Dragons of the Highlord Skies

1 The Red Dragon Inn. The chase

Upon leaving Icereach, Kitiara and Skie had met up with her force of blue dragons and her sivak draconian guards, who had been loitering about on the outskirts of Thorbardin, keeping watch on the dwarven kingdom to see if those on the bounty list turned up. Kit had a good excuse for going to Tarsis. Ariakas had recently promoted Fewmaster Toede to the position of Dragon Highlord of the Red Wing, though on a temporary basis. Kitiara could tell the emperor she had gone to view the battle brewing there to see how the hobgoblin conducted himself.

The blue dragons had heard about the possibility of an attack on the city and were eager to get in on the fighting. Skie was the only dragon who was not pleased at the prospect, and this was because he knew the truth. Kitiara wasn’t going to Tarsis to fight or to evaluate the hobgoblin. She was going for her own personal reasons. She’d told him as much.

Skie revered Kitiara as few dragons in the history of Krynn had revered a human. He honored Kitiara’s courage. He could personally attest to her skill and her intelligence when it came to warfare. He credited her tactics and strategy with having conquered much of Solamnia, and he was convinced that if Kitiara had been in charge of the war instead of Ariakas they would have now been taking their ease in the conquered city of Palanthas. Kitiara was calm and cold-blooded, masterful and courageous in battle. But when it came to her personal life, she gave in to her wayward passions and let desire master her.

She went from lover to lover, using them, then discarding them. She thought she was in control of these affairs, but Skie knew better. Kitiara thirsted for love as some thirst for dwarf spirits. She hungered for it as a glutton does his dinner. She needed men to adore her and even when she no longer loved them they were supposed to continue to love her. Ariakas was perhaps the sole exception, and that was because Kitiara had let him love her simply to achieve advancement. They understood each other, probably because they were alike. He required of women what Kit required of men. He was the only man Kitiara feared, and she was the only woman to daunt Ariakas.

Take this Bakaris, Skie thought. Kitiara’s sub-commander and her current lover. Charming, handsome, he was an adequate soldier, but certainly not her equal. Left to his own devices in Solamnia, which is where he was now, he’d make a pig’s breakfast of the battle should they be called upon to fight. Skie only hoped that this foray into the south didn’t keep her away from the war too long.

Skie didn’t know the identity of the man she was chasing after in Tarsis. She hadn’t told him that. All he knew was that it was someone she had known in her youth. Skie was confident it would be only a matter of time before Kit told him everything. He was the one being she trusted implicitly. Let her find this long-lost lover, whoever he was, Skie thought, and get him out of her system. Then she could get back to business.

They established their headquarters outside the city, near a hot springs Skie had discovered. Kitiara sent spies armed with Toede’s bounty list to Tarsis and other cities in the region and also sent search parties with orders to keep an eye on the major trade routes.

Although the snow hampered their efforts considerably, one of the search parties did come across something, though not what Kit had expected.

“Why haven’t Rag and his baaz reported in?” Kitiara asked the sivak commander of her squad of draconians.

The sivak had no idea, and he sent a patrol on dragonback to find out. They returned with unfortunate news.

“Rag and his men are dead, my lord,” the sivak reported. “We found what was left of them near a bridge south of Tarsis. The tracks in the snow indicated three men riding horses. They were on the road leading from Rigitt. One of the horses apparently bolted, for its tracks ran off back to the south. Two horses left the bridge together, traveling west, leaving the road and cutting across country.

“We found the runaway horse wandering about the plains,” the sivak added, “and on it was this.”

He held up a bracer decorated with the kingfisher and the rose.

“Solamnic Knights,” Kitiara muttered irritably. She shuffled through reports from her other spies, searching for one of them in particular.

“Son of a bitch,” swore Kitiara.

Of course it had to have been them. Who else but Solamnic knights would have dispatched draconian warriors so handily? She couldn’t believe it.

“How long have they been dead?” she asked.

“A couple of days, maybe,” the sivak replied.

“Son of a bitch!” Kit swore again, this time with more vehemence. “So the bridge was left unwatched for days. The felons we are after could have crossed unnoticed, entering Tarsis without our knowledge.”

“We didn’t see any other footprints, but we will find them if they did, my lord,” the sivak promised, and that proved to be the case.

“Those you seek are in Tarsis, my lord,” the sivak reported a day later. “They entered the gates this morning. All of them.” He pointed to the bounty list. “Matches the descriptions perfectly. They are staying in the Red Dragon Inn.”

“Excellent,” said Kitiara, rising. Her face was flushed, her eyes glinting with excitement. “Summon Skie. I will fly there immediately—”

“There is, um, a slight problem.” The sivak gave a deferential cough. “Some of them have been arrested.”

“What?” Kitiara glared at him, hands on her hips. “Arrested? Who was the fool who ordered that?”

The moment she mentioned the word “fool” the answer came to her.

“Toede!”

“Not Highlord Toede in person,” the sivak said. “He sent a draconian emissary who is conducting the ‘negotiations’ with the Lord of Tarsis in Toede’s name. It seems that one of the gate guards recognized the Solamnic knight—this Sturm Brightblade,” added the sivak, consulting the list. “The gate guard told the Lord of Tarsis, who seemed inclined to make nothing of it. The draconian emissary insisted that the guards be sent to bring in the knight and his companions for ‘questioning’.”

“I’ll wring that hob’s neck!” Kit said through her teeth. “Does this emissary know these people are on this bounty list?”

“I don’t think he made the connection, my lord. All he knew was that a Solamnic knight had arrived in the city. The reason I say that is because some of the group were allowed to remain in the inn. The half-elf, the knight, the elf, the dwarf and the kender were the only ones taken into custody.”

Kitiara relaxed. “So the half-elf and the others are in prison.”

The sivak coughed again. “No, my lord.”

“By our Queen, what else went wrong?” Kit demanded.

“It seems there was a riot, and in the confusion the kender disappeared. The others appeared in court along with another elf, who turned out to be daughter of King Lorac. They were all being taken off to prison when the guards were attacked by three cloaked men who rescued the prisoners.”

“Don’t tell me,” said Kit in a dangerously calm voice. “The three men who rescued them were Solamnic knights.”

“It appears so, my lord,” said the sivak after a slight hesitation. “My informant overheard them speaking the Solamnic tongue, and the knight, Brightblade, recognized the others.”

Kitiara slumped back down in her chair. “Where are they now?”

“I regret to say the knight and his companions escaped. My men are searching for them. However, the women on the list and the other men, including the wizard and the cleric of Paladine, are still in the inn.”

“At least something has gone right,” said Kit, good spirits returning. “The half-elf will not abandon these people. They’re his friends. He’ll be back for them. Keep your spies at the Red Dragon Inn. No, wait. I will go there myself—”

“There’s, uh, one more problem, my lord,” the sivak said, sidling back a few steps to be out of sword range in case her wrath got the better of her. “Highlord Toede has ordered the attack. As we speak, dragons are flying on Tarsis.”

“I told that fool to wait for my signal!” Kitiara fumed to Skie as the dragon climbed toward the clouds.

She pressed herself close to Skie’s body, hunching down low over the dragon’s neck so as to add as little possible wind resistance. Taking off was always the most difficult part for the dragons. Even without riders, lifting their ponderous bodies into the air required great strength. Some riders were inconsiderate of their mounts, doing little to aid them and sometimes actually impeding them.

Kitiara understood instinctively how to help Skie, perhaps because she loved flying. When in the air, she and her dragon melded together. She felt almost as if she was the one who had wings. In battle, she knew Skie’s every move before he made it, just as he knew by the touch of her knees on his flanks or her hand upon his neck where she wanted to go—always to the fiercest part of the fighting.

A flight of blue dragons soared after them, each dragon leaping into the air, following Skie, their leader. This was always a proud moment for him, and for her, as he knew well.

“The reds will not be pleased to see us,” Skie shouted over the rush of cold air.

Kitiara remarked what the red dragons could do with themselves and added a few choice words about what they could do with Toede into the bargain.

“We are looking for an inn called the Red Dragon,” she told Skie.

“I think you’re a little late!” he called out.

They had just come in sight of Tarsis—or rather what had once been Tarsis.

Smoke and flame billowed into the air. Skie’s nostrils twitched and he shook his mane. He enjoyed the stench of destruction, but clouds of thick smoke would make seeing anything on the ground below damn difficult.

Kitiara had anticipated this, however, and had sent scouts into the city. She and Skie waited at some distance for the scouts to return, the dragon wheeling in easy circles just beyond the clouds of smoke. They had not been waiting long when a wyvern-rider came into view, emerging from the pall that covered the doomed city. Sighting the Highlord, the wyvern-rider changed course and flew over to them in haste.

“Slow down,” Kitiara commanded her dragon.

Skie’s lip curled in a sneer, but he did as he was ordered. Like most dragons, he detested wyverns. He considered them filthy beasts, a mockery of dragons, with their grotesque bird-legs, stunted, scaly bodies, and barbed tails. He glared at the wyvern as it approached, warning it not to come too near. Since the blue dragon could have snapped the wyvern in two with one bite, the wyvern heeded the blue’s warning, forcing the sivak rider to shout at the top of his lungs to make himself heard.

“The inn has been hit, my lord! Part of it has collapsed. The Red Wing’s troops have it surrounded.” The sivak draconian gestured. “That flight of reds you see is going to—”

Kitiara wasn’t about to wait to hear what the reds were planning to do. Skie understood her need, and he had altered course and was soaring after the reds before she had given him the command.

“Return to your post!” she shouted at the sivak, who saluted, and the wyvern sped thankfully away.

Blue dragons are smaller and more maneuverable than the hulking red dragons. Skie and his blues easily caught up with the reds, who were, as Skie had predicted, extremely displeased to see them. The reds glared balefully at the blues, who glared just as balefully back.

Kitiara and the leader of the Red Wing held a brief midair conference; the red shouting to Kit that he had orders from Toede to kill—not capture—the felons if he found them. Kit shouted back that he would be the one killed, not captured, unless he brought the assassins to her alive and well. The commander of the Red Wing knew Kitiara. He also knew Toede. He saluted Kit respectfully and flew off.

“Locate the inn,” Kit ordered Skie and the rest of the blues. “We’re searching for three people, remember, a half-elf, a human wizard, and his big, dumb-looking brother.”

The dragons flew into the smoke, blinking their eyes and keeping sharp watch to make certain no smoldering cinder landed on the vulnerable membranes of their wings. The blues had to be careful, for the reds, drunk with the joy of killing and burning, were heedless and reckless in their flight, swooping down on hapless people trying to escape, breathing flame on them, then watching them run, screaming, hair and clothes on fire, until they collapsed in the street.

Paying no attention to where they were going, the reds blundered into buildings, smashing them, knocking them down with their tails. They would also blunder into each other in the smoke and confusion, and Skie and the other blue dragons had to do some fancy maneuvering to avoid collisions. A few jolts of lightning breath helped drive away reds who flew too close.

The stench of burnt flesh, the screams of the dying, the rumble of falling towers, was nothing new to Kitiara. She paid little heed to anything going on around her, concentrating instead on peering through the smoke into the occasional patch of clear air created by the flapping of Skie’s wings.

She had scouted out the part of the city in which the inn was located and she soon spotted it, for it was—or had been—one of the larger buildings in the area. The inn was under attack by draconian forces, battling those inside.

Kit sucked in her breath. She knew perfectly well who was in there, fighting for his life and the lives of his friends. She imagined herself strolling into the inn amidst the smoke, climbing over the rubble, finding Tanis, reaching out her hand to him, and saying, “Come with me.” He’d be astonished, of course. She could picture the look on his face.

“Griffons!” Skie bellowed.

Kitiara blinked away her reverie and peered intently through the eyeslits of her helm, cursing the smoke, for she couldn’t see. Then there they were, a flight of griffons flying low beneath the smoke, coming to the rescue of those trapped in the inn.

Kitiara uttered an exclamation of anger. Griffons are ferocious creatures, afraid of nothing, and they fell on the draconians who surrounded the inn, snatching them up in their sharp talons, snapping off their heads with their beaks, as an eagle eats a rat.

“There are elves mixed up in this!” Skie snarled.

Griffons, though fiercely independent, revere elves, and bonded griffons will serve them if their need is great. Griffons on their own would have never flown into a raging battle, risking their lives to save humans. These griffons were here on orders from some elf lord. Those who had been trapped in the ruins of the inn could be seen clambering onto the backs of the griffons, who wasted no time. Having picked up their passengers, they took off, flying north.

“Who escaped?” Kit cried. “Could you see them?”

Skie was about to answer when a red dragon appeared, barreling through the smoke. Catching sight of the fleeing griffons, the red flew after them, intending to incinerate them.

“Cut him off!” Kitiara ordered.

Skie disapproved of Kit involving herself in this fight, but he did enjoy thwarting any red dragon, who, because they were bigger, considered themselves better. Skie swooped in front of the red’s nose, forcing the huge dragon to almost flip himself head over tail in order to avoid a crash.

“Are you mad?” the red roared furiously. “They’re escaping!”

Kitiara ordered the red to go kill people in some other part of the city and sent her blue dragons off in pursuit of the griffons, reminding them several times that the people the griffons carried were to be taken alive and brought straight back to her.

“Aren’t we going after them?” Skie demanded.

“I need to make sure who they were. I don’t want to leave until I find out they were the ones who escaped. I couldn’t see them. Could you?” she yelled at Skie.

Skie had been able to get a good look at them while Kit was arguing with the red dragon.

“Your wizard and a large human warrior, a human female with red hair and a man clad in leather. He could have been a half-breed. He looked to be the leader, for he was giving the orders. Oh, and a couple of barbarians.”

Kitiara asked him sharply, “There was no blonde elf woman?”

“No, lord,” said Skie, wondering what this had to do with anything.

“Good,” Kitiara said. “Maybe she’s dead.” Then she frowned. “What about Flint, Sturm and the kender? Tanis would never leave them behind… So maybe that wasn’t him on the griffon…”

“What are your orders, Lord?” Skie asked impatiently.

The dragon was hoping she would think better of this folly and tell him to recall the blues who had gone winging after the griffons. Fast beasts, griffons. They were already nearly out of sight. The blues would be hard-pressed to catch them. He hoped she would tell him they were all going to go back to Solamnia, to forests teeming with deer and glorious battles to be fought and cities to be conquered.

What she told him was not what he had hoped for or expected. Her order confounded him utterly.

“Set me down on the street.”

Skie twisted his head around to stare at her. “Are you mad?”

“I know what I am about,” she said. “That cleric of Paladine, Elistan, was not among those you mentioned, yet he was staying at the inn. I must find out what has become of him.”

“You said the cleric was of no importance! He wasn’t the one you were after. Those you were after are disappearing over the horizon.”

“I’ve changed my mind. Set me down!” Kitiara repeated angrily. “You go with the other blues. Continue your pursuit of those on griffon-back, and when you catch them, bring them back to camp. Alive!” she emphasized. “I want them alive.”

“Highlord,” said Skie earnestly, doing as he was told but not liking it, “you are taking a great risk! This city is going up in flames, and it’s filled with draconians thirsting for trouble. They’ll kill you first and find out you are a Highlord after!”

“I can take care of myself,” Kit told him.

“The one you seek has escaped Tarsis! Why go back? Don’t tell me that you’re chasing after some foul cleric!”

Kit glared at him as she hoisted herself out of the saddle, but she did not answer. The dragon had no idea what she was scheming. But he knew full well it had nothing to do with the war and everything to do with her current obsession.

“Kitiara,” Skie pleaded, “let this go. You risk not only your command, you risk your life!”

“You have your orders,” Kitiara told him, and Skie saw by the look in her eye that he continued this argument at his peril.

Skie landed on the only patch of open ground he could find—the marketplace. The area was littered with bodies, the smoldering ruins of stalls and trampled vegetables, terrified dogs howling, and roving draconians, their swords red with blood. Kitiara climbed out of the saddle.

“Remember!” she said to Skie, as he was about to take to the air, “I want them alive!”

Skie grunted that he’d only heard that about six hundred times. He flew up through the smoke that had smelled so good to him at the start, but which he now found annoying, for it clogged his lungs and stung his eyes.

He would obey Kitiara’s orders, though the last thing Kit needed was to be caught by Ariakas romping in the bed of a half-elf who had killed Verminaard.

Skie would chase after this half-elf, but he’d be damned if he was going to catch him!

Iolanthe watched Kitiara make her way through the ravaged city. The smell of burning was in the air here as well, but the smell did not come from smoldering wooden beams or charred flesh. The smell came from the burnt black curls—a few wisps of hair withering in the fire of Iolanthe’s spell.

Iolanthe was in her chambers in Neraka, watching Kitiara with intense interest, noting those details she might decide to share with Ariakas when she made her report to him. He no longer sat in on the spellcasting when Iolanthe spied on Kit. He was too busy, he told her curtly.

Iolanthe knew the truth. He would never admit it, but he was deeply hurt by Kitiara’s betrayal. It was the winternorn, Feal-Thas, who had placed the last rock on Kitiara’s funeral pyre. He had sent Ariakas a detailed report on Kitiara, claiming to have probed the depths of Kitiara’s soul to discover she was infatuated with a half-elf who was implicated in the slaying of Verminaard. Iolanthe had been there when he’d read the report, and Ariakas had flown into such a blind, furious rage that for a few moments Iolanthe had trembled for her own life.

Ariakas had eventually calmed down, but though his fury no longer blazed, it continued to smolder. He was convinced that Kitiara was responsible for the death of Verminaard. Ariakas sent his guards to Solamnia in search of Kit, only to be told by her sub commander, Bakaris, that she was not around. She had gone off on some mysterious errand with Skie and had taken a flight of blues with her.

Ariakas had no doubt she was going to meet her half-breed lover, and he began to believe she was in some sort of conspiracy with the half-elf, against him. The fact that she’d taken the blues with her confirmed his suspicions. She was going to establish herself in opposition to him, challenge him for the Crown of Power.

Ariakas had ordered Iolanthe to use her magic to locate Kitiara and report back what she discovered.

So now Iolanthe watched as Kitiara commandeered a squad of draconians roaming through the marketplace. She divested herself of her Highlord helm and armor, wrapped them in her cloak, and stashed them beneath a pile of rubble. Kit snatched a cloak off a corpse and wrapped herself in it. She tied a scarf over her nose and mouth, to protect her from smoke and the stench of death, and also to conceal her identity, for she stuffed her black curly hair into a hat stolen from the same corpse.

This done, Kitiara set off down the street, accompanied by the draconians, heading in the direction of the inn in which Iolanthe had heard her tell the dragon the half-elf had been staying. Meanwhile, the half-elf was escaping on griffon-back. Iolanthe couldn’t understand what was going on. Why hadn’t Kit gone after him? Iolanthe began to think she’d been mistaken about Kit. Perhaps she had decided to apprehend this cleric of Paladine, in which case, she would return a hero, for half of Ansalon was searching for this cleric, while the other half were looking for the elusive Green Gemstone man.

Iolanthe was intrigued. After watching what Kitiara had been doing so far, witnessing all the foolish mistakes she’d made, Iolanthe had been about to place her money on the emperor, but now she wasn’t so sure. This horse was performing much better than anticipated.

2 The wrath of the God. Rivals

Kit walked the bloody, burnt streets of Tarsis. She had with her a squad of draconians, who had been amazed and not terribly pleased to see this Blue Dragon Highlord appear out of the smoke and flame of the dying city and order them to accompany her. Kitiara’s untimely arrival had spoiled the draconians’ plans for looting, raping, and butchering. Now they had to protect this blasted Highlord, which meant they were missing out on the fun. The baaz did as they were ordered, but they were sullen and inclined to grumble.

Kitiara’s own plans for what she intended to do were vague, half-formed, something unusual for the woman who never went into battle without a well-thought-out plan of attack. Her first impulse had been to fly off in pursuit of Tanis and her half-brothers, but it had occurred to her that Skie could chase them down on his own. Kitiara needed to find out what had happened to her rival. Was Laurana dead? Had she and Tanis quarreled, separated, or chosen deliberately to take different paths?

Above all else, Kitiara wanted to see Laurana, to talk to her. One of Kit’s father’s dictums: know your enemy!

The red dragons continued to fly overhead, though now their enjoyment was dampened; they could not attack anymore, for their own troops had marched into the city. The red dragons dove down now and then to breathe a gout of flame on a building or chase after those who had fled the city and were trying to escape across the plains. The wind rose, fanning the fires that yet burned, picking up sparks and cinders and flinging them about, starting additional blazes.

Draconians and goblins roamed the streets in packs. Some of them were drunk by this time and were engaged in looting or looking to satiate other, more dreadful appetites. They had ceased fighting the few brave or desperate men and women who continued to battle. A lone human, Kitiara might have been menaced, but for her draconian troops. Seeing a commanding-looking man (for such she appeared) striding purposefully down the street, accompanied by a squad of baaz, even the most drunken draconian knew her for an officer, and since officers were to be avoided at all costs, they left her alone.

The streets were filled with the dead and dying. Some victims, caught in the fiery breath of the dragons, had been reduced to lumps of charred flesh, unrecognizable as human. Others had been cut down by swords, shot with arrows, or spitted on spears. Bodies of men, women, and children lay in pools of blood that mingled horribly with the melting snow. The gutters of Tarsis ran red.

Some people were still alive, but to judge by their tortured screams they were the unlucky ones. Some were still fighting, some had managed to escape into the hills, and some had found safe hiding places where they hunkered down in terror, afraid to breathe too loudly lest they be discovered.

Kitiara had seen dead bodies before and she stepped over and around them, feeling neither pity nor compassion, paying them little heed. The baaz who accompanied her had been among those who were in the city prior to the attack and they knew where the Red Dragon Inn was located. They led Kit, who had lost her way in the smoke and the rubble, to her destination, hoping to get rid of her as quickly as possible and get back to their fun.

