheathed weapon, at which point Kitiara lunged toward him. Unexpectedly, he dropped to the ground and rolled directly toward her, grabbing her by her ankles before she could make a move with her sword. In another instant he had vaulted to a standing position and hoisted her, kicking and screaming, over his shoulders. Her wooden blade fell to the ground.

Carrying her easily, the stranger walked to a stand of trees and gave her a tremendous heave skyward. Much to her astonishment Kitiara found herself tossed like a leaf high up into the air. She landed in the twisted branches of an apple tree, high above the ground. It took a few moments before she got her breath back. Then she looked down to see the stranger peering up at her with an implacable expression.

"Pick out a nice juicy one, if you please," the stranger said.

Td sooner die!" she shouted back defiantly.

In a movement so quick that it seemed a blur, the stranger unleashed his sword and thrust it upward, toward Kitiara. Even with his height and long reach, the sword just barely reached her, its tip scraping her bottomside. She scurried to escape its touch, but these were mere apple trees, not mighty vallenwoods, and there were no sturdy branches above her offering an escape route.

Coiling as tightly as she could, Kitiara retreated against the tree trunk. The stranger merely reached a couple of inches higher and flicked his sword point, ripping her leggings.

"Tch tch," he said. "Pants need mending."

She set her chin and determined to say nothing. He stretched a little higher, and she felt the sword point flick again.

"Ouch!"

"First blood," said the stranger merrily. Then his tone altered. "Don't tempt me, little one. Krynn is lousy with children, orphans especially. One less would be a blessing."

A brief, tense silence ensued. There was a rustling of branches, and Kitiara dropped to the ground, holding a ripe apple. Her eyes averted, she held it out to the stranger, who stuck his sword in the ground triumphantly and reached to grab the fruit.

Before he knew it her teeth had sunk into his wrist.

"Ouch!" he yelled and, with a furious oath, cuffed Kit across the face, knocking her roughly to the ground.

She got up very slowly. Rubbing the side of her face, Kitiara looked down at the ground and fought back her tears. She wouldn't cry in front of a stranger.

As for the stranger, he too was nursing his wound, rubbing his wrist with a betrayed air. He looked up and caught Kitiara's eye. To the girl's dismay, the situation suddenly became hilarious. The stranger's face broke into an engaging grin, and rich, throaty laughter began to pour from his mouth.

Kit couldn't help but notice that this curious fellow had an altogether different, more congenial look about him when he smiled. He was like her father in that respect: one way when fighting, another way when at peace. However, she didn't feel the slightest compulsion to laugh with him. She was still smarting with resentment.

With some effort the stranger brought his laughter under control. "Say, at first I thought you were a boy or I wouldn't have hit you. You fight like one. Some day, perhaps, you'll fight like a man."

That was no compliment to her. But when the stranger proffered his hand in the Solamnic clasp, she smiled tentatively despite herself. She gripped his hand firmly in response.

He laughed again, sat down, and took a bite out of the apple Kitiara had picked. From a fold in his cloak, he produced another apple and offered it to her with a mischievous smirk.

She frowned in irritation.

"Oh, don't let it bother you," said the stranger soothingly. "What's your name, half-pint?"

With a show of reluctance she took the apple. "Kitiara Uth Matar," she said proudly.

Was it her imagination, or did some recognition flicker across the stranger's face? Some emotion had registered, some inscrutable reaction.

"Any relation to Gregor Uth Matar?" he asked, keeping a smile on his face.

"Do you know him?" She leaned forward excitedly.

"No, no," he said hastily, shifting his tone. "Heard of him, of course. Heard of him." He seemed to look at Kit differently, more intently, appraising her face. "I'd like to meet a man of such stature-if he happened to be in these parts."

All at once, Kitiara was blinking back tears. "My father doesn't live in Solace anymore," she said stoically after a few moments. "He left home not long after we returned from a battle with some barbarians. That was over a year ago."

Kitiara would never forget that unhappy morning. For once, her father had not been there, smiling at her, when she woke up. There had been no true warning of his departure; he hadn't been getting along with Rosamun, but that was nothing new. And the note he left hardly offered an adequate explanation:

Good-bye for now. Take care of Cinnamon. She's yours. Know that your father loves you. Think of me. Gregor.

He had left behind his favorite horse and ridden off on a freshly bartered one. Kitiara had crumpled the paper and cried intermittently for days, even weeks. Now she wished she still had the note, if only as a memento.

Nobody in Solace could say for sure which way Gregor had gone, on which road in which direction.

"Have you heard news of him?" she asked the stranger eagerly.

"Hmmm. I seem to remember hearing something about some escapades in the North," he replied vaguely, preoccupied now with standing up and slipping his sword into its scabbard.

"His family hails from the North," Kit said, keenly interested.

"Or maybe it was in the wilds of Khur to the east. I'm not certain."

"Oh." Kit's voice fell.

"A man like that would never stay in one place for long," he continued.

"What do you mean?" Kit asked a little defensively, " 'a man like that'?"

Looking up, he saw the apprehension that animated Kitiara's face. "I have to be on my way, little one. If I run into your father, can I give him a message?" he inquired, not unkindly.

Kitiara weighed what she could tell this stranger who in some ways reminded her of Gregor, though he was neither as tall nor as handsome. "Just tell him that I've been practicing," she said finally. "And that I'm ready."

They were standing just out of sight of Kit's home, in a clearing below the elevated walkways between the vallenwoods where Kit often came to practice her swordplay. The stranger was preparing to take his leave when Kit thought to ask his name.

"Ursa Il Kinth, but you can call me Ursa if our paths cross again."

"Wait!" Kit cried out almost in desperation as he turned to go. 'Take me with you, Ursa. All I need is a real sword or dagger, and I could help protect you during your travels. I wouldn't be any trouble. I have relatives in the North, and they can help me find my father. Oh, please, please, take me with you!"

"You, protect me?" Ursa snorted. "I should hope it would be a few years before I need the protection of a child!"

Again he erupted into laughter, this time more derisively. "If it would be any child it would be you, little Miss Kitiara," Ursa said over his shoulder as he took a few steps away from her. He gave a sharp whistle between his teeth, and a muscular gray steed burst from the woods. In a minute he had mounted her and was riding off, still chuckling.

A fiercely determined Kitiara had started to run after him when she heard sharp cries from the direction of her home.

"Kitiara! Kitiara! Come home! I need help!"

Kit stopped and looked resentfully in the direction of the summons.

"My labor has begun! Hurry!"

Sighing, with one last look at Ursa's back, Kitiara clambered up the nearest vallenwood. Halfway up the tree, she climbed onto the walkway that would take her home, where her mother was ready to give birth.