Arriving at the inn—or what was left of it—Kitiara ordered her troops to halt. This street was oddly quiet compared to other streets. No roving gangs, no looters. The fires had been put out. The inn was in ruins, the upper stories smoldering. No one was about. The spies she’d planted here were nowhere in sight.

Kitiara pulled down the scarf she’d tied over her nose and mouth to keep out the smoke, thinking she’d give a yell to see if anyone answered. Before she could call out, however, smoke flew down her lungs, and she could do nothing for a few moments except cough and curse Toede.

By this time, she had been seen and recognized. A shadow detached itself from a building and came strolling over to her. It was a sivak draconian and at first she thought he was one of hers, but then she noted the sivak wore the insignia of the Red Dragonarmy.

“Where is Malak?” Kit demanded.

“Dead,” said the strange sivak laconically. “A red torched him by accident. Dumb-ass dragon,” he added in a mutter, then, straightening his shoulders, he saluted. “Malak relayed your orders regarding the assassins to me, Highlord, and since he was dead and there was no one left but baaz”—the sivak made a disdainful gesture—“I took command.”

“So what is going on here?” Kitiara asked, looking again around this part of the city that was oddly quiet, a haven of peace in a storm of chaos.

“I deployed the troops at both ends of the street, my lord,” the sivak replied. “I figured you’d want the area around the inn cordoned off until you caught the felons, especially since there’s money to be made off them,” he added, as a seeming afterthought.

“Good idea,” Kitiara said, eying the sivak with more interest. “Have you captured any of those on the list?”

“Some escaped on griffons—”

“I know that!” Kit interrupted impatiently. “What of the others? Are they alive?”

“Yes, Highlord,” the sivak answered. “Come with me.”

The sivak led the way down a street filled with rubble. Not a building was left undamaged. Kit had to climb over heaps of stone and broken beams and shattered glass. She could see, as she went, baaz draconians standing guard, warning away other troops who might have ventured into the area.

“We located the rest of the party,” the sivak informed her as they made what haste they could among the rubble. “They’re all together. I posted guards around the area to protect them, awaiting your orders. Otherwise they would be dead by now.”

“Wait for me here,” Kitiara told the baaz who had trailed after her. The baaz squatted down on their haunches, not sorry to have time to rest.

She and the sivak continued on for about a block, arriving at an intersection where the sivak called a halt. He pointed down a street that angled off the one on which they were standing. Kit peered through the swirling smoke. A house had collapsed into the street. A small group of people stood huddled around something lying on the ground. The group seemed nervous, continually glancing over their shoulders in fear of being attacked.

The sivak explained what had happened. “One of them—the kender—was pinned under a large beam. The rest managed to drag him out and now, near as I can tell, that guy with the beard is praying over him, trying to heal him.” The sivak gave a disparaging snort. “As if any god would bother himself to heal one of the little squeakers.”

The street was dark with smoke and shadows. Kitiara had to draw nearer in order to see. She recognized two of her old comrades—Flint Fireforge and Sturm Brightblade. She could not see the kender from where she stood, but she guessed it must be Tasslehoff. She gazed long at her old friends. She had not thought of them in years, but now, seeing them again, she felt a flicker of interest—Flint because he was Tanis’s closest friend and Sturm because… well, that was a secret she kept buried deep inside, a secret she had never told anyone, a secret she didn’t even trust herself to think about lest somehow it should slip out.

Flint was grayer, but otherwise much the same. Dwarves were long-lived and aged slowly. But she was shocked at the change in Sturm. When they had traveled north together five years ago, he had been handsome and youthful, albeit grave and solemn. He looked to have aged a quarter century in those five years, though, of course, part of his haggard pallor could be due to the fact that they were trapped in a city under enemy attack and his friends might be dead or dying.

Kitiara’s gaze glanced off Flint and Sturm and rested on the only female in the group—blonde and obviously an elf.

“Laurana.” Kitiara growled the word in her throat.

This woman, like the others, was covered in soot and dirt, her clothes sodden from the rain, filthy and bedraggled, her face streaked with tears. Yet even as Kitiara could look into the sky and see through the clouds of greasy, ugly smoke the bright radiance of the sun, so she could look through the dirt and grime, fear and sorrow and see the bright radiance of the elf woman’s beauty.

Kit eyed her, wondering if such a dangerously beautiful rival should be allowed to live. Now was the perfect opportunity to kill her. Tanis would never know Kit had been the cause of his beloved’s death. He would think his childhood sweetheart had died in the assault on Tarsis, just one victim among many.

Of course, her other friends would have to perish, too. She could not leave them alive to tell the tale. Kit felt a twinge of regret at that. The sight of Flint and Sturm brought back memories of some of the happiest times in her life. But their deaths couldn’t be helped. They might recognize her and tell Tanis she had killed his lover, and she didn’t dare run that risk.

What should be her plan of attack? The knight was the only one who was armed. Flint should have been carrying his ax, but he must have dropped it in his efforts to free the kender, for he didn’t have it on him. There was another elf—a male, whose resemblance to Laurana made it apparent that he was some relation, perhaps her brother. He was covered in blood, however, and though he was standing, he looked weak and ill. Nothing to worry about there. That left the vaunted cleric of Paladine—a thin, gaunt, middle-aged man, kneeling in the dirt and blood, praying to his god to heal a kender.

“I want them dead,” said Kitiara, drawing her sword. “But first I must interrogate the elf maid. While I do that, you slay the others.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” said the sivak, “but Toede’s put a bounty on this lot, and he’ll pay up only if they’re brought in alive.”

“I’ll pay double what Toede has offered. Here, take this,” Kit added, seeing the sivak look skeptical. Reaching to her belt, she detached a purse and tossed it to the draconian. “There’s far more in there than what these wretches are worth.”

The sivak took a quick glance into the purse, saw the glint of steel coins, hefted the weight of the purse, did some quick mental calculations, then tied the purse securely to his battle harness. The sivak made a motion with his hand, and the baaz left their posts around the street and came to join him, moving silently on their clawed feet.

“Give me time to snatch the elf, then you attack,” Kit ordered.

“Kill the knight first,” the sivak advised his troops. “He’s the most dangerous.”

Kitiara did not have much time. Red dragons were still flying overhead, taking their time, pausing on their way out of the city to destroy anything still standing. She could hear screams, shouts and explosions. Any moment, some fool red might knock down a building on top of her. Either that or a squad of goblins, mad with battle lust, could come along and ruin everything. Kitiara slipped from shadow to shadow until she had taken up a position directly across the street from where Laurana stood.

Kit waited. Her moment would come. It always did.

Tasslehoff was sitting up. His head was covered in blood, but he was most definitely alive. The cleric raised his hands into the air. A pity his triumph wouldn’t last long, Kit thought. Flint put his hand to his eyes and rubbed his nose. The dwarf would never let the kender see he was touched; he’d be shouting at Tas about something in a minute. Sturm knelt beside Tas and put his arm around him. Laurana stood watching and weeping quietly. She stood apart from the group, seemingly overcome by grief.

Kitiara darted forward. She ran swiftly on the balls of her feet, so that her footfalls made little noise. The sivak watched her bear down on her prey. He gave her a moment’s head start, then raised his voice in a gurgling shout. The baaz, swords drawn, surged forward. The sivak, keeping one eye on the Highlord, ran with them.

Kitiara grabbed Laurana from behind. Clamping one hand over her mouth and shoving the point of a knife into her ribs with the other, Kit started to drag her off.

The woman was an elf, lovely and delicate. Kit half-expected her to faint in terror. What she didn’t expect was for the delicate elf maid to sink her delicate teeth into Kit’s hand and to kick her, hard, in the shin.

Kit grunted in pain, but she didn’t let loose. She tried to haul Laurana away, but it was like trying to haul off a half-starved cougar. The elf maid twisted and writhed. She drove her nails into Kit’s flesh and lashed out with her feet, almost tripping her. Kit was losing patience, starting to think that she should just knife the bitch and be done with it, when the sivak appeared.

“Need help, my lord?” he asked, and before she could answer, he had grabbed hold of Laurana’s feet and lifted her off the ground. Between them, they carried her, kicking and struggling, into a nearby alley.

Here Kit released her. The evening sky was red with the lurid light of flames, and by that light, Kit could see blood welling from bite marks on her palm. She wrung her hand and glared at Laurana, who glared defiantly back at her. The sivak had the elf-maid pinned to the ground. He held his knife at her throat.

“Keep her quiet,” Kit said. “I’m going to see what’s happened to the rest.”

She watched as the baaz bore down on their victims. Sturm was on his feet, holding his sword, as Flint had hold of his axe and stood protectively over Tasslehoff. The elf lord and the cleric were searching about, shouting Laurana’s name.

“Elistan, get behind me!” Sturm called out.

The small group faced twenty baaz, eager for blood. Still, Kit knew her old friends. They wouldn’t go down without a fight. She sucked on her hand, cursing Laurana, and watched. She had no doubt of the outcome, but the battle should be an interesting one.

Sturm was continuing to shout at the cleric to take cover behind him, but the cleric wasn’t listening. He stood his ground and turned to face the baaz draconians, who shouted and slavered with glee at the easy kill. The cleric lifted his hands to heaven and raised his voice in a thunderous exhortation.

“Paladine, I beseech you! Send down your wrath upon the enemies of your most holy light!”

Kitiara chuckled, sucked on her bleeding hand, and waited for the baaz to spit the cleric.

A cascade of flame, white and dazzling and awful, thundered down from the heavens. The wrath of the god engulfed almost half of the attacking baaz. Half blinded, Kit could hear screams and horrible popping and sizzling sounds. When she could see again, she watched in shocked amazement as the scaly flesh melted from their bones, the bones blackened and withered away. The holy flame died, and there was nothing left of the draconians except greasy spots on the pavement.

“Damn!” said Kitiara, impressed.

The wrath of the god gave heart and strength to the others. Sturm and Flint ran to attack the remaining draconians, who, having witnessed their comrades die a horrible death, slowed their rush toward the cleric. Laurana’s brother continued to shout her name.

“I’ll find her,” shouted the cleric, and he turned and looked in Kit’s direction.

Kitiara took to her heels, hastening back to where the sivak was still holding fast to Laurana, keeping his knife at her throat. He’d bound her hands with a strip of leather cut from her own tunic.

“What was that bright light and all that screaming?” the sivak asked curiously.

“Your baaz going up in flames. Apparently Paladine is not the weak and sniveling god our Dark Queen claims,” said Kitiara.

The sivak shook his scaly head. “Baaz,” he muttered in disgust, “what can you expect?” Shrugging, he grinned and patted the purse she’d given him. “Fewer ways to split the take.”

“We don’t have much time. The cleric’s headed this direction, looking for the elf.” Kit squatted down to put herself eye-to-eye with Laurana. “Hand me the knife. You keep watch. Let me know if he gets close.”

The sivak did as ordered and dashed off to the end of the alley. Laurana made a sudden lunge, tried to struggle to her feet.

Kitiara gave her a light tap to the jaw with her fist, not enough to knock her out, but enough to stun her. Laurana fell back and Kit put her knee on Laurana’s chest, holding the knife at her throat. A trickle of red blood ran down the alabaster skin.

“I’m going to kill you,” Kitiara said matter-of-factly. She was hoarse from coughing, her voice gruff.

Laurana glared at Kitiara, not in fear, but in defiance.

“I just want you to know I’m not some ordinary cutthroat,” Kit continued. “I want you to know why—”

Movement at the far end of the alley caught Kit’s eye. She glanced up and saw three men emerging from the smoke. They carried bloody swords in their hands, and one them held a burning torch to light their way through the smoke and gloom of coming night. The torch light shone full on his face. Kitiara recognized him immediately.

She swore almost every curse word she knew.

Derek Crownguard and his two friends were striding purposefully down the alley. She had no idea what they were doing here when they should have been out questing after dragon orbs, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered was that he must not see her. If he did, if he recognized her as belonging to the enemy side, he would immediately wonder why the enemy was sending him on a quest for a dragon orb. He’d be suspicious, perhaps even refuse to continue, and that would be the end of Ariakas’s pet plan.

As if this weren’t trouble enough, the sivak was hissing at her from behind.

“Highlord! Best hurry with your killing. That cleric’s coming!”

Kitiara put her knife to Laurana’s throat.

“Go ahead, kill me,” Laurana said, choking with tears. “I want to die. Then I’ll be with him.”

Tanis, Kitiara said to herself. She’s talking about Tanis. She thinks Tanis is dead! They all think Tanis is dead!

She saw it so clearly then—the inn collapsing, Tanis buried beneath the rubble, these people escaping, the group of friends separated. Of course, each must think the other dead, and Kit would be the last to disabuse her rival of that notion.

Kitiara thrust the knife back in her boot and stood up.

“Sorry, I don’t have time to kill you today, Princess, but we’ll meet again—you and I.”

The sivak’s clawed feet scraped on the cobblestones. He skidded to a halt and stared at the knights, who, seeing the draconian, shouted and broke into a run.

A wrathful cleric at one end of the alley. Three Solamnic knights at the other.

“This way!” said the sivak, pointing up.

A balcony from a second-story window extended out over the street. Smoke was rolling off the roof, but fire had not yet engulfed the building. The sivak crouched down below the balcony, then gave a convulsive leap. His strong legs propelled him into the air. He had long, skinny arms, and he grasped hold of the balcony’s railing and pulled himself up and over. Leaning down, he extended a clawed hand to Kitiara. She grabbed hold of his wrist and he dragged her up.

The sivak climbed onto the balcony’s rail and balanced precariously. Another, shorter leap carried him to the roof. He dug his claws into the wooden shingles, hung a moment, kicking frantically, then managed to get a leg up. Lying on his belly, he hauled Kitiara after him.

Kit looked back down. One of the knights was bending over Laurana. The other two were staring up at the draconian and Kit, wondering if they should give pursuit. Kit didn’t think they would, and she was right. With hundreds of enemy soldiers roaming the streets, there was no sense wasting precious time chasing after two of them. The cleric—who might have done some damage to them even from a distance—had stopped to tend to Laurana.

The sivak shouted at her, and Kit began to run along the rooftop. From her vantage point, she saw the remaining draconians haring off down the street, not ready to risk their lives when there were easier pickings in other parts of the doomed city. Among them were the troops Kitiara had brought with her.

“Baaz!” The sivak shook his head.

He and Kit took their time, making their way from one rooftop to the next until they ran out of buildings. The sivak could have jumped off at any point, relying on his short, stubby wings to carry him safely to the ground. He stayed with Kit, however, until he found another balcony only a short distance from the roof. From there, Kit easily jumped down to the street.

Though Kit protested that she would be safe enough, the sivak remained by her side.

“I know my way around. I can show you how to get out of the city,” he said, and Kit, who had no idea where she was, accepted his help.

Fires still raged. They would burn until the buildings were consumed, for there was no one to put them out. The red dragons had departed with the coming of night, flying off to rest and gloat over the ease of their victory. Draconians, goblins and human soldiers loyal to the Dark Queen roamed the city, searching for amusement. No one was in command. Highlord Toede had stayed far away from the fighting. He would not come anywhere near Tarsis until he’d been assured there was no danger. If there were officers in the city, no commander would dare try to restrain his forces, who were drunk with liquor and blood, for fear they would turn on him. Not that there were many commanders who would do so. Most were as drunk as, or drunker than, their troops.

“Stupid idea—attacking Tarsis,” the sivak commented.

A drunken goblin lurched into their path. The sivak bashed him on the jaw and kicked the crumpled body off to one side.

“We can’t hold the city,” the sivak went on. “No supply lines. Two days our forces will be here. Maybe three. Then we’ll be forced to pull out.”

He glanced at Kitiara and said slyly, “Unless, of course, this attack was your idea, Highlord. Then I’ll say it was sheer genius.”

Kit shook her head. “No, this wasn’t my idea. It was hatched from the seething brain of your Highlord.”

The sivak looked momentarily confused.

“Toede,” said Kitiara. “Highlord of the Red Dragonarmy.” She gestured to the insignia the sivak wore on his harness. Then, looking at it more closely, Kit grinned.

The two had reached the city gate. The sivak came to a halt. He was looking back toward the city, probably with an idea of returning to claim his share of what riches remained.

“Except you’re not with the Red Dragonarmy, are you?” Kitiara said.

“Huh?” The sivak jerked his head back to face her. “Sure I am,” he said, pointing to the insignia.

“It’s upside down,” Kit said dryly.

“Oh,” returned the sivak, and he gave a sheepish grin and righted it. “That better?”

“If they catch you, they’ll hang you. That’s what they do to deserters.”

“I didn’t desert.” The sivak waved a claw. “My commander and I heard about the attack on Tarsis, thought there might be some profit in it. We decided we’d bring the boys by to take a look, see what we could pick up.”

“Who is your commander?”

“You know, in all the excitement, I seem to have forgotten his name,” said the sivak, scratching his head and grinning. “Don’t get me wrong, Highlord. We do our part for the Queen, but we figure she won’t begrudge us making a bit of profit on our own. We’re what you might call independent contractors. We make certain we get something more out of this war than maggot-ridden rations and latrine duty.”

He cocked an eye at her. “You gonna try to arrest me, Highlord?”

Kitiara laughed. “Not after what we’ve been through tonight. You have served me well. You can go back to your commander. I’ll be safe enough from here on. My camp is not far. Thanks for your help.”

She held out her hand. “I hope you don’t mind telling me your name?”

“Slith, my lord,” said the sivak. After some hesitation, he extended his clawed hand.

“Good to meet you, Slith. I am—”

“The Blue Lady. Everyone knows you, ma’am.” Slith spoke in admiring tones.

The two shook, hand and claw, then the sivak turned and headed back toward the rubble, blood, and ash that had once been Tarsis.

“Hey, Slith,” Kit called after him, “if you ever stop being an independent contractor, come work for me!”

The sivak laughed, turned and waved, but kept on going.

Kitiara started walking. The plains stretched ahead of her. The night was dark and silent here, far from the chaos inside the city. The snow crunching beneath her boots was black with soot and ash. Furtive shadows slipped through the night around her—survivors lucky enough to have escaped Tarsis.

Kit let them be.

3 Saving the kender. Escape from Tarsis

When he left the library, Brian did not expect to make it out of Tarsis alive. He expected to face a well-organized and determined foe, such as the forces of the Blue Lady they had faced at Castle Crownguard and Vingaard, and he resolved to die bravely and take as many draconians with him as possible. Instead, what he and the other knights found when they went into the streets was a drunken, leaderless mob, far more interested in plundering and looting, murdering and raping, than in conquest.

The red dragons posed the biggest threat, and while they were in the skies, breathing down fire upon the city and its hapless inhabitants, the knights were in danger. They sought shelter from the beasts as best they could, ducking into doorways or diving under rubble as the dragons roared overhead, spewing flame, occasionally snatching up some hapless person in their claws and devouring him in midair.

Friend and enemy were both in danger from the dragons, for the reds had no compunction about blistering goblin hide or watching draconians sizzle. At one point, Brian hid beneath a smoldering oak tree alongside a quaking goblin, neither of them daring to move as a red dragon swooped low, searching for more victims. When the dragon had gone, the goblin took a gulp of some liquid from a greasy leather water skin, and, after a moment’s hesitation, offered Brian a drink. Brian should have probably slain the creature, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The two had shared a moment of terror, and both had survived. Brian politely refused the drink and waved his hand, indicating the goblin could depart. The goblin shrugged, and after a wary glance, he gave Brian a nod, then took to his heels. Derek spent the next ten minutes lecturing Brian sternly on his foolish sentimentality.

The knights had fought their way through the streets to the Red Dragon Inn, doing what they could to save people from the brutish enemy or to ease the suffering of the dying. Most of the foes the knights encountered took one look at their grim faces and bloody swords, and unless they were bolder or drunker than most, ran off. It soon became clear to the knights that once the dragonarmy had gutted Tarsis, the soldiers would depart, slinking away into the night, hung-over and loaded down with spoils and slaves. The Highlord had no plans to occupy this city, merely to destroy it.

Derek never lost sight of his goal, which was to find the Red Dragon Inn and find out what had become of the kender. But as they were walking down a side street near the inn, the knights came upon a draconian and a human soldier bending over a fallen woman, obviously with evil intent. The knights hastened to rescue the woman from the two, but before they could reach them, the draconian and the soldier had escaped into the night, climbing over the rooftops.

“Should we go after them?” Aran asked wearily.

They were all exhausted, half-suffocated from the smoke. Brian’s throat was raw from coughing and parched from thirst. They dared not drink the water from any of the wells, for it all had a reddish tinge to it.

“Pointless,” Derek said, shaking his head. “Brian, see that the woman has come to no harm. Aran, come with me. The inn is in the next block.”

Brian hastened over to help and found a middle-aged man helping the woman to her feet. Brian assumed he must be a relative until, getting a good view of the woman, he saw that she was an elf, and even though her face was smeared with dirt, soot, blood and streaked with tears, her beauty made him catch his breath.

The man rose to his feet at the sight of the armed men, and he stood protectively in front of the woman, prepared to defend her. Brian saw the man was bearded and that he wore robes that must have once been white, though they were now gray from the soot and ash raining down over the city. He stood tall, upright and unafraid, though he had no weapons. A medallion on his chest flickered in the lurid light. He was a cleric.

A cleric and an elf woman.

“Have no fear. I am a Solamnic knight, sir,” said Brian. He turned around and shouted over his shoulder, “Derek! I’ve found them. You must be Elistan, I think,” Brian added, turning back to the two, who were regarding him in astonishment. “And you must be Laurana of Qualinesti. Are you hurt, Mistress? Did they harm you?”

“No, but they meant to,” Laurana said. She seemed dazed, overwhelmed. “It was all so horrible… confusing. One of them seemed to know me. He said the strangest things to me… but how is that possible?”

Elistan put his arm around her. She leaned against him, shivering. “I couldn’t see his face, for he wore a scarf over it, but I saw his eyes…” She shuddered.

“How do you know us, sirs?” Elistan asked as Derek and Aran joined them, both coughing as a gust of smoke came swirling down the street.

“Time for questions later, sir,” said Derek peremptorily. “You are still in danger. Where are the kender, Brightblade, and the rest of your party?” He looked about. “Where is Tanis Half-elven?”

Laurana gave a sob at the name and put her hand to her mouth. Tears flooded down her cheeks, and she staggered weakly. Elistan held her and an elf male came hastening up to her. Brian recognized the elf as Gilthanas. He’d been with Tanis and the others at the library. Gilthanas glanced at the knights, gave a brief nod, then turned to care for his sister. He spoke gently to Laurana in their own language.

“I’ll stay with her,” Gilthanas said in an aside to Elistan. “You see to the kender.”

“Kender,” Derek repeated. “Do you mean Burrfoot? Where is he?”

“Tasslehoff was hurt when a beam fell on him,” Elistan explained, leading the knights back down the alley. “He was near death, but Paladine, in his mercy, brought him back to us. He is over here with the others.”

Brian glanced at Derek, who shook his head and smiled derisively.

“Hullo again, Sir Knights!” Tasslehoff cried, waving his hand and then coughing himself nearly in two as smoke flew down his windpipe.

“Are you sure he’s not hurt?” Brian exclaimed in amazement. “Look at him!’

The kender’s clothes were torn and covered with blood. His jaunty topknot was matted with blood. His face and arms were badly bruised, though the bruises seemed to be fading.

Tasslehoff answered Brian’s question by jumping gamely to his feet.

“I’m fine!” he announced. “A house fell down, blam, right on top on me! My ribs were all smashed in and I was breathing funny when I was breathing at all, which I wasn’t sometimes, and the pain was pretty bad, and I thought I was a goner. But Elistan asked Paladine to save me and he did! Think of that,” the kender added proudly, pausing to cough, “Paladine saved my life!”

“Why he bothered is beyond me,” stated the dwarf, and he gave the kender a poke in the back. “You wouldn’t catch Reorx saving the life of a kender fool enough to let a house fall on top of him!”

“I didn’t let the house fall on me!” Tas explained patiently. “I was running along, minding my own business, and the house gave a sort of jump and a lurch and the next thing I knew—hey, Laurana! Did you hear? A house fell on me and Paladine saved me!”

“Enough!” said Derek. “We must make haste! This place is still crawling with the enemy. Where is the rest of your party, Brightblade? The half-elf and the Lady Alhana?”

“We were separated in the chaos,” said Sturm. He looked exhausted, his face was lined with sorrow and grief. “The inn was hit by dragon-fire. The others…”

Sturm couldn’t go on. He shook his head.

“I see,” said Derek in understanding. “I am sorry for your loss, but we need to get you and your friends to safety.”

“Loss!” Tasslehoff cried shrilly. “What loss? What are you talking about? We can’t leave yet! What about Tanis? And Raistlin and Caramon?”

Flint covered his face with his hand.

“Tas,” said Sturm gently, going down on one knee and putting his hands on the kender’s shoulders, “there’s nothing we could do. The inn collapsed and he and the others were buried underneath—”

“I don’t believe you,” Tas cried. Pulling free of Sturm’s grasp, he staggered weakly in the direction of the inn. “Tanis! Caramon! Raistlin! Don’t give up! I’m coming to save you!”

He did not get far before his knees buckled and he went sprawling. Sturm picked up Tas and carried him back to where the knights were waiting.

“Let go of me! I have to save them! Paladine will bring them back! He brought me back!” Tas fought to free himself from Sturm’s grip.

“Tas,” said Elistan, patting the kender kindly on the shoulder, as Sturm set him on his feet, “our friends are with the gods now. We have to let them go.”

Tas shook his head stubbornly, but his shrieks quieted to sobs and he quit struggling.

“I need you, Tas,” Laurana added, a quiver in her voice. She put her arm around him. “Now that Tanis is… is not here…”

Tasslehoff took hold of Laurana’s hand and squeezed it tight. “I’ll take care of you,” he said. “I promise.”

Derek gathered the group together and started them moving down the street, heading in the direction of the south gate. Sword in hand, Aran took the lead. Brian brought up the rear, as usual. Derek kept close to the kender.

Two days! Brian thought. Only two days ago, I walked through that very same gate. So much had happened, it seemed more like two years.

Brian was more than half-tempted to run back to the library, back to Lillith. He would let Derek and Aran continue on their hunt for the dragon orb. He stopped in the street, and let the others go on ahead.

Derek and Aran. Brian sighed deeply. The two would never make it to Icereach, not without him to mediate between them, curb Derek’s ambition, calm Aran’s wilder impulses. He had made a pledge to the Knight’s Council to go on this quest, and he could not abandon his leader or go back on his sworn word.

Lillith was keeping her word. Though she laughed about being a knight’s daughter, she was a true Solamnic. She would be disappointed in him for breaking his oath. Still, he could not bear to leave, not knowing. He’d seen the horrible things draconians did to women.

A hand touched his arm. Brian looked up to find Elistan standing beside him. “Gilean holds Lillith in his hand,” the cleric said to him. “You need have no fear for her or the others. They are safe. The draconians did not find them.”

Brian stared at the cleric in bewilderment. “How do you—”

The cleric smiled at him. His smile was weary and wan, but reassuring. Elistan went to join the others, and Brian, after another moment’s hesitation, ran after them.

Laurana walked hand in hand with Tas. Gilthanas kept close beside her. Flint came along at their heels; Elistan rested his hand comfortingly on the dwarf’s shoulder. Sturm walked behind, watching over all of them protectively.

Brian regarded them in wonder. A more unusual group of friends could not be found: human, dwarf, kender, elves. Yet the friendship and love these people felt for each other was so strong that nothing could break them, not even death.

Their friendship keeps them going on even after such devastating loss, Brian realized. Each puts aside his or her own grief to comfort and give strength to the others.

Brian felt a pang of envy. He, Aran and Derek had been friends since childhood, and while once they had been close like this, they were not any more. Derek had walled himself off from the other two, sealing himself up inside his soul’s fortress. Aran no longer trusted Derek. He was there to make certain Derek did not fail, or perhaps, Brian thought bleakly, Aran is here to make certain Derek does fail. Aran is Gunthar’s man, after all…

Brian was caught in the middle, the only one to see the cracks between them widening, the only one to see that they might all of them fall into those dark crevices and never be able to find their way out.

The knights and those under their protection left Tarsis safely. No enemy soldier attacked them or molested them or even paid much attention to them. Tarsis lay weltering in a pool of her own blood, writhing in her death throes. Her eyes were dimming, closing to the light. Leaving the city through the gate that had been smashed by the dragons, Brian saw the guard who had taken his money lying dead in a pool of blood.

The knights led their charges safely into the hills, to the cave where they had made camp earlier. Brian could not sleep and he offered to take first turn at guard duty. He sat on the hillside and watched the flames flare and roar, then sink to a sputter, and then, when there was nothing left to consume, the fires died.

And so did Tarsis.

4 Iolanthe lies. Skie rebels

Far from Tarsis, in the city of Neraka, in the small apartment over the mageware store, Iolanthe watched the image of Kitiara vanish, wafting away with the smoke and the wisps of hair.

“That is the last lock of her hair, my lord,” Iolanthe said. “Unless I can obtain more, I can no longer cast the spell.”

“It is not important.” Ariakas planted his hands on the table and leveraged himself to his feet. He stood long moments, still frowning at the last little trails of smoke. “I know all I need to know now.”

As he was leaving, he tossed over his shoulder, “I will require your presence at her trial.”

Iolanthe lifted her eyebrows. “Trial, my lord?”

Ariakas rarely bothered with such formalities. He made a gesture of resignation. “Kitiara is a Highlord. Her troops, and more importantly, her dragons are fiercely loyal to her. There would be trouble if I simply killed her. Her crimes must be made public. You will testify what your magic has revealed.”

“I cannot do that, my lord,” Iolanthe replied.

He halted in the door, his face dark with rage.

She added, humbly, “I have sworn on oath to Nuitari, God of the Dark Moon, that I would never reveal the secret of that spell. I may not break such an oath on peril of my life.”

“You are in peril of your life right now, Iolanthe,” growled Ariakas, clenching his fist.

Iolanthe trembled, but she did not back down.

“I honor and respect you, my lord,” she said in a low voice, “but Nuitari is my god.”

She was on safe ground. Ariakas believed in the gods, and although he did not serve Nuitari, having chosen to pledge his loyalty to Nuitari’s mother, Queen Takhisis, he revered the god of dark magic and feared him. Even the Emperor of Ansalon would be loathe to do anything to arouse Nuitari’s wrath.

Ariakas stared at her, trying to intimidate her. She stood impassive under his scrutiny, meeting his gaze. Ariakas gave a snarl and a grunt, then turned and stalked out of the room. He slammed the door behind him with such force the walls shook.

Iolanthe gasped and shuddered with relief and sank down in a chair, too weak and shaken to stand. She poured herself a glass of brandywine with a shaking hand, drank the fiery liquid, and felt better.

When her hands ceased to tremble, she reached into the silken bag and took out one more lock of curly black hair. Iolanthe twisted the lock thoughtfully in her fingers, as she gazed into the flames and smiled.

Kit arrived back at her camp in the gray dawn. She had been looking forward to finding Tanis here, waiting for her, only to discover Skie had not yet returned with the prize she’d sent him to fetch. Kit went to bed, leaving orders that the guards wake her the moment the dragon appeared. She slept the day through and well into the night. When she finally woke, there was still no sign of Skie.

Several days passed after that with no news of the dragons. Kitiara fumed, fretted and made life hell for the draconians, who kept out of her sight as much as possible. She had plenty of time to think not only about Tanis but also about her rival. Kit decided she was glad she hadn’t killed Laurana. Kitiara had always been competitive.

“I didn’t want Tanis until I found out another woman might take him from me,” Kit realized. “As it is, making him mine again will be that much sweeter.” She smiled the crooked smile. “Perhaps when I’m finished with him, I’ll send the elf maid whatever’s left.”

Lying in bed at night—alone—she entertained herself with thoughts of what she would do when Skie brought Tanis back.

“I will be angry with Tanis. I will tell him I have discovered his infidelity. I will accuse him of abandoning me for Laurana. He’ll deny it, of course, but I won’t listen. I’ll rant and rave and work myself into a passion. No tears. I can’t abide women who weep. He’ll beg my forgiveness. He’ll take me in his arms, and I’ll fight him. I’ll dig my nails into his flesh until the blood runs and he’ll stop my curses with his lips, and then I’ll relent slowly. Ever so slowly…”

Kitiara fell asleep with a smile on her lips, a smile that disappeared when Queen Takhisis paid her yet another visit in her dreams, urging, pleading, cajoling. Lord Soth, it seemed, had yet to enter the war. Kit woke groggy and in a bad temper to find that Skie and the other blue dragons had finally returned.

Kit hurried to meet them, only to discover they had failed utterly.

“We chased the damn griffons for days,” Skie told her. “We couldn’t catch them and eventually lost them.”

The blue dragon was sullen.

“I have no idea where the half-elf is,” he added in response to her questions, “and I could not care less.”

Kitiara was enraged. The entire mission to Tarsis had been a waste of time, money, and energy. She needed someone to blame, and she settled on Toede. She was writing up a scathing report on the hobgoblin, recommending that he should be relieved of his command and his head, when a messenger arrived on dragonback, summoning her to Neraka for an emergency meeting of the Highlords.

“Don’t go,” Skie said abruptly, as Kitiara was putting on her helm.

“What? Don’t be silly. Of course, I’m going. I’ll make my charges against Toede in person. Much more effective. What’s the matter?” she demanded, seeing Skie lower his head and hunch his shoulder.

“What’s this urgent meeting about?” he asked.

Kitiara shrugged. “Ariakas didn’t say. Perhaps it will be about the debacle in Tarsis or maybe the matter of the death knight.”

Hands on her hips, arms akimbo, Kit stared at the dragon.

“Why shouldn’t I go?”

Skie was silent, brooding, then he said, “Because you were wrong. You were wrong to bring us here to chase after your lover. You were wrong to send us off in pursuit of him, and you were doubly wrong to risk your life seeking out your rival like some jealous whore—”

“Shut up!” Kitiara shouted angrily.

Skie kept quiet, but his tail twitched, his claws dug into the dirt, clenched and released and clenched again. He eyed her, then looked away.

“I am going to Neraka,” Kitiara stated.

“Then find another dragon,” said Skie, and he lifted his wings, pushed off with his hind legs, and soared into the sky, heading north, back to Solamnia.

Kitiara stood on the ground, staring after him. She watched in astonishment until he had finally disappeared. Then she took off her dragon helm, put it under her arm, turned, and walked away.

5 Fleeing Tarsis. Danger from above. Laurana’s decision

The next morning, the smoke of the burning funeral pyre that was now Tarsis continued to rise into the air. Snow started to fall and this would be forever known as the Day of the Black Snow, for the white flakes were tainted with soot and cinders. The black snow settled on the bodies in the street and on the comatose draconians who had passed out due to a surfeit of dwarf spirits. By the end of the day, their officers had sobered up enough to start rousing their men; the mighty force of the Red Dragonarmy—having no orders to do otherwise—started to straggle back north.

The three knights woke early from a sleep that had been brief, cold, and uncomfortable, and took stock of their situation. They had no horses; the beasts had either run off during the attack on the city, or, more likely, they had been stolen. They had found horse blankets in the stable and appropriated these to use for bedding. Tas had discovered a heavy, fur-lined, hooded coat for Laurana, who had been inside the inn when it was attacked and had been forced out into the cold wearing only a leather tunic of dwarven make over a woolen shirt and leather breeches tucked into leather boots. The rest had clothing suitable to the cold, but no food. They drank melted snow water, and that sparingly, for it tasted like blood.

Derek had spent the hours he was standing watch making plans.

“We travel south to Rigitt,” Derek stated. “Once there, we will separate—”

“What if Rigitt was attacked?” Aran interrupted. “We could be walking into another hell just like this one.” He jerked his thumb back at the smoldering ruins of the city.

“I don’t think Rigitt is in any danger,” said Derek. “The dragonarmies don’t have the will or the manpower to hold Tarsis. When we reach Rigitt, Aran will book passage on a ship and escort Gilthanas, Laurana and Elistan back to Solamnia. From there, the elves can search out their people and Elistan can do whatever it is he does. Brian and I will take the kender and sail to Icereach—”

Seeing Aran shaking his head, Derek halted his planning.

“What’s wrong?” Derek demanded, annoyed.

“There won’t be a sailing vessel left in the city, Derek,” Aran explained testily. He kept reaching for his flask, only to remember that it was empty, and he was in an uncharacteristic bad mood. “Even if Rigitt hasn’t been attacked, its people will be certain they’re next and they’ll be fleeing the city in anything that floats.”

Derek frowned, but he couldn’t very well argue against the wisdom of this.

“I’m going to Icereach with you,” Aran continued firmly. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“I had no intention of ‘getting rid of you’,” said Derek. “I am concerned for the welfare of the elf brother and sister. They are royalty, after all. I am also worried about the older gentleman. That is why I proposed sending you with them. I still believe this is a good idea. If we can find a ship—”

Aran began to argue, and Brian hurriedly intervened.

“We might hire a fishing vessel,” he suggested. “Fishermen are a hardy lot. They don’t scare easily and they’ve their livelihood to make. They aren’t likely to run off in a panic.”

Both Derek and Aran agreed his suggestion was sound, though Aran grumbled some. That ended the argument, however, and the three continued to talk of this and consider other options, and, for the moment, the matter of how they would split the party was forgotten.

Gilthanas stood at the entrance to the cave, listening to the knights. Hearing footsteps behind him, he half-turned. He saw it was Laurana and put his finger to his lips, cautioning her to be silent.

“Why?” she whispered.

“So I can hear what they are plotting,” he returned. “Plotting?” Laurana repeated, bewildered. “You talk of the knights as if they were the enemy.”

“And they talk of going to Icereach to find a dragon orb,” said Gilthanas.

He shushed her when she would have said more and continued to listen. The knights’ conversation had ended, however. They had risen to their feet, stretching to ease the kinks in stiff, chilled muscles.

Gilthanas took hold of Laurana and steered her hurriedly away from the entrance, drawing her deeper into the darkness where Flint, Elistan and Tasslehoff were still asleep, huddled together for warmth.

Laurana looked at them enviously.

She was sick with fatigue, yet she had not been able to sleep. Every time she dozed off, she saw those ruthless dark eyes, she felt the knife prick her throat, and the terror returned, jolting her into wakefulness. When she was awake, she remembered Tanis and her grief tore at her so that she bled inside. He was dead, and her soul had died with him. She did not even have the poor comfort of being able to lay him to rest, sing the hymns of praise and love that would guide him on his way to the next stage of his life’s journey. If only she could have gone with him…

“Laurana, are you listening to me?” Gilthanas demanded. “This is important.”

“Yes, Gil,” Laurana lied. She dredged up some vague memory of what he had been saying. “You were talking about dragon orbs. What are they?”

Gilthanas saw her pallor. He saw the dark circles that smudged the skin beneath her eyes, and the red-rimmed, swollen eyelids and the tear-streaked grime on her cheeks. He put his arm around her and she leaned against him, grateful for his comfort.

“I know you don’t care about any of this,” he said softly, “but you must. It’s important—”

Laurana shook her head. “Nothing’s important anymore, Gil. Nothing matters.”

“This does, Laurana. Listen to me! Dragons orbs are powerful magical artifacts created by wizards long ago. I heard talk of them when I was studying magic. I asked my master about them, but he could tell me little, except that he believed they were either destroyed by the Kingpriest or by the mages themselves during the Lost Battles. All he knew was that those who mastered the orbs were supposed to have the ability to control dragons.

“At that time, we had no idea that dragons remained in the world, so none of us thought much about them.” The elf’s expression grew dark. “If a dragon orb has been found, it must not fall into the hands of humans! That knight, that Derek, means to be rid of us. He wants to ship us back home, and I know why. The Solamnics plan to use the orb to save themselves. Never a thought for our people!” he added bitterly.

Laurana shrugged. “What does it matter anyway, Gil? What could one of these orbs do to help us even if we did have it? What could hundreds of orbs do? We can’t win against the Dark Queen’s might. We can only hope to survive for a day or a week or month, knowing all the while that in the end the evil will find us…”

She wept in quiet despair. Her brother pressed her close, but even as he soothed his sister, he remained fixated on the dragon orbs.

“Apparently, Tasslehoff knows something about this dragon orb,” Gilthanas whispered. “Perhaps you could persuade him to tell you—”

Laurana smiled through her tears. “If the knights are relying on Tasslehoff for information about this orb, I do not think you have anything to fear, brother. Tas has undoubtedly made up this wondrous tale, and the knights have been gullible enough to believe him.”

“They are not fools. Say nothing of this!” he warned Laurana, and he walked abruptly out the cave as the knights were entering, bumping his shoulder rudely into Brian as he passed him. The elf’s ire was so apparent that Brian stopped to stare after him in wonder.

Laurana sighed softly, despairingly, as she watched the black snow fall outside.

“None of it matters, Gil,” she repeated wearily. “We cannot win. We just wait our turn to die.”

The snow stopped falling, but the gray clouds remained with them all day and into the night. No dragons appeared and no one felt the sense of unease and foreboding that comes with a dragon presence in the area. Derek decided that it would be safe to venture forth, and they set out, traveling south. They avoided the main road, for fear of the dragonarmies, and the going was slow. Tasslehoff, wrapped for extra warmth in a horse blanket, was still weak and though he was game, his legs “let him down,” as he stated, going all wobbly.

Laurana walked as in a trance, moving her feet, going where she was told to go, stopping when she was told to stop, but with little idea of where she was or why. She kept reliving those last moments in the inn when they heard the dragon roaring overhead and then the explosion and the thick beams in the ceiling groaning beneath the weight of the top levels caving in and then the cracks that foretold the ceiling about to give way. Tanis had caught hold of her and picked her up and hurled her as far as he could, throwing her clear of the destruction, and perishing beneath it.

She was not alone in her grief. Sturm’s sorrow was etched on his pallid face. Flint remained silent and stoic, though his grief over the loss of his longtime friends must run deep as the fathomless sea. Tasslehoff pulled out a handkerchief he thought had once belonged to Caramon and had to fight off a snuffle. Yet they carried on bravely, even finding the strength to murmur a gruff and awkward word of sympathy to her or give her a kind pat on the hand. Elistan tried to comfort her and at his gentle touch, she felt her sorrow ease a little, but when his hand was removed and his voice was silent, she sank back into misery.

Laurana also sensed the mounting impatience of the knights. “At this rate,” Derek was heard to state grimly, “we might reach Rigitt by springtime!” She sensed the tension and the fear that kept everyone watching the skies. She felt she should try to crawl out of this well of black despair into which she had fallen, but she did not want to leave the darkness. The light up top was too bright. Voices were too loud, jarring. She found comfort in the silence. She dreamed of pulling the rocks and dirt down on top of her and letting them bury her, as the debris had buried Tanis, and put an end to her suffering.

They walked on until darkness overtook them. Laurana discovered that if the day had been bad, the night was worse, for again she could not sleep. Morning broke, cold and cheerless, and they started out. After a time, night and day began to merge together for Laurana. She walked in a waking dream in one, and dreamed she walked in another. She had no idea what time it was, how far they had come, or how many days they had traveled. She could not eat. She drank water only because someone thrust the water skin into her hands. She walked, numb with grief and fatigue and cold, heedless of all around her. She knew her friends were growing increasingly concerned about her and she wanted to tell them not to bother, but even that called for more effort than she had to give.

Then came the day when shouts of alarm roused her from her somnambulist state.

She saw everyone looking into the sky, pointing and exclaiming. Aran was armed with a bow, and he had nocked an arrow on the string. Derek had grabbed hold of Tasslehoff and tossed him into a snow-filled ditch. Brian was urging the rest of them to take cover.

Laurana stared into the clouds and could see nothing, at first, and then ten enormous winged beasts appeared, spiraling down out of the sky.

Aran raised his bow, taking aim.

Laurana gasped and whispered, “No! Stop!” just as Gilthanas gave a hoarse cry and threw himself against the knight, jostling his aim and nearly knocking the man down. Derek turned on Gilthanas and punched him on the jaw, felling him. Elistan ran to help Gilthanas, who lay limp in the snow. Flint stood alongside Sturm, both of them staring into the sky. Sturm had his sword drawn; Flint was fingering his axe.

Tasslehoff, floundering knee deep in snow in the ditch, was wailing, “I can’t see! What’s happening? I can’t see!”

Aran regained his balance and was once more nocking his arrow. Laurana looked at her brother, but he was still unconscious. She ran forward, seized Aran’s arm and gripped him tightly.

“Do not shoot, Sir Knight! They are griffons!”

“Yes, so?” he said harshly.

“Griffons are dangerous,” Laurana cried, keeping fast hold of him, “but only to our foes!”

Aran hesitated. He looked at Derek, who scowled and said in Solamnic, “I do not trust her. Shoot them down.”

Laurana did not understand his words, but she understood the dark look he gave her and she guessed what he had said. Aran was once more taking aim.

“Can you shoot all of them with one arrow, sir?” Laurana demanded angrily. “Because that is what you will have to do. If you strike one, the others will attack and rip us apart.”

Sturm was by her side, adding his own urging. “You can trust her, Aran,” he said. “My life on her word.”

Since the griffons were almost upon them now, it made little difference whether Aran trusted her or not. The great beasts landed some distance away, their feathery wings extended, powerful leonine hind legs touching the ground, gaining purchase by digging in the sharp claws of their eagle talons. Fierce black eyes glared at them above the curved beaks.

“Lower your bow,” Laurana told Aran. “Sturm, Flint, the rest of you—sheathe your weapons.”

Sturm immediately did as she asked. Flint put his axe back in its harness, but he kept his hand near the handle. Aran lowered his bow. Brian slowly slid his sword back into the scabbard. Derek shook his head stubbornly and held fast to his weapon.

Watching the griffons, Laurana saw the glint in their eyes. Their beaks snapped. Their lion claws tore at the ground, their lion tails twitched, their eagle talons lifted and flexed.

“Sheathe your sword now, Sir Knight!” Laurana hissed at Derek through clenched teeth, “or you will get us all killed!”

Derek glanced at her, his expression grim. Then, with an angry gesture, he thrust his sword back into its scabbard.

Laurana looked over her shoulder at her brother, hoping he could deal with this dangerous situation. Gilthanas had regained his senses, but he was leaning against Elistan, rubbing his jaw, and peering about dazedly. It was up to her.

Laurana ran her fingers through her hair, doing what she could to comb the golden tangles, and smoothed and straightened her clothing. Picking up a handful of snow, she scrubbed her face. The rest were staring at her as though she had taken leave of her senses, but she knew what she was about. She had dealt with griffons often in Qualinesti.

Noble, dignified beasts, griffons are fond of ceremony and formalities. They are easily insulted and must be approached with the utmost politeness, or they could quite literally fly into a rage. Their attention was fixed on her. They ignored the rest. Griffons dislike and distrust humans, dwarves, and kender, and would just as soon kill them as not. Griffons do not always love elves, but they know elves and sometimes can be convinced to serve them, particularly by the elven royalty, who enjoy a special bond with griffons. Laurana’s attempts to make herself neat and presentable before she spoke to them would please the griffons.

She started to walk forward to meet them. Sturm moved to accompany her, but she saw the beasts’ black eyes glitter with anger and she shook her head.

“You are human and you carry a sword,” she said softly. “They don’t like that. I must do this alone.”

When Laurana was about six feet from the leader, she stopped and bowed low.

“I am honored to be in the presence of one of such magnificence,” she said, speaking Elvish. “How may I and my comrades”—she gestured to those standing behind her—“be of service to you?”

Griffons, unlike dragons, do not have the gift of speech. The story goes that when the gods created the griffons, the gods offered the beasts the ability to communicate with humanoids, but the griffons, seeing no reason to have speech with such lesser creatures, proudly declined. In this and in most other things, griffons consider themselves superior to dragons.

Over the centuries, however, as the griffons and the elves developed their unique bond, members of the elven royal family learned to communicate mind-to-mind with the winged beasts. Laurana had acted often as her father’s emissary to those griffons who had made their home near Qualinesti. She knew how to treat them with the courtesy and respect they required, and she could understand the gist of what they were saying, if not their precise words.

The beast’s thoughts entered her head. The griffon wanted to know if she was truly Daughter of the Speaker of the Sun of Qualinesti. The griffon was clearly dubious. Laurana couldn’t blame the beast. She did not look much like an elf princess.

“I have the honor to be the daughter of my father, the Speaker of the Sun of Qualinesti.” Laurana managed the correct reply, though she was considerably startled by the question. “Forgive my asking, Great One, but how do you know me? How did you know where to find me?”

“What is going on?” Derek asked in a low voice. “Does she really expect us to believe she is communicating with these monsters?”

Elistan cast him a rebuking glance. “Like many members of the Qualinesti and Silvanesti royal families, Laurana has the ability to mentally communicate with griffons.”

Derek shook his head in disbelief and whispered to Brian, “Be ready to fight our way out of this.”

The griffon continued to inspect Laurana, looking her up and down, and apparently decided to believe her. The griffon told her they were sent by Lady Alhana Starbreeze to take the Daughter of the Speaker of the Sun and her brother wherever they wanted to go.

That explained the mystery. Laurana had heard from Gilthanas how he and Tanis and the others had met the Silvanesti princess, and how they had saved Alhana from being thrown into a Tarsian prison. The Silvanesti princess was mindful of her debt to them, it seemed. She had sent the griffons to find them and make certain they were safe.

Laurana clasped her hands. She forgot the formalities in her joy. “You can take us home?” she cried. “To Qualinesti?”

The griffon assented.

Laurana longed for home. To be once more in her father’s warm embrace. To see again the green woodlands and the sparkling rivers. To breathe the perfumed air and hear the soft, sweet music of flute and harp. To know she was safe and loved. To lie down among the tall green grass, there to drift into deep and dreamless sleep.

Laurana forgot, in her dream of home, that her people had been driven from Qualinesti, that they were living in exile, but even if she had remembered, it would not have made much difference.

“Gilthanas!” Laurana cried to her brother in Elvish. “They have come to take us home!” She flushed, remembering that the others could not understand her, and then repeated her words in Common. She looked back at the griffons. “Will you take my friends as well?”

The griffons did not appear at all pleased with this. They glared at the knights and looked extremely hostile at the sight of the kender, who had at last managed to climb out of the ditch and was saying excitedly, “Do I really get to fly on a griffon? I’ve never done that before. I rode on a pegasus once.”

The griffons conferred, cawing raucously, and at length agreed to carry the others. Laurana had the vague impression that Lady Alhana had asked them for this favor, though she guessed the griffons would not admit it. They laid down many conditions, however, before they would consent to let the others come near them, particularly the kender and the knights.

Laurana turned to give the others the good news, only to find her words met with grim, dubious, or uneasy looks.

“You and your brother and the rest may fly off with these creatures if you choose, Lady Laurana,” Derek said coldly, “but the kender stays with us.”

“What if the kender doesn’t want to stay with you?” Tasslehoff demanded, but everyone ignored him.

Gilthanas was on his feet. His jaw was swollen, but he had his wits about him. “I’m staying with the knights,” he said in Elvish. “I’m not going to let them get hold of this dragon orb, and I think you should stay, too.”

Laurana stared at him in dismay. “Gil, this is some tale Tas made up—”

Gilthanas shook his head. “You’re wrong about that. The knights discovered confirmation of the orb’s existence in the library back in Tarsis. If there is a chance a dragon orb has survived all these centuries, I want to be the one to find it.”

“What are you two jabbering about?” Derek demanded suspiciously. “Speak Common, so that we may all understand.”

“Stay with me, Laurana,” her brother urged, continuing to speak in Elvish. “Help me recover this orb. Do this for the sake of our people instead of wallowing in grief over the half-elf.”

“Tanis gave his life for mine!” Laurana cried in a choked voice. “I would be dead if he hadn’t—”

But Gilthanas wasn’t listening. Glancing at the knights, then turning back to his sister, he said, speaking Common, “Ask the griffons to take us to Icereach.”

Derek, Aran and Brian exchanged glances. Although unorthodox, this mode of transportation solved all their problems. The griffons could fly over the sea and thereby take them directly to their destination, saving them days and perhaps weeks of travel, even if they could find a ship, which was not guaranteed.

“Gil, please, let’s just go home,” Laurana begged.

“We will go home, Laurana, once we have the dragon orb,” Gilthanas replied. “Will you desert our friends in this time of peril? Leave them behind? Our friends would not abandon you. Ask Sturm what he intends to do.”

None of her friends had spoken yet. They had been watching and listening in silence, not thinking it right to intervene. They regarded her with sympathy, preparing to offer comfort, understanding her need, leaving the decision to her.

“What should I do?” she asked Sturm.

“Tell the griffons to take you home, Laurana,” he said gently. “The rest of us will travel to Icereach.”

Laurana shook her head. “You don’t understand. The griffons will take you humans only if I am with you… I’m the only one who can understand them. Gilthanas never had the patience to learn.”

“Then we will find our way to Icereach without their help,” Flint declared.

“You could come back to Qualinesti with me,” Laurana said. “Why don’t you?”

“It’s the kender,” Flint explained. “The knights plan to take him to Icereach.”

“I don’t understand,” said Laurana. “If Tas doesn’t want to go, Derek can’t make him.”

“You tell her,” Flint said, nudging Sturm.

Sturm hesitated, then said, “I think Tas should go, Laurana. I agree that this dragon orb may be of great help to us, and if Tas goes…” He paused, then said, “Derek would not hesitate to sacrifice his life for his cause, Laurana, and he would not hesitate to sacrifice the lives of others. Do you understand?”

“I go with Sturm and the knights,” said Flint, adding gruffly, “After all, someone has to protect them from Tasslehoff.” The dwarf reached out, awkwardly patted her hand. “Sturm is right. You go home, Laurana. We’ll manage.”

Laurana looked last to Elistan, her mentor, her guide. He lightly touched the medallion of Paladine he wore around his neck.

He was saying she should turn to Paladine in her trouble. Laurana had no need to ask the god. She knew what she wanted to do, and she knew what she had to do. She could not fly off to safety and leave her friends to face a long and dangerous trek to Icereach, not when she could provide them with safe, swift transport. Gilthanas was right. She could not desert friends who would never think of deserting her.

Laurana gave one last longing thought to her homeland, then left her friends and walked back the griffons. “I thank you for your offer to take us to Qualinesti,” she said. Her voice quivered as she began, but grew stronger as she proceeded. “However, we have urgent business to the south in Icereach. I was wondering if you would take my friends and me to that land.”

Derek said loudly, “Tell the beasts that an evil elf wizard named Feal-Thas is Dragon Highlord of Icereach and that we go to destroy him.”

The griffons appeared highly amused by this. Several cawed loudly and stomped their hind feet and twitched their lion tails. The leader rubbed his beak with a talon and told Laurana that they knew of this Feal-Thas. He was a dark elf, cast out of Silvanesti before the Cataclysm for murdering his lover, and he was an extremely powerful wizard who would not be taken down by a handful of iron-clad fools. The griffon advised her that her first course of action was wise. The beast told her to return home to her father, where she belonged.

“I thank you, Great One,” Laurana said, gently but firmly, “but we will travel to Icereach.”

The griffon’s admonition to go home “where she belonged”—as though she were some errant, heedless child—stung Laurana. She had been just such a child once, but no more.

“If you will not take us,” she continued, seeing the griffons about to refuse, “then we must travel to that land on our own. When you return to Silvanesti, give the Lady Alhana my grateful thanks for her care and concern.”

The griffon mulled over her request. The griffon would be forced to tell Lady Alhana that he had refused to carry Laurana and the others to her chosen destination. Griffons do not consider themselves obliged to serve elves they are not bonded to, but they had agreed to this task and the beasts would consider themselves honor-bound to undertake it. Besides, on consideration, Icereach was close to their home, which was near Silvanesti. Qualinesti was far away.

“We will take you,” the griffon agreed grudgingly, “for the sake of Lady Alhana.”

“I thank you and your brethren with all my heart,” said Laurana, bowing. “I will give you rich reward when I am in my own homeland and able to do so.”

The griffon grunted. He appreciated the gesture, though the beast obviously doubted that Laurana would live long enough to fulfill her promise.

Flint glowered at the thought of riding a griffon, especially without a saddle.

“It is not much different from riding a horse bareback,” Gilthanas told him soothingly.

“Except if you fall off a horse, you get bumps and bruises,” Flint pointed out. “Whereas if I fall off that great beast, I will end up splattered over a lot of ground!”

He continued to mutter his protests, even as he allowed Sturm to assist him onto the griffon’s back.

Laurana instructed the dwarf to sit forward of the wings and hang on tightly, keeping his arms around the griffon’s neck. The last was unnecessary, for Flint had hold of the griffon in a grip that appeared likely to strangle the beast.

“Don’t look down. If you feel giddy once you are airborne, close your eyes or bury your head in the griffon’s mane,” she told him.

At this, Flint looked triumphantly at Tasslehoff. “I told you griffons had manes, you doorknob!”

“But, Flint,” Tas returned, “the griffon’s mane is made of feathers. The mane on your helm is horse hair—”

“It is the mane of a griffon!” Flint insisted.

He sat bolt upright after that and eased up on his grip, trying to look as though flying on griffon-back was something dwarves did on a daily basis.

The knights were ill at ease. Aran said he feared he was too heavy; the beast could not bear his weight. The griffon only snorted and shook his head and twitched his tail in impatience to be gone. Reluctantly, Aran and Brian mounted their beasts. Sturm took charge of Tasslehoff, who was overheard asking the griffons if they could take him to visit Lunitari after they stopped at Icereach. If Derek had doubts, he resolutely kept them to himself. When everyone was mounted, the lead griffon, bearing Laurana, leapt into the air and the rest followed.

Laurana had flown on griffons before. She was used to flight, and she kept a concerned watch on her companions. Brian had gone deathly pale as they soared into the air, but once airborne he stared down at the ground unrolling beneath him and gasped in awe and delighted wonder. Derek was stern and grim, lips pressed tightly together. He did not look down, but he did not hide his face either. Aran was enjoying himself. He yelled out that they should try to convince the griffons to carry them into battle, as the Dark Queen’s minions rode their evil dragons. Sturm had all he could do to keep tight hold of Tasslehoff, who nearly tumbled off in his efforts to grab a cloud.

Beneath them was the Plains of Dust, white with snow. They saw a band of Plainsmen, who halted in their travels and gazed upward as the shadows of the griffons flowed over them. The beasts flew over Rigitt, and though they saw no signs of the dragonarmy, they could see the wharf crowded with people eager to flee. Only a few ships were in the harbor; far too few to carry all those seeking passage.

Leaving Rigitt behind, they flew over the gray-blue sea, and now all of them buried their heads in the griffons’ manes, not from fear, but for warmth. The frigid wind blowing off the glacier stung their cheeks and burned their eyes and froze their breath. When the griffons began to spiral downward, Laurana peeped out from the feathers to see beneath her a white land of blue shadows, frozen and empty.

She laid her head among the griffon’s feathers and pictured her homeland, where it was always springtime, the air always warm, perfumed with the scents of roses, lavender and honeysuckle.

Her tears froze on her skin.

6 Highlords. High treason

Kitiara’s journey from Tarsis to Neraka was not a pleasant one. The skies were gray and overcast. A chill drizzling rain mixed with snow fell almost the entire trip. She was chilled and wet all the time. When they stopped at night to rest, she could not build a fire to warm herself, for the only wood she could find was soaked. The blue dragon was respectful to her and deferential, but he wasn’t Skie. She couldn’t talk to this dragon about her plans and schemes, couldn’t visit with him while he crunched beef bones from a stolen cow and she stewed a rabbit.

Kitiara was angry at Skie. He had no right to make such accusations, yet she found herself hoping the dragon would think better of his temper fit and come in search of her, ready to apologize. Skie did not appear, however.

They arrived at Neraka as darkness was falling. Kitiara sent the blue to the dragon stables, telling the beast to be ready to depart the moment the meeting was adjourned. Kitiara made her way through the crowded streets to the Broken Shield Inn. She was cold, hungry, and wanted a warm bed, a blazing fire, and hot, spiced wine. But when she arrived, she was told regrettably that there was no room. The inn was filled to capacity with Highlord Toede’s personal staff, retinue, soldiers, and bodyguards.

Kitiara could have slept in her own private quarters in the Temple of the Dark Queen, but those chambers were cold, gloomy, and comfortless, not to say unsettling. The gates were trapped with deadly magicks, and she would have to remember the password and hand over her weapons and answer a lot of fool questions. She got on well enough with the draconian guards, but she couldn’t abide the dark priests slinking about in their heavy black woolen robes that always smelt of incense, cheap dye, and damp sheep. The fire in her grate in the temple would be small and feeble, almost as if the Nightlord was wary of any source of light invading his sacred darkness. There would be no spiced wine, for strong drink was forbidden on Temple grounds, and Kitiara believed, as did Ariakas, that while she was there, unfriendly eyes were watching her, ears were listening.

Seeing the rage in Kit’s dark eyes when told there was no room, the innkeeper recalled suddenly that there might be one available. He hastily sent his servants to remove two of Toede’s henchmen who had drunk themselves into a stupor. It took six men to haul the dead drunk hobgoblins out of their beds; and they woke the next morning to discover, to their bleary astonishment, that they’d spent the night in the stables. Kitiara took over their room, aired it out well, drank several mugs of the warming wine, and fell into bed.

Since this was an emergency meeting of the Dragon Highlords, there was none of the ceremony generally attendant upon such an exalted gathering. Formal meetings of the Highlords were accompanied by parades of soldiers dressed in shining armor marching through the streets with standards flying. As it was, few people in Neraka knew the Highlords were in town. Two, Salah Khan and Lucien Takar, were accompanied by their personal staff and bodyguards. Two others, Kitiara and Feal-Thas, traveled alone.

The newly promoted Highlord Toede was the only one to bring his entourage. Toede had hoped to be able to triumphantly parade his troops, with himself mounted upon a black stallion, through the streets of Neraka. Various difficulties crushed the hob’s dreams. The stallion bolted at the smell of him; half his soldiers had deserted during the night, and the other half were too drunk to stand. Toede had to content himself with attending his first meeting resplendent in a suit of dragon armor, the scales of which weighed nearly as much as if they were still on the dragon, causing the poor hob considerable pain and discomfort, and hampering his mobility to such an extent that, in lieu of riding on the black stallion, he had to be hauled to the meeting in a hay wagon. The helm obscured his vision and his sword tangled his legs, tripping him, but Toede thought he looked sublime—every inch the Highlord—and he anticipated making a grand entrance.

The meeting was scheduled for early in the morning. Kit left orders to be awakened at dawn and went to bed early. Takhisis was almost immediately in her dreams again, prodding her to go to Dargaard Keep. Kit refused. The Dark Queen scolded and taunted, sneered at Kitiara, called her a coward. Kitiara pulled her pillow over her head and either the Dark Queen grew weary of badgering her, or Kitiara was so tired that she slipped beneath the dreams into exhausted slumber.

At the appointed hour, someone came banging on her door. Kitiara swore at them and told them to go away. When she finally woke up, it was to bright sunlight and the panicked feeling she was late. Muddle-headed and sluggish, Kit hurriedly dressed herself in her gambeson and put her armor on over that.

She had given orders to have her armor polished and her boots cleaned and this had been done, though the job was not up to her standards. No time to remedy that, however. She was going to be late as it was. Her temples throbbed from lack of sleep and too much wine. She wished her head were clearer so that she could think better.

Accoutered in her blue dragon scale armor and cloaked in a long blue velvet cape that was sadly wrinkled from having been stuffed into her traveling bag, Kitiara placed the helm of the Dragon Highlord on her head and set forth. The meeting was being held in the Blue Quarter, in the headquarters building of the Blue Wing, the same building where Kit had first heard about Tanis, first heard Ariakas’s idiot scheme regarding the dragon orb, first met Ariakas’s witch whose name she could not recall.

Citizens and soldiers alike made way for Kitiara, and many cheered her. She cut a fine figure, walking tall and proud, her hand on her sword’s hilt. Kit enjoyed the walk. The cold air blew away the fumes of the wine, the cheers braced and emboldened her. Kitiara took her time, accepted the crowd’s adulation. The other Highlords could wait for her, she decided. She was not going to rush on account of the likes of Toede and that bastard Feal-Thas. She had a few things to say to Ariakas about him, as well.

The Highlords had gathered in the dining hall of the Blue Wing, the only building large enough to hold them and their bodyguards. Since no Highlord trusted the others, the bodyguards were considered indispensable.

Lucien of Takar, Highlord of the Black Army, who was half-human and half-ogre, brought with him two immense ogres, who towered over everyone in the room and gave off the stench of rotting meat. Salah Khan was Highlord of the Green Army. He was human; his people were desert-dwelling nomads with a love for battle. He was accompanied by six human males armed with long, curve-bladed knives thrust into their belts and scimitars on their hips.

Fewmaster Toede came surrounded by thirty hobgoblin guards, all armed to the teeth and all of them clustered protectively around Toede, who could barely be seen in their midst. Ariakas banned all but six of the hobs from entering. Weighed down by his armor, Toede clunked into the meeting room, guided by his guards, for he was having difficulty seeing through his ornate helm.

Toede greeted the other Highlords with much slavering and slobbering. Ariakas ignored him. Lucien regarded him with disgust and Salah Kahn with disdain. Though he could not see all that well, Toede felt the distinct chill in the atmosphere, and he retired precipitously behind his bodyguards. He spent the rest of the time poking his hobs in their backs, urging them to remain alert.

Feal-Thas strode into the room alone, accompanied by a great white wolf that padded silently at his side.

“No men-at-arms tripping on your heels, Feal-Thas?” asked Ariakas, who was himself accompanied by six bozak draconians. One of them, a bozak with a deformed wing, was one of the largest draconians any of them had ever seen.

“Why should I bring guards, my lord?” Feal-Thas asked with a look of feigned surprise. “We are all friends here, are we not?”

“Some more than others,” growled Lucien.

Salah Kahn grunted his agreement, and Ariakas chuckled. Neither of the other Highlords liked or trusted the dark elf. They would have turned on him in an instant, their knives out for blood, except for Ariakas. The emperor himself had no great love for the elf, nor did Queen Takhisis. They tolerated him because, for the moment, he was useful to them. Let him cease being useful and their support would end.

“Besides,” Feal-Thas added, wrapping his fur robes around him, “I see so little in this room to fear.”

Salah Kahn, whose temper was legendary, bounded to his feet, drawing his sword. Lucien, fists clenched, was rising from his chair, and Toede was eying the nearest exit. The bent-wing bozak drew a sword as large as some humans were tall and took his place in front of the emperor.

Feal-Thas sat unperturbed, his long, thin-fingered hands folded on the table. The white wolf growled menacingly and put its head down, tail twitching.

“Sheathe your sword, Salah Kahn,” ordered Ariakas good-humoredly, a fond parent separating quarreling children. “Sit down, Lucien. We are here on important business. Feal-Thas, bring that beast of yours to heel.”

When order had been more or less restored, he added with a grimace. “We’re all a bit irritable. If you’re like me, you got little sleep last night.”

“I slept fine, Your Lordship,” said Toede loudly. No one answered him, and, thinking they could not understand his words, he managed, with the help of two of his guards, to extricate himself from his helm.

“I worship and respect Her Dark Majesty,” Salah Kahn was saying, treading cautiously. “No one more. But it is impossible for me to leave the war in the east to travel to Dargaard Keep. I wish Her Majesty could be made to understand this. If you were to have a word with her, Emperor—”

“What’s this about Dargaard Keep?” Toede asked, mopping his brow.

“She plagues me as she does you, Salah Khan,” Ariakas returned. “She is obsessed with this notion of bringing Soth into the war. She talks of nothing else, except that and finding the Green Gemstone man.”

“Lord Soth?” Toede asked. “Who is Lord Soth?”

“Personally I do not want this death knight anywhere near me. Consider his arrogance. He sets us a test?” Feal-Thas shrugged. “He should be honored to serve any one of us. Almost any one of us,” he amended.

“Oh, that Lord Soth,” said Toede with a knowing wink. “He approached me, offered to work for me. I turned him down, of course. ‘Soth’ I said. I call him ‘Soth’, you see, and he calls me—”

“Where the devil is Kitiara?” Ariakas demanded, slamming his hands on the table. He turned to a servant. “Go fetch her!”

The servant departed, only to come back to say that the Blue Lady was at that moment entering the building.

Ariakas exchanged a few words with the bent-wing bozak. He and several baaz draconians took up positions on either side of the door. Lucien and Salah Kahn glanced at each other, wondering what was up. Though neither knew, they both sensed trouble and kept their hands near their weapons. Toede was having some difficulty seeing over the heads and shoulders of his bodyguards, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that something dire was about to happen, and the only exit was now being blocked by six large bozaks. The hob gave an inward groan.

Feal-Thas, who had written the letter betraying Kitiara, was able to guess what was about to happen. He waited with anticipation. He had never forgiven her for killing his guardian.

Booted footsteps rang in the hallway, then Kitiara’s raised voice, calling jocular greeting to the guards. Ariakas’s dark, baleful gaze was fixed on the entrance. The bozaks flanking the door tensed.

Kitiara strolled inside, her sword clattering at her hip, her blue cape flowing after her. She carried her helm beneath her arm.

“My lord, Ariakas—” she began, about to raise her hand in salute.

The bent-wing bozak seized hold of her, pinning her by the arms. A second bozak grabbed her sword and yanked it from its sheath.

“Kitiara uth Matar,” said Ariakas in sonorous tones, rising ponderously to his feet, “you are under arrest on a charge of high treason. If you are found guilty, the penalty for your crime is death.”

Kitiara stood frozen, staring, open-mouthed and confounded, so astonished she made no attempt to resist. Her first thought was this was some sort of jest; Ariakas was noted for his perverted sense of humor. She saw in his eyes, however, that he was serious—deadly serious.

Kitiara looked swiftly around the room. She saw the other Highlords—three of them as astonished as herself—and she realized they had not been brought here for a meeting. This was a trial. These men were her judges, each one of whom coveted her position as Highlord of the Blue Dragon Army. Even as she realized this, she saw each man’s shock give way to pleasure, saw each cast dark glances at his compatriots, plotting and scheming how best to attain her position. In their minds, she was already dead.

Kitiara’s impulse then was to fight, but that came a little too late. Her sword was gone. She was in the firm and painful grasp of an enormous bozak, who was armed with both a sword and powerful magicks. The thought crossed Kit’s mind that it would be better to fight a hopeless battle to the death now than face whatever torment Ariakas had in mind for her. She restrained herself, however. The Solamnics have “My honor is my life” as their credo. Kit’s was “Never say die.”

She recovered her composure. She had not always obeyed Ariakas’s orders. She had gone off on raiding parties when she should have been laying boring siege to some castle. She had appropriated for the use of her troops certain tax revenues meant to go to the emperor. None of these offences could be termed crimes of high treason, however, though of course the emperor could call stealing a meat pie from his table high treason if he chose. Kit had no idea what all this was about. Then she saw the faint smile upon the lips of Feal-Thas, and Kit immediately recognized her enemy.

She stood tall and straight, fearless and dignified in the grasp of her captors, and faced Ariakas.

“What is the meaning of this, my lord?” Kitiara demanded with an air of injured innocence. “What act of high treason have I committed? I have served you faithfully. Tell me, my lord. I do not understand.”

“You are charged with plotting the murder of Dragon Highlord Verminaard and hiring assassins to carry it out,” said Ariakas.

Kitiara’s jaw dropped. The irony was chilling. She was being charged with the one crime of which she was innocent. She glanced at Feal-Thas, saw the faint smile broaden, and she snapped her jaw shut with a click of her teeth.

Her voice trembling with rage, Kitiara stated, “I utterly refute and deny that charge, my lord!”

“Lord Toede,” said Ariakas, “did Highlord Kitiara ask you in a most suspicious manner for information regarding the felons who assassinated Verminaard?”

Toede managed to worm his way through the forest of his bodyguards and said with a gasp and many moppings of his brow, “She did, my lord.” “I did not!” Kitiara retorted.

“Did she talk to a man called Eben Shatterstone, also seeking information about these people?”

“She did, my lord,” Toede said, proud of being the center of attention. “The wretch told me so himself.”

Kitiara would have liked to choke the hobgoblin until his beady little eyes popped out of his yellow head. But the bent-wing bozak had a grip of steel on her and she could not break free. She contented herself with shooting Toede a look so threatening and malevolent that Toede shriveled up and shrank back, terrified, among his bodyguards.

“She should be in manacles, my lord!” the hob quavered. “Put her in leg irons!”

Kitiara turned to Ariakas. “If you have no other evidence besides the word of this quivering mound of goo—”

“The emperor has my evidence,” said Feal-Thas. Gathering his robes about him, he rose gracefully to his feet, his motion slow and unhurried. “As many of you know,” he said, speaking to the group at large, “I am a winternorn. I will not go into detail explaining this magical skill to the uninitiated. Suffice it to say, a winternorn has the power to delve deep into the heart of another.

“I looked into your heart, Highlord Kitiara, when you were gracious enough to visit me in my icebound solitude, and I saw the truth. You sent these assassins to kill Lord Verminaard, hoping to succeed him as Highlord of the Red Dragonarmy.”

“Lies! Liar!” Kitiara lunged at Feal-Thas in such fury that the bozak holding her was nearly dragged off his clawed feet. “I should have killed you at Icereach!”

Feal-Thas glanced at Ariakas as much as to say, “Do you require any more proof, my lord?” and sat down, undisturbed by Kit’s ravings.

Realizing she had only made matters worse, Kitiara managed to regain some semblance of calm. “Do you believe him, my lord, a shit-eating elf, or will you believe me? I had nothing to do with the death of Verminaard! He died through his own folly!”

Ariakas removed his sword and tossed it on the table.

“Highlords, you have heard the evidence. What is your verdict? Is Kitiara uth Matar guilty of the murder of Highlord Verminaard or do you find her innocent?”

“Guilty,” said Lucien, with an orgish grin.

“Guilty,” said Salah Kahn, his dark eyes glinting.

“Guilty, guilty!” cried Toede, then added nervously, “Therefore she should most definitely be in leg irons!”

“I am sorry, Kitiara,” said Feal-Thas gravely. “I enjoyed our meeting at Icereach, but my duty is to my emperor. I must find you guilty.”

Ariakas shifted the sword around. The point faced Kitiara. “Kitiara uth Matar, you have been found guilty of the death of a Dragon Highlord. The punishment for that crime is death. At dawn tomorrow, you will be taken to the Arena of Death where you will be hanged, drawn and quartered. The remains of your body will be placed upon pikes at the Temple gates to serve as a warning to others.”

Kitiara stood still. She no longer struggled. Her ravings ceased.

“You are making a terrible mistake, my lord,” she said calmly. “I have been loyal to you when all these others have been false. But no longer, my lord. No more. It is you who have betrayed me.”

Ariakas made a gesture to the bent-wing bozak as if tossing out garbage. “Take her away.”

“Where to, my lord?” the bozak asked. “Does she go to the Pen or to the dungeons in the Temple?”

Ariakas considered. The Pen was the local prison house and it was always overcrowded, verging on chaos half the time. Escapes were not common, but they did occur, and if anyone could manage to escape confinement, it would be Kitiara. She would be put into a cell with other prisoners—male prisoners. He could picture her seducing the jailer, her guards, her fellow inmates, rousing them all to revolt.

The dungeons in the Temple were more secure and less crowded. Most political prisoners were jailed there, yet Ariakas hesitated to send Kitiara to the Temple. The dark priests and the Nightlord had no love for Kitiara, who had stated openly she considered them lazy toadies who did nothing except eat and sleep while the military undertook the hard and thankless work of winning the war. Still, the Nightlord was jealous of Ariakas and Kit might find a way to win him to her side.

No matter where she was incarcerated, so long as she lived, Kitiara was a danger. Ariakas began to wish he’d scheduled her execution immediately, not waited for the public spectacle. Too late to change his mind. The other Highlords would scent weakness. He could think of only one place where she would be safe and completely inaccessible to anyone.

“Lock her up in the storeroom in my private chambers in the Temple,” Ariakas said. “Post guards at the door. No one is to enter my chambers. No one is to speak to her. Any who fail me in this will suffer a fate identical to hers.”

The bent-wing bozak saluted and started to lead Kitiara out the door. She had one last bold and desperate plan in mind. She had only to decide where and when to strike.

As if reading her mind, Ariakas remarked casually, “Oh, and by the way, Targ, be careful. She has a knife concealed in her dragon scale armor.”

“The knife!” the draconian demanded, holding out his clawed hand.

Kitiara glared at him defiantly and made no move to comply.

“You can either show Targ where it is, Kitiara,” said Ariakas dryly, “or he will strip you naked here and now.”

Kitiara showed Targ where to find the knife. The bozak removed the weapon and then took off all her armor, leaving her in her gambeson. He searched her again from head to toe, just in case, and then placed her in the custody of two baaz draconians.

Kit endured these indignities with her head held high, her fists clenched. She’d be damned if she would give her enemies the satisfaction of seeing her sweat.

“Take her out,” ordered Ariakas.

As the baaz were about to haul her away, Kitiara turned to Feal-Thas.

“You have the gift to look into hearts,” she said. “Look into mine, now.”

Feal-Thas was startled. He was about to refuse, but he saw Ariakas watching him and the thought came to him that this was some sort of test. Perhaps she meant to prove him a liar. Shrugging, he did as she requested. He cast the spell of the winternorn and gazed into her heart. He saw three Solamnic knights and a powerful cleric of Paladine leaving Tarsis, traveling the road to Icereach, intent upon stealing his dragon orb.

Feal-Thas shivered in rage, as though he’d been nipped by his own chill winds. He stood up from the table.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I must leave at once.” The elf cast a pale, cold glance at Kitiara. “Events require my immediate return to Icereach.”

The other Highlords stared at him. Kitiara’s lip curled. Turning on her heel, she allowed her captors to lead her away.

The emperor looked out his window where he had once stood with Kit, watching traitors hang. Kit walked down the street in the midst of her guards, her head high, shoulders thrown back. She was laughing.

“What a woman,” Ariakas muttered. “What a woman!”

On their way to the Temple, Kitiara attempted to bribe her baaz guards. The bent-wing bozak heard her talking to them and he ordered the two to leave, replacing them with two more.

Next Kit tried to bribe the bozak. Targ didn’t even deign to reply to her generous offer. Kitiara sighed inwardly. She had guessed the attempt would fail, for the draconian guards were known to be extremely loyal to Ariakas. Still, it had been worth the attempt. The bozak would report back to Ariakas that she’d tried to bribe them, but what did that matter? What would he do to punish her? He couldn’t kill her twice.

Ariakas’s servant had run ahead of them to alert the Temple authorities. When informed that he was to house a Highlord on charges of treason, the Nightlord was confounded, did not know how to react. He was angered at first; he felt he should have been informed of Kitiara’s treachery and consulted in the decision to execute her. He most certainly should have been told in advance that Ariakas planned to imprison her inside the Temple.

That being said, the Nightlord was not sorry to see the arrogant Blue Lady humbled and humiliated, nor would he fail to enjoy watching her execution.

The Nightlord sent a terse reply back to Ariakas, but that was the extent of his protest. He dispatched several acolytes to the Arena of Death to insure that his private box was supplied with food in case Kitiara’s demise was prolonged. People had been known to survive an amazingly long time in screaming agony after having been disemboweled.

The Temple of Neraka was located in the center of the city, which had grown up around it. The Temple existed simultaneously on two planes—the material and the spiritual—and was a strange and eerie place. One felt as if one were walking in a building that existed in a dream, rather than reality. Organic in nature, having sprouted from the seed of the foundation stone, the Temple’s walls were twisted and misshapen, its hallways twisting and tortured. As in a dream, corridors that appeared to be short and straight were actually long and winding. Those who attempted to walk through the Temple alone, without the guidance of the dark priests, would either end up lost or insane.

Kitiara, like the other Highlords, had her own furnished quarters in the Temple. Each Highlord had his own entrance, guarded by his own soldiers. The Highlords used these only on ceremonial occasions, all of them preferring the warm and homely comforts of an inn or even their own barracks to the unnerving atmosphere of the Temple.

Ariakas’s imperial suite was the most luxurious in the Temple, second only to that of the Nightlord. Ariakas rarely spent much time there. He did not trust the Nightlord, nor did the Nightlord trust him. The bozak, Targ, knew his way around the temple, but he was glad to have one of the dark priests serve as escort. They marched Kitiara through the distorted halls. But even those who worked in the Temple often found the hallways confusing. Their escort was forced to halt at one point to wait for another dark pilgrim to provide direction.

As Kitiara trudged along in between the two baaz, who wouldn’t even look at her, much less speak to her, she tried to devise some plan of escape. Ariakas was smart. The Temple made an excellent prison. Even if she managed to free herself from her confinement, she might wander these halls forever and never find the way out. The dark priests would not help her. They would be just as happy to see her dead.

This was the end. She was finished. She cursed that idiot Verminaard for getting himself assassinated, cursed Tanis for killing him, cursed Feal-Thas for spying on her, cursed Toede for having been born, and cursed Ariakas for not letting her pursue the war in Solamnia. Fighting the knights would have kept her out of trouble.

The bent-wing bozak, Targ, led her to the imperial suite which was located far below ground level, hidden from public view. The chambers belonging to the Highlords were all at the top of the temple structure, above the Hall of Audience. Kit had often wondered why Ariakas had chosen subterranean rooms for his apartment. When she saw them, she understood. This was not a dwelling place. It was a bunker. Here, underground, accessible only by a steeply winding staircase, were quarters for his troops and an attached storehouse stocked with supplies. A small force could hold out here for a long time, perhaps indefinitely.

The priest lit a torch and went on ahead down the staircase to disable the traps. The air was fetid and damp. Murder holes lined the walls. Any force descending those stairs would have to move in single file, and the narrow stairs were deliberately rough and uneven. Even the draconians with their clawed feet had to watch their footing or risk a fall. At the bottom, a massive iron door, operated by a complex mechanism, stood open. The bozaks led Kit through this door and into the apartments that were spacious, luxurious, dark, and oppressive.

No wonder Ariakas refused to live here, Kitiara thought with a shiver. This was where, if all went badly, he would make his final stand, fight his last battle, and, if defeat were imminent, this was where he would die.

At least he would die fighting, Kitiara reflected bitterly.

Ariakas had said she was to be locked in the storeroom. Targ escorted her to the room, which turned out to be a large pantry, dark and windowless, off the kitchen. The dark pilgrim brought her a blanket to spread on the cold stone floor and a slop bucket for her needs, and asked if she wanted anything to eat. Kit declined with scorn. The truth was, her stomach was clenched in knots. She feared she would throw up if she ate a morsel.

The dark priest asked about manacles. Despite Toede’s insistence on shackling Kit, the bozak had not thought to bring any along, and there were none to be found in the apartment. At length it was decided between Targ and the priest that for the moment manacles would be unnecessary. Kit obviously was not going anywhere until morning, when she would be led to her execution. The priest promised he would have manacles for her then. Targ shoved her inside the storeroom and started to shut the door.

“Targ, tell Ariakas I am innocent!” Kitiara pleaded with the draconian. “Tell him I can prove it! If he will only come to see me—”

Targ slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock.

Alone in pitch darkness, Kitiara heard the clawed feet of the bozak scraping over the stone floor. Then there was silence.

She could hear the beating of her own heart, each beat falling into the silence like grains of sand, counting out the seconds to her death. Kitiara listened to her heartbeat until the thudding grew so loud the walls of her prison seemed to expand and contract with this sound.

Kit was, for the first time in her life, almost sick with fear.

She had witnessed people being hanged, drawn, and quartered. The ordeal was terrible. She’d known veteran soldiers forced to turn away their heads, unable to stomach the gruesome sight. First, she would be hanged, but not until she died, only until she lost consciousness. Then she would be roused and staked down on the ground. The executioner would cut her organs from her still-living body. Screaming and writhing in unbearable agony, she would be forced to watch as her entrails were thrown into a fire and burned. She would be left to slowly bleed to death until, near the end, they would hack the limbs from her body and cut off her head. The various parts of her would be thrust onto pikes and left to rot at the Temple gates.

Kitiara imagined what the knife would feel like as it sliced into her gut. She imagined the cheers of the crowd as the blood spurted, cheers that, though loud, would not drown out her screams. The chill sweat rolled down her face and neck. Her stomach heaved; her hands began to shake. She could not swallow; she could not breathe. She gasped for air and jumped to her feet with some wild idea of flinging herself headlong into the wall, to end it by dashing out her brains against the stone.

Reason prevailed. Fearing she was on the verge of madness, she forced herself to think this through. She was down, but not out. It was only mid morning. She had the rest of the day and all the night to come up with a plan of escape.

What then? What if she did escape?

Kitiara sank down upon the chair. She would be alive, that was true, and that counted for something, but she would spend the rest of her life on the run. She, who had been a Dragon Highlord, a leader of armies, a conqueror of nations, would now skulk about the woods, forced to sleep in caves, reduced to thieving. The ignominy and shame of such a wretched existence would be harder for her to endure than the few terrible hours of agony she would suffer at her execution.

Kitiara let her head sink into her hands. A single tear burned her cheek; she angrily dashed it away. She had never known such despair, never been in such a hopeless position. She might try to make a bargain with Ariakas, but she had nothing to give.

A bargain.

Kitiara raised her head. She stared into the darkness. She could strike a bargain, but not with Ariakas—someone higher. She didn’t know if it would work. Half of her thought it might, the other half scoffed. Still, it was worth a try.

Kitiara had never in her life asked a boon of anyone. She had never said a prayer, was not even certain how one went about praying. Priests and clerics went down on their knees, humiliated and abased themselves before the god. Kitiara did not think any god would be pleased with that, particularly a strong goddess, a warrior goddess, a goddess who had dared to wage war on earth and in heaven.

Kitiara stood up. She clenched her fists and shouted out, “Queen Takhisis. You want Lord Soth. I can bring him to you. I am the only one of your Highlords, my Queen, with the skill and the courage to confront the death knight in his keep and convince him of the worthiness of our cause. Help me escape this prison tonight, Dark Majesty, and I will do the rest.”

Kitiara fell silent. She waited expectantly, though she was not sure for what. Some sort of sign, perhaps, that the goddess had heard her bargain, accepted her deal. She’d seen the priests receive such signs, or so they claimed. Flames flaring upon the altar, blood seeping from solid stone. She had always assumed these were nothing more than tricks. Her little brother, Raistlin, had taught her how such fakery could be accomplished.

Kitiara did not believe in miracles, yet she had asked for one.

Perhaps that was the reason no sign came. The darkness remained dark. She heard no voice, heard nothing except her beating heart. Kit sat back down. She felt foolish, but also calm—the calm of despair.

She had only now to wait for death.

7 The white bean. The Ice Folk

The day that started out disastrously for Kitiara proved better for her rival. Laurana had asked the griffons to take them to Icereach and the griffons did so, though they refused to go near Ice Wall castle, telling her it was inhabited by a white dragon. The griffons made it clear they did not fear the dragon, but said they would have difficulty fighting a dragon while carrying riders.

The griffons told Laurana she and her companions would need help if they were going to remain in this region, stating they would not survive long without shelter, food, and heavier clothing. The land was inhabited by nomadic humans, known as the Ice Folk, who might be able to assist them, if they could convince the people they had no hostile intent.

Once they crossed the sea and were over the glacier, several griffons left the group to scout, keeping an eye out for the dragon and searching for the Ice Folk. The scouts soon returned to say they had found the nomad encampment. The griffons deposited their riders at some distance from the camp, for they feared if the Ice Folk saw the great winged beasts they would turn against the strangers immediately.

The Ice Folk have no love for Feal-Thas, the griffon told Laurana, as they made ready to depart, telling her the wizard and his thanoi had been waging war on the nomads for the past few months. The griffon left her with a final warning: make friends with the Ice Folk. They were fierce warriors who would be valuable allies, deadly foes.

After the griffons departed, the group sought shelter in the ruins of a large sailboat that appeared to have crashed and overturned on the ice. The boat was like nothing any of them had ever seen, for it was made to sail on ice, not water. Large runners carved of wood were attached to the hull. When the sail was hoisted, the boat would apparently skim over the surface of the ice.

The boat’s hull offered some protection from the frigid wind, though not from the bone-chilling, flesh-numbing cold. The group discussed how best to approach the Ice Folk. According to the griffons, most of the nomads spoke Common, for during the summer months, when the fishing was good, they would sell their fish in the markets of Rigitt. Elistan proposed sending Laurana to speak to them, due to her diplomatic skills. Derek objected, saying that they had no way of knowing how the Ice Folk felt about elves or if they had ever even seen an elf.

They were huddled together in the wreckage of the boat, arguing or trying to argue—their mouths were stiff from cold and it was difficult to talk—when the argument was interrupted by a hoarse cry, a roaring and bellowing sound, as of some creature in pain. Ordering the rest to stay in the boat, Derek and his knights left to see what was wrong. Tasslehoff immediately chased after the knights. Sturm chased after Tas, and Flint went with him. Gilthanas said he did not trust Derek, and he followed, accompanied by Elistan, who thought he might be of some use. Laurana had no intention of remaining behind alone, and thus the entire group trailed after Derek, much to his ire.

They came upon an enormous white bear being attacked by two kapak draconians, who were jabbing at the bear with spears. The bear was on her hind legs, roaring and batting at the spears with enormous paws. Red blood marred the bear’s white fur. Laurana wondered why the bear did not simply run off, and then she saw the reason. The bear was trying to protect two white cubs who crouched together behind her.

“So the foul lizards are here, too,” Flint stated dourly.

He fumbled at his axe, trying to draw it from its harness on his back. His gloved hands were clumsy from the cold, and he dropped it. The axe fell to the ice with a clang.

At the sound, the draconians halted their attack and looked over their shoulders. Seeing themselves vastly outnumbered, they turned and started to run.

“They’ve seen us!” said Derek. “Don’t let them get back to report. Aran, your bow!”

Aran removed his bow from his shoulder. Like Flint, the knight’s hands were chilled to the bone, and he could not force his stiffened fingers to grasp the arrow. Derek drew his sword and started to run for the draconians, shouting for Brian to come with him. The knights slipped and slithered over the ice. The draconians, getting far better traction with their clawed feet, soon outdistanced them, disappearing into the white wilderness. Derek came back, cursing beneath his breath.

The white bear had collapsed and lay bleeding on the ice. Her cubs pawed her wounded body, trying to urge her to get up. Heedless of Derek’s shouts that the wounded bear would attack him, Elistan walked over to kneel at the bear’s side. The bear growled weakly at him, bared her teeth, and tried to raise her head, but she was too weak. Murmuring to her comfortingly, Elistan placed his hands on the bear, who seemed soothed by his touch. She gave a great, groaning sigh and relaxed.

“The draconians will be back,” Derek stated impatiently. “The creature is dying. There is nothing we can do. We should leave before they return in greater numbers. I’m going to put a stop to this.”

“Do not disturb Elistan at his prayers, sir,” said Sturm and when it seemed Derek was going to ignore him, Sturm placed a restraining hand on Derek’s arm.

Derek glared at him and Sturm removed his hand, but he remained standing between the knight and Elistan. Derek muttered something and walked off. Aran went with him, while Brian remained to watch.

As Elistan prayed, the gaping wounds and bloody gashes in the bear’s chest and flanks closed over. Brian gasped and said softly to Sturm, “How did he do that?”

“Elistan would say that he did nothing; it is the god who brings about this miracle,” Sturm replied with a smile.

“You believe in… this?” said Brian, gesturing toward Elistan.

“It is difficult not to,” Sturm replied, “when the proof is before your eyes.”

Brian wanted to ask more. He wanted to ask Sturm if he prayed to Paladine, but asking such a personal question would be ill-mannered, and therefore Brian kept silent. He had another reason. If Derek found out Sturm Brightblade believed in these gods and actually prayed to them, it would be yet another black mark against him.

The bear was starting to try to regain her feet. She was still a wild beast with young to protect, and Elistan prudently and hastily backed away, dragging Tasslehoff, who had been making friends with the bear cubs. The group returned to the boat. Glancing back, they saw the bear on all fours starting to lumber off, her cubs crowding near her.

Derek and Aran were talking over the fact that draconians were this far south.

“The draconians must be in the service of Feal-Thas,” Derek was saying. “They will report back to him that three Solamnic knights are now in Icereach.”

“I’m sure that this news will have the Highlord shaking in his fur-lined boots,” said Aran dryly.

“He will guess we are here after the dragon orb,” said Derek, “and he will send his troops to attack us.”

“Why should he immediately jump to the conclusion that we’re after the orb?” Aran demanded. “Just because you are obsessed with this artifact, Derek, doesn’t mean everyone is—”

“Did you two see that?” Brian cried excitedly, joining them. “Look! The bear is walking around. Elistan healed her wounds—”

“You are such an innocent, Brian,” said Derek caustically. “You never fail to fall for some charlatan’s tricks. The bear’s wounds were only superficial. Anyone could see that.”

“No, Derek, you’re wrong,” Brian began, but he was interrupted by Aran, who took hold of each man’s arm and gripped it tightly, warningly.

“Look around. Slowly.”

The knights turned to see a group of warriors clad in skins and furs heading their way. The warriors were armed with spears and some of them held strange-looking axes that glistened in the chill sunshine as though they were made of crystal.

“Get everyone into the boat!” Derek ordered. “We can use that for cover.”

Brian ran back, shouting at the others and yelling at them to run for the boat. He grabbed hold of Tasslehoff and hustled him off. Flint, Gilthanas and Laurana hurried after them. Sturm assisted Elistan, who was having difficulty keeping his footing.

The warriors continued to advance. Aran began blowing on his hands, trying to warm them so he could use his bow. Flint peered out over the hull, fingering his axe and staring curiously at the odd-looking axes of the enemy.

“These must be the Ice Folk the griffons mentioned,” said Laurana, hastening up to Derek. “We should try to talk to them, not fight them.”

“I will go,” Elistan offered.

“It’s too dangerous,” said Derek.

Elistan looked at Tasslehoff, who was blue with the cold and shaking so badly that his pouches rattled. The others were not much better.

“I think the most urgent danger we face now is from freezing to death,” Elistan said. “I do not think I will be in danger. These warriors have not rushed to the attack, as they would have if they thought we were with the armies of the Highlord.”

Derek considered this. “Very well, but I will be the one to talk to them.”

“If you will allow me to go, Sir Derek, it would be more prudent,” said Elistan mildly. “If anything should happen to me, you will be needed here.”

Derek gave an abrupt nod.

“We will cover you,” he said, seeing that Aran had managed to warm his fingers enough to be able to use his bow. He had an arrow nocked and ready.

Laurana stood close to Tasslehoff, pressing the shivering kender against her body and wrapping her coat around him. They watched in tense silence as Elistan raised his arms to show he carried no weapons and walked out from the shelter of the boat. The warriors saw him; several pointed at him. The lead warrior—an enormous man with flaming red hair that seemed the only color in this white world—saw him too. The lead warrior kept going and urged his warriors forward.

“Look at that!” Aran exclaimed suddenly, pointing.

“Elistan!” Brian called a warning. “The white bear is following you!”

Elistan glanced around. The bear was trotting over the ice on all fours, her cubs running along behind her.

“Elistan, come back!” Laurana cried fearfully.

“Too late,” said Derek grimly. “He would never make it. Aran, shoot the bear.”

Aran raised his bow. He started to pull back the string, but his arm jerked and he lost his grip.

“Let go of me!” he cried angrily.

“No one has hold of you,” said Brian.

Aran glanced around. Flint and Sturm were standing on the other side of the boat. Tasslehoff—the most likely suspect—was shivering in Laurana’s grasp. Brian stood next to Derek, and Gilthanas was over beside Flint.

Aran looked foolish. “Sorry.” He shook his head, muttered, “I could have sworn I felt someone.”

He lifted the bow again.

The bear was on Elistan’s heels. The warriors had seen the animal as well, and now their red-bearded leader called a halt.

Elistan must have heard the warning shouts. He must have heard the beast scrabbling over the ice close behind him, but if he did, he did not turn. He kept walking.

“Shoot!” Derek ordered, rounding on Aran furiously.

“I can’t!” Aran gasped. He was sweating, despite the cold. His hand grasped the arrow, his arm shook with his great effort, but he didn’t fire. “Someone has hold of my arm!”

“No, someone doesn’t,” said Tasslehoff between chatters. “Should one of us tell him?”

“Hush,” said Laurana softly.

The bear reared up on her hind legs, towering over Elistan. She lifted up her great paws, held them over him, and gave a great, bellowing roar.

The leader of the warriors gazed long at the bear, then, turning around, he made a motion to his men. One by one, they threw their weapons onto the ice. The red-bearded warrior walked slowly toward Elistan. The bear relaxed down on all fours, though she still kept her gaze fixed upon the warriors.

The red-bearded man had bright blue eyes and a large nose. His face was seamed and weathered, and his voice rumbled like an avalanche. He spoke Common, though with a thick accent. He gestured at the bear.

“The bear has been hurt. She is covered with blood. Did you do this?” he asked Elistan.

“If I did, would she walk with me?” Elistan returned. “The bear was attacked by draconians. These valiant knights”—he pointed at Derek and the others, who had come out from the shelter of the boat—“chased them off. They saved the bear’s life.”

The warrior grunted. He eyed Elistan and he eyed the bear and then he lowered his spear. He bowed to the bear and spoke to her in his own language. Reaching into a leather pouch he had tied to his belt, he threw some bits of fish to the bear, who ate them with relish, then, rounding up her cubs, the bear lumbered away, heading at a rapid pace over the glacier.

“The white bear is the guardian of our tribe,” the warrior stated. “You are fortunate she vouched for you, otherwise we would have killed you. We do not like strangers. As it is, you will be our honored guests.”

“I swear to you, Derek,” Aran was saying as the knights went to meet Elistan, “it was as if someone had hold of me in a grip of iron!”

“Good thing, too,” remarked Brian. “If you’d killed that bear, we would all be dead now.”

“Bah, he’s missing his liquor, that’s all,” said Derek in disgust. “He’s having a drunkard’s dream.”

“I am not!” said Aran, speaking with dangerous calm. “You know me better than that, Derek. Someone had hold of my arm.”

Brian caught Elistan’s eye.

The cleric smiled and winked.

The Ice Folk made them welcome. They offered them smoked fish and water. One took off his own thick fur coat to wrap around the half-frozen kender. The red-bearded warrior was their chief, and he refused to talk or answer any of their questions, saying they were all in danger of frostbite. He hustled the group back to the camp, which consisted of small snug tents made out of animal hides stretched over portable frames. Trickles of smoke rose from the center holes in each tent. The heart of the camp was a longhouse known as the chieftent. Long and narrow, the chieftent was made of furs and hides draped over the large rib cage of some dead sea beast whose carcass had been frozen in the ice. The small tents were used only for sleeping, being too cramped for much else. The Ice Folk spent most of their time either fishing the glacial pools or in the chieftent.

Those gathered in the chieftent sewed hides, braided and repaired nets, hammered fishhooks, fashioned spear and arrow heads, and performed countless other tasks. Men, women, and children worked together, and while they worked someone would tell a story or the group would sing, discuss the fishing prospects, or share the latest gossip. Little children played underfoot; older children had their tasks to perform. In this harsh clime, the tribe’s survival depended on every person doing his part.

The Ice Folk gave their guests clothing designed for living on the glacier, and they snuggled thankfully into the warm fur coats, slipped their feet into thick fur-lined boots and thrust their chilled hands into heavy gloves. Laurana was given a tent of her own. The three knights shared another, and Sturm, Flint and Tas had a tent to themselves. Elistan was on his way to his tent when he found his way blocked by an elderly man with a long white beard, heavily bundled and wrapped in furs and a gray robe. All that could be seen of him was a hawk-like nose poking out of a gray cowl and two glittering eyes.

The old man planted himself squarely in Elistan’s path. Elistan halted obligingly and stood smiling down at the old man whose bent body did not come to his shoulder.

The old man snatched off a fur glove, revealing a gnarled hand with enlarged joints, permanently crooked fingers, and spider webs of blue veins. He lifted his hand toward the medallion Elistan wore around his neck. He did not touch it. His hand, shaking with a mild palsy, paused near it.

Elistan took hold of the medallion, removed it, and pressed it into the old man’s hand.

“You have waited long and patiently for this, haven’t you, my friend?” Elistan said quietly.

“I have,” said the old man and two tears trickled down his cheeks and were lost in his fur collar. “My father waited, and his father before him, and his father before him. Is it true? Have the gods returned?” He looked up anxiously at Elistan.

“They never left us,” Elistan said.

“Ah,” said the old man, after a moment. “I think I understand. You will come to my tent and tell me all that you know.”

The two walked off together, deep in conversation, and disappeared into a tent slightly larger than the others that stood near the chieftent.

Laurana sat for a time alone in her tent. Her grief burned, her sorrow ached, but she no longer felt as though she was lost at the bottom of a dark well, with the light so far above her that she could not reach it. Looking back on the past several days, she could not remember much about them and she was ashamed. She saw clearly that she had been walking a terrible path, one that might have led to self-destruction. She remembered with horror how, for a brief moment, she had wished the stranger in Tarsis would kill her.

The griffons had saved her. This frozen, white, stark world had saved her. Paladine, in his mercy, had saved her. Like the white bear, she had come back to life. She would always love Tanis, always mourn him, always think of him, but she resolved now that she would work for him, work in his name to bring about the victory over darkness he had died fighting to achieve. Laurana said a silent prayer giving thanks to Paladine, then went to join the others in the chieftent.

Peat fires burned at intervals in the tent, the smoke rising through the holes in the ceiling. The Ice Folk sat cross-legged on the floor on furs and hides, going about their work. Their songs and tales were silenced, however, as they listened to the conversation their chief was holding with the strangers.

The chief’s name was Harald Haakan. He spoke to Derek, who had taken it upon himself to announce he was the group’s leader. Flint huffed at this, but was quieted by Sturm.

“You said ‘draconians’ attacked the bear,” Harald said. “I have not heard of such creatures. What are they?”

“Monstrous beings never before seen on Ansalon,” Derek replied. “They walk upright like men, yet they have scales, wings and the claws of dragons.”

Harald nodded, scowling. “Ah, so that’s who you meant. Dragon-men we call them. The foul wizard, Feal-Thas, brought these monsters to Ice Wall castle, along with a white dragon. None of us had ever seen a dragon before now, though we have heard tales that they lived here in ancient times. None of us knew what the great white beast was, until Raggart the Elder told us. Even he did not know these dragon-men, however.”

“Who is Raggart?” Derek asked.

“Raggart Knug, our priest,” Harald replied. “He is the eldest among us. He reads the signs and portents. He tells us when the weather is about to change, when to leave the pools before they are fished out and he shows us where to search for new ones. He warns us when our enemies are coming, so that we may prepare for battle.”

“Is this man a priest of the white bear, then?”

Harald was clearly put out. He glared at Derek. “What do you take us for, Solamnic? Savages? We do not worship bears. The bear is our tribal guardian, honored and respected, but not a god.”

Harald had a temper to match his fiery hair, it seemed. He muttered to himself in his own language, shaking his hairy head at Derek, who said many times he was sorry for the mistake. Eventually the chief calmed down.

“We worship no gods at the moment,” Harald continued. “The true gods left us, and we wait for them to return. That could happen at any time, according to Raggart. The white dragon is a portent, he says.”

“By the true gods, do you mean Paladine, Mishakal and Takhisis?” Sturm asked, interested.

“We know them by other names,” Harald replied, “though I have heard them called such by the fisher folk in Rigitt. If those are the old gods, then, yes, it is for their return we wait.”

Laurana looked about for Elistan, thinking he would be interested in this, but he had not come with them into the tent and she did not know where he had gone.

Derek steered the conversation to the Dragon Highlord, Feal-Thas.

Harald said that Feal-Thas had resided in Icereach for hundreds of years and up until now the wizard had kept mostly to himself. Harald had heard that Feal-Thas was calling himself a Dragon Highlord, but Harald knew nothing about that, nor did he know anything about dragonarmies or the war raging in other parts of Ansalon.

“I care nothing either,” he said, waving it away with his large hand. “We are locked in a never-ending war waged on a daily basis—we fight every day just to stay alive. We fight foes far older than dragons and just as deadly—cold, disease, starvation. We fight the thanoi, who raid our villages for food, and so we care nothing about what is happening in the rest of the world.” Harald fixed Derek with a shrewd stare. “Does the rest of the world care about us?”

Derek was discomfited, not knowing what to say.

Harald nodded and sat back. “I didn’t think so,” he grunted. “As for the wizard, he is stirring up trouble, bringing in these dragon-men to join with the thanoi to attack us. His armies have wiped out smaller tribes. They slaughter women and children. Feal-Thas has told us openly he means to destroy us all, so that no Ice Folk will be left alive in Icereach. Our tribe is large and my warriors are strong, and thus far he has not dared attack us, but I fear that may be about to change. We have caught his wolves prowling about, spying on us, and he has sent small forces against us to test us. I mistook your group for his soldiers.”

“We are the foes of Highlord Feal-Thas,” said Derek. “We are pledged to the wizard’s destruction.”

“We would welcome your swords in a fight, Sir Knight,” Harald returned, “but you won’t meet Feal-Thas in battle. He stays holed up in his ice palace or in the ruins of Ice Wall castle.”

“Then we will go there to fight him,” Derek stated. “Are there other tribes in the area? How large an army could we raise in a short time?”

Harald stared at him a moment, then the big man let out a laugh as hearty as himself. His large guffaws shook the ribs of the tent and caused all the people gathered within to join in.

“A rare jest,” Harald said when he could speak. He clapped his hand on Derek’s shoulder.

“I assure you, I was not jesting,” said Derek stiffly. “It is our intent to go to Ice Wall castle to challenge the wizard to battle. We will go by ourselves if need be. We have been sent to Icereach on an important secret mission—”

“We’re here to find a dragon orb!” Tasslehoff called out excitedly from the opposite end of the tent. “Have you seen one around anywhere?”

This brought Derek’s conversation with the chief to an abrupt end. Rising angrily to his feet, the knight excused himself and stalked out of the chieftent. He motioned for Brian and Aran to accompany him. Derek cast a scathing look at Tas as he passed, which look went in one side of Tas’s head and shot out the other without the kender ever noticing.

Shortly after the knights’ departure, Gilthanas rose to his feet. “I beg you to also excuse me, Chieftain,” the elf said politely, “but I find I cannot keep my eyes open. I am going to my tent to rest.”

“Gil,” Laurana said, trying to detain him, but he pretended not to hear her and walked out.

The three knights were a tight fit inside the small tent. None of them could stand upright, for the ceiling was too low. They crouched on the floor, crowded together, shoulders jostling, practically bumping heads.

“All right, Derek, we’re here,” Aran said cheerfully. He was hunched nearly double, his knees up alongside his ears, but he was in a good mood again, the chief having provided him with a replacement for his brandywine. The drink was clear as water and was distilled from potatoes, which the Ice Folk received in trade for fish. Aran gasped a bit at the first gulp and his eyes grew moist, but he claimed that after one was used to it the liquor went down quite smoothly.

“What was so important you had to insult the chief and march us out of there in such a hurry?” Aran asked, tilting his flask to his lips.

“Brian,” said Derek, “pull aside the tent flap—slowly. Don’t draw attention to yourself. What do you see? Is he out there?”

“Is who out there?” Brian asked.

“The elf,” said Derek.

Gilthanas was loitering nearby, watching some children drop lines through a hole in the ice to catch fish. Brian might have thought the elf was truly interested in the fishing, except he gave himself away by casting sharp glances at the knights’ tent.

“Yes,” said Brian reluctantly, “he’s out there.”

“What of it?” Aran asked, shrugging.

“He’s spying on us.” Derek motioned them closer. “Speak Solamnic and keep your voices down. I do not trust him. He and his sister mean to steal the dragon orb.”

“So do we,” said Aran, with a cavernous yawn.

“They mean to steal it from us,” Derek said, “and if they get their hands on it, they will take it back to the elves.”

“Whereas we’re taking it for humans,” said Aran.

“There’s a difference,” said Derek sternly.

“Oh, of course,” said Aran, grinning. “We’re humans and they’re elves, which makes us good and them bad. I understand completely.”

“I will not even dignify that with a comment,” Derek returned. “We knights should be the ones to determine the best way to make use of the orb.”

Brian sat up as straight as he could, given that his head brushed the tent ceiling. “Lord Gunthar has promised that the knights will take the orb to the Whitestone Council. The elves are part of that council and they will have a say in what happens to the orb.”

“I have been giving that matter some thought,” said Derek. “I am not certain that is the wisest decision, but we can determine all that later. For the moment, we must keep an eye on that elf and his friends. I believe they are all in this together, including Brightblade.”

“So we’re spying on them now? What does the Measure have to say about that?” Aran asked dryly.

“‘Know your enemy,’ “Derek replied.

Laurana knew quite well Gilthanas was leaving to spy on Derek. She also knew she could do nothing to stop him. She squirmed uncomfortably. Only hours before she had thought she could never be warm again. Now she was growing uncomfortably hot and was feeling slightly nauseated from the smell of the smoke of the peat fires, the closeness of so many bodies, and the strong odor of fish. She started to leave, but Sturm detained her with a look, and Laurana sat back down.

Harald had been extremely astonished at Derek’s statement about laying siege to Ice Wall Castle. Frowning, the chief turned his gaze on Sturm. He sat patiently under the chief’s scrutiny, waiting for him to speak.

“Crazy, is he?” Harald said.

“No, Chieftain,” Sturm returned, startled by the comment. “Derek Crownguard is a high-ranking member of our knighthood. He has traveled a great distance on his quest for this dragon orb.”

Harald grunted. “He talks of raising armies, of going to Ice Wall Castle to attack the wizard where he lairs. My warriors do not lay siege to castles. We will fight, if we are attacked. If we are outnumbered, we have our swift boats to carry us across the ice and away from danger.”

Harald eyed Sturm curiously. “You’re a knight, aren’t you?” The chief pointed at Sturm’s long mustaches. “You travel in the company of knights. Why aren’t you with them, making plans or whatever it is they are doing?”

“I am not one of their party, sir,” said Sturm, avoiding the question of whether he was or was not a knight. “My friends and I met up with Derek and his fellow knights in Tarsis. The city was attacked and destroyed by the dragonarmy, and we barely escaped with our lives. We thought it prudent to travel together.”

Harald scratched his beard. “Tarsis destroyed, you say?”

Sturm nodded.

“I had not realized this war you spoke of was so close to Icereach. What about Rigitt?” Harald looked worried. “Our boats sail those waters. We take our fish to their markets.”

“The city had not been attacked when last we saw it,” Sturm replied. “I believe that for the moment Rigitt will be safe. The dragonarmies extended their reach too far when they attacked Tarsis and were forced to withdraw. But if Feal-Thas grows in strength here in Ice Wall, he can provide the protection the armies of darkness need to maintain their supply lines and Rigitt will fall, as will many other cities along the coastline. Then the darkness will cover all of Ansalon.”

Harald was perplexed by this. “Feal-Thas is not alone in his evil ambitions? There are others?”

“Your priest is right,” Laurana told him. “The white dragon was a portent. Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, has returned and brought with her evil dragons. She has raised armies of darkness. She seeks to conquer and enslave the world.”

The other Ice Folk in the tent had stopped their work and were listening silently, their faces expressionless.

“A man sees the darkness coming and he fears only for himself,” Harald remarked. “He never thinks of others.”

“And if he does think of others, too often he says, ‘Let them fend for themselves’,” Laurana added sadly.

She was thinking of the dwarves of Thorbardin, who had decided to fight the dragonarmies but had refused to do so in the company of humans and elves. Gilthanas was here to obtain the dragon orb for the elves, to make certain the humans did not take it. If Derek and the knights were the ones to claim the dragon orb, they would take it for their own.

“I do not see your people coming to help the Ice Folk,” said Harald, bristling. He had mistaken her meaning and was offended.

“We have come—” Sturm began.

Harald snorted. “You would have me believe you came all this distance to fight for the Ice Folk? The kender says you are here seeking some sort of dragon something.”

“A dragon orb. It is a powerful magical artifact. Feal-Thas is rumored to have it in his possession. It is true the knights have come seeking the orb, but if Feal-Thas is killed, that would benefit your people as well.”

“What of the wizard who will come after him?” Harald asked. “Or will you and this dragon orb stay here in Icereach to help us fight the next evil?”

Sturm seemed as if he was about to say something more. He let the words go in a sigh and lowered his gaze, stared down at his hands that were unconsciously smoothing and stroking the white fur sleeve of his coat.

Harald eyed Sturm and frowned. “You have the look of a man who has eaten bad eel.”

“As to fighting Feal-Thas,” said Sturm, “you may have no choice, sir. The draconians got a good look at us. They must have recognized us for Solamnic knights. They will report back to the wizard, who will wonder what Solamnics are doing so far from home. You say his wolf-scouts are watching your camp. They will tell him you have taken us in—”

“—and Feal-Thas will bring war down on us whether we want it or not,” Harald finished. He glared at Sturm and growled, “This is a fine kettle of fish!”

“I am sorry, sir,” Laurana said, guilt-stricken. “I did not realize we might be putting your people in danger! Sturm, isn’t there something we can do? We could leave—” She stood up, as though prepared to depart on the instant.

“I’m sure Derek and the others are making plans for this now,” said Sturm.

“I’m not,” Flint muttered into his beard.

Harald drew in a breath, but his words were interrupted. The old man, the priest Raggart, came hobbling into the chieftent, accompanied by Elistan. Everyone in the tent rose in respect, including Harald. Raggart walked up to Harald. There were tears in the old man’s eyes.

“I have joyful news,” said Raggart, speaking Common out of deference to the strangers. “The gods are with us once more. This man is a cleric of Paladine. At his suggestion, I prayed to the Fisher God, and he answered my prayers.” The old man touched a medallion similar to Elistan’s, but graced with the symbol of the god known as Habakkuk to some, the Fisher God to the Ice Folk.

Harald clasped Raggart’s hand and said something in low tones to the old man in their own language. The chief turned to Sturm.

“It seems you bring death in one hand and life in the other, sir. What are we to do?”

“I’m sure Derek will tell us,” Sturm said dryly.

8 Midnight prayers in the Dark Abbey

Kitiara spent some time searching the storeroom prison for something she could use as a weapon. This was a thankless task, considering she had been left in total darkness. The bozak had inspected the room before locking her in here, and she herself had looked around swiftly before he took the light, and she had not seen anything. Still, she had nothing else to do except think about her upcoming demise, and anything was better than that. She stumbled over crates and stubbed her toes on barrels, scraped her hand on a bent nail, and bumped her head walking into a wall, eventually coming up with a weapon—of sorts.

She kicked apart a packing crate and fashioned one of the broken slats for use as a club. To make it more lethal, she pried out some nails from the lid of a barrel, and, using another plank as a hammer, drove the nails into the end of her makeshift club, so that it was studded with points. Kit did not hope to be able to fight her way free. She hoped to put up such a vicious battle they would be forced to kill her.

This done, there was nothing else to do. She paced the storeroom until she was exhausted, then sat down on the chair. She lost all sense of time. The darkness swallowed the minutes, the hours. She was determined not to sleep, for she had no intention of wasting her few remaining hours of life in slumber, yet the silence and the boredom, the fear and the tension got the best of her. She closed her eyes. Her head sank down on her breast.

She woke suddenly from her fitful doze, thinking she’d heard sounds outside the door. She was right. Someone was putting a key in the lock.

It was time. Her executioner was here.

Kit’s heart clogged her throat. She could not catch her breath, and she thought for one moment she might die of sheer terror. Then, with a gasp, she could breathe again. She grabbed hold of the club and crept across the room, groping her way in the darkness until she found the door. She put her back against the wall. When the door opened, those looking in would not see her. They would be surprised and she would have her chance. She crouched, club in hand, and waited.

The door creaked open slowly, an inch at a time, as though someone were pushing it stealthily, fearing to make too much noise. This was odd. An executioner would have just thrust it open. Light spilled inside, not the harsh light of day or the flaring light of torches, but a thin beam of light that went stabbing and poking about the storeroom, falling on the empty chair, then glancing off barrels and boxes. The air was scented with the fragrance of exotic flowers.

No executioner smelled that good.

“Kitiara?” whispered a voice—a woman’s voice.

Kitiara lowered the plank. Keeping it hidden against her thigh, she stepped around the door. A woman swathed in a black velvet cape with a deep purple lining stood in the door. She pulled the hood back from her head. The light of her ring shone full on her face.

“Iolanthe?” Kit asked in profound astonishment, the name coming to her at the last moment.

“Thank the Queen!” Iolanthe breathed, seizing hold of Kitiara’s arm and hanging onto it as though relieved to touch something solid and real. Light beamed from a ring on her finger, stabbed wildly about the room. “I didn’t know if I would find you still alive!”

“For the time being,” said Kitiara, not certain what to make of this unexpected visitor. She shook loose the woman’s grip and looked out past Iolanthe, thinking she must have brought guards with her. There was no one there. She could not hear breathing or the jingle of armor or the shuffle of boots.

Suspicious, fearing some trap, though she could not possibly imagine what, Kitiara rounded on the witch.

“What are you doing here?” Kit demanded. “Did Ariakas send you? Is this some new torment?”

“Keep your voice down! I silenced the guards at the door, but others may come at any moment. As for why I am here, Ariakas did not send me.” Iolanthe paused, then said quietly, “Takhisis did.”

“Takhisis!” Kitiara repeated, her astonishment growing. “I don’t understand.”

“Our Queen heard your prayer and she bid me set you free. You must keep your vow to her, however,” Iolanthe added. “You must spend the night in Dargaard Keep.”

Kitiara was stunned. She had said that prayer out of desperation, never believing for a moment there were immortal ears to hear, or immortal hands to turn the key in the lock. The thought that Takhisis had not only heard but had answered and now expected her to keep her promise was almost as frightening as the cruel death she was facing.

Kit would have felt considerably better if she had known that while Takhisis may have been listening, it was Iolanthe’s ears that had heard her prayer. The witch had splashed perfume on her hands to mask the scent of burnt hair.

“Did you bring me a weapon?” Kit demanded.

“You won’t need one.”

“I will if they try to capture me. I won’t die with my guts hanging out,” she added harshly.

Iolanthe hesitated, then she reached into her tight-fitting sleeve and drew out a long poignard, the type that wizards are permitted to carry in their own defense. She handed it to Kit, who grimaced at the lightweight, fragile-looking blade.

“I guess I should thank you,” said Kit ungraciously. She didn’t like to be beholden to anyone, much less this perfumed trollop. Nevertheless, a debt was a debt. “I owe you one…”

Thrusting the poignard in her belt, she started to walk out the door.

“Bless the woman!” Iolanthe exclaimed, aghast. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” said Kit shortly.

“Will you walk about the Queen’s temple dressed like that?” Iolanthe gestured at Kit, who had on what she usually wore beneath her armor—a blue gambeson embroidered in golden thread with the symbol of the Blue Dragonarmy.

Kit shrugged and kept walking.

“No strangers are allowed in the Temple after the close of evening worship,” Iolanthe warned her. “The dark priests patrol the halls. You might as well not bother leaving your prison at all, for they will be returning you to it shortly. And what will you do about the magical dragon traps at each gate?”

Each of the gates was guarded by the armies of a different Highlord, each dedicated to one of the colors of chromatic dragons. Thus there was a red gate, a blue gate, a green gate, and so on. Each gate had traps that mimicked the breath weapon of the dragon it honored. The corridor leading to the red gate was lined with the stone heads of red dragons that would breathe fire on any hapless interloper, incinerating him before he was halfway down the corridor. The Gate of the Blue Dragon crackled with lightning, that of the green dragon spewed poisonous gas.

“I know the phrase to disarm the traps,” Kit said over her shoulder. “Every Highlord does.”

“Ariakas ordered the phrases changed after you were arrested,” said Iolanthe.

Kitiara halted. Her hands clenched. She stood a moment, cursing beneath her breath, then turned to face the witch.

“Do you know the new password?”

Iolanthe smiled. “Who do you think worked the magic?”

Kitiara didn’t trust this witch. She didn’t understand what was going on. She found it difficult to believe Iolanthe’s story that Queen Takhisis had sent her, yet how could the witch have known about Kit’s prayer? Like it or not, Kit was going to have to put her life into this woman’s hands, and Kit did not like it!

“So what is your plan?” she asked.

Iolanthe shoved a bundle of cloth at Kit. “First, put this on.”

Kit shook out the folds of the black velvet robes worn by the dark priests. A sensible idea, she had to admit. She fumbled her way into the garb, trying to shove her head into the sleeve hole in her haste, and then putting the robes on backward. With Iolanthe’s help, Kit managed to sort it out. The black, smothering folds enveloped her.

“Now what?”

“We will attend the midnight rites in the Dark Abbey,” Iolanthe explained. “There we will mingle with the crowd and leave with them, for the dragon traps will be disabled to allow them to pass. We must hurry,” she added. “The service has already started. Fortunately, the Abbey is not far from here.”

They left the storeroom; the glow from Iolanthe’s magical ring lit the way through Ariakas’s chambers. The main door stood slightly ajar.

“What about the guards?” Kit asked in a whisper.

“Dead,” Iolanthe replied dispassionately.

Kit peered cautiously around the door. By the light of the witch’s ring, she saw two piles of stone dust—the remnants of two baaz draconians. Kitiara regarded the witch with new respect.

Iolanthe lifted the hem of her robes to keep them out of the dust and stepped gingerly over the remains, her mouth twisting in disgust. Kit walked right through the piles, kicking dust everywhere.

“We should get rid of that,” she said, pointing back at the disturbed dust heaps. “Anyone who sees it will know that’s a dead draco.”

“No time,” said Iolanthe. “We’ll have to take our chances. Fortunately, this hall is rarely lit. And few people ever have reason to come to this part of the Temple. This way.”

Kitiara recognized the staircase by which she had descended in the company of the guards. She and Iolanthe passed it and continued on, and soon she could hear voices chanting, praising the Dark Queen. Kitiara had never attended one of the services in the Dark Abbey. She had, in fact, gone out of her way to avoid them. She was not even sure where the Dark Abbey was located. She had the vague idea it was opposite the dungeons. The corridors were lit with a purplish-white light that had no apparent source, but seemed to shine eerily from the walls. The light had the effect of washing out all color, all distinguishing features, all differences, making every object ghastly white etched with darkness.

Everyone who walked these corridors, even those who walked them daily, experienced the sense of unreality. Floors were not quite level, walls slanted oddly, corridors shifted position, chambers were not where they should be, doors were not where they had been the day before. Iolanthe, guided by the light of her ring, walked the strange halls with assurance. On her own, Kit would have been hopelessly lost.

She assumed the chanting emanated from the service. She had thought it would be easy to follow the voices, but sounds were distorted down here. Sometimes the chanting dinned in her ears and she was certain they must have arrived at the Abbey, only to find, with another turning, the chants fading away almost to silence. Then they would boom loudly again at the next turning. At one point in the service, a shrill scream reverberated through the corridors, causing the hair on the back of Kit’s neck to prickle. The horrible scream ended abruptly.

“What was that?” Kit asked.

“The evening’s sacrifice,” said Iolanthe. “The Abbey is up ahead.”

“Thank the Queen,” Kit muttered. She had never before been on the dungeon level, and she could not wait to leave. Kit liked her life uncomplicated, not cluttered up with gods—which reminded her uneasily of her bargain with her Queen. Kit put that out of her mind. She had more urgent matters to consider and, besides, Takhisis hadn’t saved her yet.

Rounding a curve, she and Iolanthe almost ran into one of the dark priests. Kitiara yanked her cowl down to hide her face, and she kept her head lowered. Her hand, folded in the capacious sleeve, grasped the poignard’s hilt.

The dark priest eyed them. Kit held her breath, but the man’s frowning gaze was fixed on Iolanthe. He pulled back his hood to glare at her. He was pale, gaunt, and cadaverous. A hideous red weal ran across his nose.

“You are here at a late hour, Black Robe,” he said to Iolanthe in disapproving tones.

Kit’s grip on the poignard tightened.

Iolanthe drew back the folds of her hood. The eerie light illuminated her face, shimmered in her violet eyes.

The dark priest looked startled, and fell back a step.

“I see you recognize me,” Iolanthe said. “My escort and I are here for the service and I am late, so I ask that you do not detain us.”

The dark priest had recovered from his shock. He glanced without interest at Kit, turned back to Iolanthe. “You are indeed late, Madame. The service is almost half over.”

“Therefore I am certain you will excuse us.”

Iolanthe swept past him, her black robes rustling around her, the scent of flowers lingering in the hallway. Kit followed humbly. She glanced over her shoulder, pushing aside her cowl to keep an eye on the dark priest. He stared after them and for a moment Kit thought he meant to come after them. Then, muttering something, he turned and stalked off.

“I’m not sure you’re such a safe companion,” said Kitiara. “You’re not very popular around here.”

“The dark priests do not trust me,” said Iolanthe calmly. “They do not trust any magic-user. They do not understand how we can be loyal to Takhisis and at the same time serve Nuitari.”

She smiled disdainfully. “And they are jealous of my power. The Nightlord is trying to convince Ariakas that wizards should be banned from the Temple. Some of his clerics want us thrown out of the city. Hardly feasible, considering the Emperor is himself a user of magic.

“Hush now,” she cautioned. “The Abbey is ahead. Do you know any of the prayers?”

Kitiara, of course, did not.

“Then make this sign if someone asks you why you do not join in.” Iolanthe moved her hand in a circle. “That means you have taken an oath of silence.”

The Abbey was crowded. Kitiara and Iolanthe found places inside the entryway. A strong smell of bodies sweating beneath black robes, burning candle wax, incense, and fresh blood wafted from the chamber. The body of a young woman lay across the altar, blood streaming from a gash in her throat. A priest with blood smeared over his hands was chanting prayers, exhorting the crowd to praise Takhisis.

Kitiara stood, fidgeting, in the crowd, the smell of blood in her nostrils, the sound of off-key yammering in her ears, and suddenly she felt she had to leave. She couldn’t bear to stand here and just wait for someone to discover that she was missing from her prison and raise the alarm.

“Let’s just get the hell out of here,” Kit whispered urgently.

“They would stop us at the gate and ask questions,” said Iolanthe in a smothered whisper, grasping hold of a fold of Kit’s sleeve. “If we go out with the crowd, no one will notice us.”

Kitiara sighed, frustrated, but she had to admit this was sound planning. She steeled herself for the ordeal.

The Abbey was a circular room, with a high, domed ceiling beneath which stood a large statue of Queen Takhisis in her dragon form. The statue was a wonder. The body was carved out of black marble, with each of the five heads done in different colored marble. The ten eyes were gems that shone with magical light that illuminated the room. By some miraculous means, the heads of the statue seemed to move; the eyes looked this way and that, with the dread light of their watchful gaze constantly sweeping the crowd.

Kit stared at the statue of Queen Takhisis as the heads bobbed and weaved, and glanced at Iolanthe, standing beside her, barely visible in the ever-shifting colored lights. Kit could not see the witch’s face for the cowl she had again drawn over her head. Kit was jittery, gripping the poignard in a sweaty palm, wishing the time to pass, wishing herself far away. Iolanthe was calm, not moving, not the least bit nervous, yet if Ariakas found out she had helped Kit escape, Iolanthe’s life would not be worth living. Whatever punishment Kit would face, Iolanthe would find it trebled.

“Why are you doing this?” Kit whispered under the cover of the chanting. “Why are you helping me? And don’t give me that crap about being the answer to my prayers.”

Iolanthe glanced at Kit sidelong from under her hood. Her violet eyes glittered in the light of the Queen’s multicolored and multi-faceted eyes. Iolanthe shifted her gaze back to the statue, and Kit thought that she was going to refuse to answer.

At length, however, Iolanthe whispered, “I do not want you for my enemy, Blue Lady.” The violet eyes, wide and intense, fixed on Kit. “If you do what you say you mean to do and you succeed, you will have one of the most powerful beings on Krynn on your side. Lord Soth will make you a force to be reckoned with. Don’t you understand, Kitiara? Her Dark Majesty is starting to have doubts about Ariakas. She is looking for someone else to wear the Crown of Power. If you prove to be the one—and I think you will—I want you to think well of me.”

And if I fail to return alive from Dargaard Keep, Ariakas retains the Crown and the witch has lost nothing in the attempt, Kitiara reflected. She is what I thought: cunning, self-serving, scheming, and conniving.

Kit was starting to like her.

The chanting had reached a fever pitch, and Kit was hoping fervently this meant that the service was about to end, when the statue’s blue head shifted in Kit’s direction. The light of the Queen’s sapphire blue eyes illuminated the crowd around her. The lighted eyes paused for a moment on the worshipper standing to Kit’s left and slightly in front of her—a bozak draconian with a bent wing. At that moment, the chanting abruptly ended, leaving ear-pounding silence behind. The Queen’s heads ceased to move. The miracle had ended. The statue was once more marble, if it had ever been anything else; Kit had thought she’d heard the squeak and rumble of a machine. The Abbey glowed with white light. The service had ended.

The crowd blinked and rubbed their eyes. Those who knew from experience that the service was nearing its close had already started to edge their way out, hoping to beat the rush. People were heading for the exit. The bozak with the bent wing turned, walking straight toward her. Kit had her hood pulled over her head, but it did not cover her face and it had slipped somewhat during the service. She turned swiftly, but not before Targ had caught a glimpse of her. Kit was certain she saw a flicker of recognition in the reptilian eyes of Ariakas’s pet bozak.

She could be mistaken, but she didn’t dare take a chance. Kit slowed her pace, let the crowd flow around her. She gripped the knife and waited for the bozak to come near.

The crowd gave a surge that sent Targ stumbling into her. Perhaps Takhisis was on her side. Hoping desperately that the fragile-looking blade wouldn’t break, Kit drove the poignard in between Tag’s ribs, aiming for the lungs, hoping to nick the heart, not kill him outright.

The bozak gave a grunt indicative more of surprise than pain. Kit jerked the blade free and hid it in her sleeve. The bozak, an astonished look in his eyes, was just starting to crumple. Kitiara grabbed hold of Iolanthe’s forearm and dragged her out of the doorway.

“Which way to the nearest gate?” Kit shoved aside several pilgrims, nearly knocking them down.

“Why? What’s wrong?” Iolanthe asked, alarmed by the look on Kit’s face.

“Which way?” Kit demanded savagely.

“The right,” said Iolanthe, and Kit tugged her along in that direction.

They had not gone far when a blast shook the walls, sending dust and debris flying. As the noise of the explosion died away, shouts, screams, and moans began to echo down the corridors. Some pilgrims halted in shock, others cried out in panic. No one had any idea what had happened.

“Nuitari save us, what did you do?” Iolanthe gasped.

“The bozak in front of me was one of Ariakas’s guards. He recognized me. I stabbed him. I didn’t have any choice,” said Kitiara, hurrying down the corridor. Seeing Iolanthe look bewildered, Kit added, “When bozaks die, their bones explode.”

Guards and dark pilgrims pushed past them, some running to the site of the blast, others running from it.

“Nuitari save us,” Iolanthe repeated. She pulled her cowl low over her face and, catching up the skirts of her robes, began to run. Kitiara joined her. She had no idea where they were and hoped that Iolanthe did. They rounded a corner and came face to face with draconian Temple guards pounding down the corridor. The guards were upon them before they could escape.

“What happened?” one demanded, blocking their path. “We heard an explosion.”

Iolanthe burst into tears. “In the Abbey. A White Robe… disguised… cast a spell… dead draconians… a blast… it’s horrible!” She used a little-girl voice, far different from her own throaty contralto.

“The White Robe got away,” Kit added. “If you hurry, you might be able to catch him. He’s dressed as a dark priest. You can’t miss him. He has a long red scar across his nose.”

The draconian commander wasted no more time in asking questions. He led his troops off in pursuit. “Good thinking,” Iolanthe said, hurrying on. “You too,” said Kit.

They climbed the winding stairs leading up out of the dungeon level. Their way was constantly impeded by troops shoving past them, racing to the scene of the disaster. Kit and Iolanthe reached the top of the stairs, ran down another corridor, and there stood the Gate of the White Dragon.

With the Temple under attack, all gates had been shut and sealed, the traps activated. The draconian guards, weapons drawn, were tense and on edge.

“Oops,” said Kitiara. She hadn’t foreseen this.

“Stay calm,” Iolanthe said quietly “Let me do the talking.”

She lowered her cowl and tearfully repeated her tale about the dastardly White Robe. The draconians knew Ariakas’s witch; Iolanthe had been there only that afternoon, working her magic on the white dragon trap that would hit anyone who set it off with a blast of frost, paralyzing them with cold. Iolanthe knew the password, of course, but the guards didn’t even bother to ask her. They were interested in her companion, however.

“Who is this?” Reptile eyes stared suspiciously at Kit.

“My guide,” Iolanthe stated. She sighed a helpless sigh and the violet eyes gave the commander a languishing look. “The corridors are so confusing. They all look alike. I get hopelessly lost.”

“What’s your name?” the draconian demanded, speaking to Kit. She remembered Iolanthe’s advice and made the sign of the circle with her hand.

“She’s taken a vow of silence,” Iolanthe explained.

The draconian eyed Kit, who stood with her head humbly bowed, clutching the bloody poignard in her hand, keeping it hidden in the capacious sleeves. The commander waved them on through the gate.

They were almost out of the Temple when they heard clawed feet running after them. Kit halted, tensed, ready to strike.

“Madame Iolanthe,” the draconian called, “the commander sent me to ask if you would like an escort home. The streets might not be safe.”

Iolanthe gave a deep sigh. “No, thank you,” she said. “I would not take you away from your post.”

The two women walked through the gate, kept walking through the Temple environs, and into the street.

Kitiara was free. She breathed in the fresh air and gazed at the black sky sparkling with stars that she had never thought she would see again. She was almost giddy with joy and relief and barely heard what Iolanthe was saying.

“Listen to me!” Iolanthe pinched her arm to command her attention. “I must hasten to Ariakas. It would look strange if I didn’t go straight to him with this news and I don’t have much time! Where are you headed?”

“To my blue dragon,” said Kit.

Iolanthe shook her head. “I thought as much. Don’t waste your time. Ariakas ordered all the blue dragons in Neraka to return to Solamnia. He knows the blues are loyal to you and feared what would happen if your dragons found out you were going to be executed.”

Kitiara swore softly.

Iolanthe pointed down a side street. “At the end of this street is a stable where Salah Kahn houses his horses. The horses of Khur are the fastest and the best in the world,” she added with pride. “They are also the smartest. To protect them from being stolen, my people teach them a secret word. You must speak this word, or the horse will not permit you to mount. The horse will buck and lash out at you with its hooves and might kill you. Do you understand?”

Kit understood. Iolanthe told her the word. Kit repeated it and nodded.

“One more thing,” said Iolanthe, detaining Kit as she was about to leave.

“What’s that?”

Iolanthe looked at her searchingly. “Will you keep your vow? Will you ride now for Dargaard Keep?”

Kitiara hesitated. She thought about life on the run. Ariakas would offer a reward for her the moment he discovered she was missing. It would be a large reward. Every bounty hunter in Ansalon would be searching for her. She’d never be able to show her face in any city or town again. She’d be constantly looking over back, afraid to go to sleep.

“I will keep my vow,” Kit said.

Iolanthe smiled. “I think you mean it. You will need this when you enter Dargaard Keep.”

The witch took hold of Kitiara’s hand and slid a large silver bracelet decorated with three jewels carved of onyx onto her wrist.

Kit grinned. “You want me to look my best for the death knight? Does it have earrings to match?”

“What do you know of Lord Soth?” Iolanthe asked.

“Not much,” Kit admitted. “He’s a death knight—”

“He can kill you with a single word,” Iolanthe said. “He has an army of undead warriors who are bound to defend him, and if you fight your way past them, which is doubtful, you will encounter banshees. Their song is so horrific that if you hear but one wailing note, your heart will cease to beat and you will drop down dead. You will not survive five minutes in Dargaard Keep, much less an entire night.”

Kit was subdued.

“So I take it this bracelet is magical.” Kit eyed the piece of jewelry doubtfully. “Will it protect me in some way?”

“It will save you from dying of sheer terror. In addition, the onyx gems will absorb magical attacks made against you, though they will only take so much punishment. After that, they will crumble and the bracelet will be useless. Still, it should at least get you inside the front door. Its power is limited. Don’t put it on until you intend to use it.”

Kitiara clasped her hand over the bracelet.

“Good luck,” Iolanthe added. She placed her hand over a ring she wore and began to mutter to herself.

“Wait, Iolanthe,” said Kit, and the witch halted her incantation.

“Well, what now?”

Kit wasn’t used to being grateful. The words stuck in her throat and came out gruff and awkward. “Thank you.”

Iolanthe smiled. “Do not forget what you owe me,” she said and disappeared, her black robes melting into the dark night.

Kitiara hurried down the alleyway. Behind her, she could hear more shouts as the tale spread among the outraged followers of Takhisis that a murderous White Robe had used his magic to infiltrate their Temple.

She found the stables and chose a black horse, liking the look of his powerful musculature, noble stance, the proud arch of his neck and the glint in his eye. She spoke the word Iolanthe had taught her. The horse permitted her to saddle him and within a few moments she was galloping out of the city.

Kitiara took the road north, toward Dargaard Keep.

Back in the Temple, the account of the White Robe caught the imagination of the worshipers and by the time the Nightlord arrived on the scene and was able to interrogate witnesses, several dark priests swore they had been standing right next to the daring wizard. The dark priest with the bald head and the scar across his nose was apprehended by a squad of draconians. Angered over the death of Targ, they gutted the man on the spot, only to discover after he was dead that he was not and never had been a user of magic. By dawn, the entire city of Neraka was being turned upside down as the draconians went house to house searching for the now-infamous White Robe wizard.

Such was the furor and outrage over the killings in the temple that everyone lost interest in the execution of Kitiara uth Matar. Guards were sent to bring her to the Arena of Death, only to find that she had managed to escape during the night’s chaos. Ariakas was given this information by a quaking aide, who expected nothing less than death himself. Iolanthe was weeping and having hysterics in a corner. The Nightlord was raving about his ruined Abbey and demanding to know what the emperor was going to do to fix it. While he was talking, Salah Kahn came storming in, shouting in fury that his favorite horse had been stolen.

Ariakas received all this news with a calm equanimity that astonished everyone. He said nothing. He did not kill the messenger. He listened to the Nightlord’s ravings and Salah Kahn’s rants and Iolanthe’s hysterics in silence, then ordered the Nightlord, the Highlord, the witch, and everyone else to leave.

Once he was alone, Ariakas paced the floor and considered the amazing coincidence that had brought a White Robe wizard to blow up the Dark Abbey on the very same night Kitiara happened to be locked up in the store room in the Temple awaiting execution.

The Emperor shook his head and said to himself in admiration, “What a woman. What a woman!”

9 The spy. The dream. Fire and rainbows

Brian woke from the deep sleep of exhaustion with sudden alertness. He lay still, listening, until he was certain he’d heard the voices, not dreamed them. They spoke again and he flung off the fur blankets, and, moving silently and stealthily, he crept around the slumbering form of Aran to the tent opening.

“Whassamatter?” Aran mumbled.

“My turn at watch,” Brian whispered, and Aran pulled the furs over his head and snuggled down deeper among the animal skins that formed his bed.

Brian, bundled in furs, opened the tent flap and peered into the darkness. No one was stirring. Derek was out there somewhere. He had insisted they set their own guard, though Harald had assured him the Ice Folk kept careful watch. A light shone from under a nearby tent—Sturm’s tent. Brian crept closer.

Night in Icereach was black and silver, brittle with cold, spangled with stars. He could see well in the lambent light and if he could see he could be seen. He stayed in the shadows.

The voice that had awakened him had been Laurana’s. She’d said something about Silvanesti. She was inside Sturm’s tent, and as Brian watched from the shadows, he saw the dwarf join them.

Their voices were muffled. Brian circled around to the back of the tent to hear what they were saying. He despised himself for spying on those he had come to consider friends, but the moment he had heard Laurana’s voice mention the ancient elven kingdom, his suspicions were aroused.

“We know,” Laurana could be heard saying as Flint entered the tent. “You had a dream about Silvanesti.”

“Apparently I’m not the only one?” Flint asked, making it a question. His voice was hoarse. He sounded nervous, uneasy. “I suppose you—you want me to tell you what I dreamed?”

“No!” Sturm spoke out harshly. “No, I do not want to talk about it—ever!”

Laurana murmured something Brian could not hear.

He was perplexed. They were talking about a dream, a dream of Silvanesti. It didn’t make sense. He shuffled his feet to keep them warm and kept listening.

“I couldn’t talk about mine either,” Flint was saying. “I just wanted to see if it was a dream. It seemed so real I expected to find you both—”

Brian heard footsteps and shrank back into the shadows. The kender came dashing right past him, so excited he never noticed the knight. Tas flung open the tent flap and crawled inside.

“Did I hear you talking about a dream? I never dream, at least not that I remember. Kender don’t, much. Oh, I suppose we do. Even animals dream, but—”

The dwarf made a growling sound and Tas returned to the subject. “I had the most fantastic dream! Trees crying blood. Horrible dead elves going around killing people! Raistlin wearing black robes! It was the most incredible thing! And you were there, Sturm, Laurana and Flint. And everyone died! Well, almost everyone. Raistlin didn’t. And there was a green dragon—”

None of the others inside the tent said a word. Even the dwarf had gone silent, which was odd, since Flint rarely let Tas ramble on with such nonsense. Tas faltered in the silence. When he spoke again, he was apparently trying to nudge them into responding.

“Green dragon? Raistlin dressed in black? Did I mention that? Quite becoming, actually. Red always makes him look kind of jaundiced, if you know what I mean.”

Apparently no one did, for the silence continued, grew deeper.

“Well,” said Tas. “I guess I’ll go back to bed if you don’t want to hear anymore.” He spoke hopefully, but no one took him up on it.

“Good night,” Tas said, backing out of the tent.

Shaking his head in perplexity, he walked right past Brian—again without seeing him—muttering, “What’s the matter with everybody? It was only a dream! Though I have to say,” he added somberly, “it was the most real dream I’ve ever had in my whole entire life.”

No one spoke inside the tent. Brian considered this all very strange, but he was relieved to know that they weren’t plotting against them. He was about to slip back to his tent when he heard Flint say, “I don’t mind having a nightmare, but I object to sharing it with a kender. How do you suppose we all came to have the same dream? What does it mean?”

“A strange land—Silvanesti,” Laurana said in thoughtful tones. The light wavered beneath the tent. She opened the tent flap part way and Brian hunkered down in the shadows, hoping fervently she didn’t see him.

“Do you think it was real?” Laurana’s voice trembled. “Did they die—as we saw?”

“We’re here,” Sturm replied reassuringly. “We didn’t die. We can only trust the others didn’t either, and—this seems funny, but somehow I know they’re all right.”

Brian was startled. Sturm sounded very sure of himself, but after all it had been only a dream. Still, it was odd that they had all shared it.

Laurana slipped out into the night. She carried a thick candle and its flame illuminated her face. She was pale from the shock of the nightmare, and she seemed lost in wonderment. Gilthanas emerged from his tent, which was directly across from Brian’s, so the knight was trapped. As long as the two stood there, he couldn’t go back.

“Laurana,” her brother said, coming up short at the sight of her. “I was so worried. I had a dream that you died!”

“I know,” said Laurana. “I dreamed the same thing, so did Sturm and Flint and Tas. We all had the same dream about Tanis, Raistlin, and the rest of our friends. The dream was horrible, yet it was comforting at the same time. I know Tanis is alive, Gil. I know it! The rest are alive, as well. None of us understand it—”

She and her brother went into his tent to finish their discussion. Brian was about to return to his, deeply ashamed of himself, when he heard movement. The dwarf and knight were walking out of the tent. Again Brian ducked back into the shadows, vowing he would never spy on anyone else so long as he lived. He was not cut out for this!

“Well, so much for sleep,” Flint was saying. “I’ll take my turn at watch now.”

“I’ll join you,” Sturm offered.

“I suppose we’ll never know why or how we all dreamed the same dream,” said the dwarf. “I suppose not,” said Sturm.

The dwarf walked out of the tent. Sturm was about to follow when he appeared to find something on the ground just inside his tent flap. He stooped down to pick it up. The object glittered with a bright blue-white light, as though a star had dropped from the sky to rest in Sturm’s hand. The knight stood staring at the shining object, turning it over in his hand. Brian could see it quite clearly—a pendant formed in the shape of a star. The pendant gleamed with its own sparkling radiance. It was incredibly beautiful.

“I suppose not,” Sturm repeated, but as he stared at the jewel he now sounded thoughtful. He clasped it tightly, thankful to have recovered it.

Passing Gilthanas’s tent, Sturm heard Laurana’s voice inside, and ducked in there. Brian hurried thankfully to his own tent, slipped inside, stumbled over Aran’s feet, and found his own bed. He could overhear the three talking in the tent opposite.

“Laurana,” said Sturm, “can you tell me something about this?”

He heard her gasp. Gilthanas said something in Elvish.

“Sturm,” Laurana said, awed, “that is a starjewel! How did you come by such a thing?”

“The Lady Alhana gave it to me before we parted,” Sturm replied in a hushed and reverent tone. “I didn’t want to take it, for I could see it was extremely valuable, but she insisted—”

“Sturm,” said Laurana, and her voice was choked with emotion. “This is the answer—or at least part of it. Starjewels are gifts given by a lover to his beloved. The jewels connect them, keep each in the heart and mind and soul of the other, even if they are parted. The connection is spiritual, not physical, and is impossible to break. Some believe it lasts even beyond death.”

Sturm’s reply was muffled, and Brian could not hear it. His thoughts went to Lillith—they had not been far from her this entire trip—and he could only imagine what the knight must be feeling.

“I have never heard of a starjewel being given to any human,” said Gilthanas, adding caustically, “Its value is incalculable. It is worth a small kingdom. You have done well for yourself.”

“Do you truly believe I would ever sell this?” Sturm demanded. His voice trembled with his rage. “If so, you do not know me!”

Gilthanas was silent a moment, then he said quietly. “I do know you, Sturm Brightblade. I was wrong to imply such a thing. Please forgive me.”

Sturm muttered that he accepted the apology and walked out of the tent. As he left, Gilthanas asked again for Sturm to forgive him. Sturm said nothing; he simply walked out.

Laurana spoke angrily to her brother in Elvish. Gilthanas replied in Elvish. Brian couldn’t understand the words, but the elf lord sounded contrite, though sullen.

Laurana emerged from the tent and ran after Sturm.

“Gil didn’t mean it—” she began.

“Yes, Laurana, he did,” Sturm said. His voice was stern. “Perhaps he came to think better of his cruel remark, but when he first spoke those words, he knew exactly what he was saying.”

Sturm paused then added, “He wants the dragon orb for your people, doesn’t he? I’ve seen him hanging about the knights. I know he’s been spying on Derek. What does your brother know about this orb?”

Laurana gave a little gasp. Sturm’s blunt accusation had taken her by surprise. “I don’t think he knows anything. He’s just talking—”

Sturm cut her off in exasperation. “You keep trying to pour honey over everything. You placate Derek. You coddle your brother. Stand up for yourself and what you believe in for once.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and Brian heard her boots crunch in the snow.

“Laurana,” said Sturm, relenting, “I’m the one who is sorry. After what you’ve been through, I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. You’ve kept us together. You brought us here.”

“For what?” she asked in hopeless tones. “So we could freeze to death?”

“I don’t know,” he returned. “Maybe the gods do.”

The two were silent, friends comforting each other.

Laurana spoke. “Could I ask you one question before you go?”

“Of course,” Sturm replied.

“You said you knew Tanis and the others were alive…”

“They did not die in Tarsis as we feared. He and our friends are with Lady Alhana in Silvanesti and though they have been in great peril and they feel great sorrow, for the moment they are safe. I don’t know how I know that,” he added simply, “but I know it.”

“The magic of the starjewel,” Laurana said. “Lady Alhana speaks through the jewel to your heart. The two of you will always be connected…

“Sturm,” she said softly, so softly Brian could barely hear, “that human woman I saw in the dream, the one who was with Tanis. Was that… Kitiara?”

Sturm cleared his throat. He sounded embarrassed. “That was Kit,” he said gruffly.

“Do you think… are they together?”

“I don’t see how that’s possible, Laurana. The last I saw of Kit, she was traveling to Solamnia, and anyway I doubt she would be in Silvanesti. Kit never had much use for elves.”

Laurana gave a sigh that was audible even to Brian. “I wish I could believe that.”

Sturm tried to reassure her. “We were all in the dream together and we’re not in Silvanesti. Tanis and the others are alive and that is good to know. But remember, when all is said and done, Laurana, it was just a dream.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Laurana replied, and she bid him a good night and returned to her tent, but as she walked past Brian’s tent, he heard her murmur, “A magical dream…”

Brian lay awake for a long time, unable to sleep. He had lived his life, for the most part, having nothing to do with magic. Wizards were viewed with deep suspicion in Solamnia, and those wizards who chose to live in that realm—and there were few—kept to themselves. The only magic he had ever seen had been performed at fairs and even then his father had told him it was all sleight-of-hand and make believe. As for holy miracles, he had seen for himself when Elistan healed the wounds suffered by the white bear. He did not agree with Derek that it was trickery, though Brian could not quite bring himself to believe it was the gods either.

Yet now he was in the company of people who had been around mages since they were small; a wizard of the red robes had been a childhood companion. Though they did not understand its workings, they accepted magic as a part of their lives. They were convinced they had all shared a dream because of a shining bit of jewelry. Even the gruff and dour old dwarf believed it.

Perhaps, Brian thought, the magic is not so much in the jewel as it is in their souls. Their love and friendship for each other runs so deep that even apart they are still together, still in each other’s hearts and minds. He saw daily the close bond that existed between these people and he remembered a time when there had been such a bond between three young men. Once, long ago, those three young men might have shared a dream. Not anymore. Brian realized he had been trying this entire journey to find their bond of friendship again, but that could never happen. War and ambition, fear and mistrust had changed them, driven them apart instead of bringing them together. He, Derek, and Aran were strangers to each other.

Because of Derek’s suspicions, Brian had learned the innermost secrets of friends who trusted him, and though he was impressed and touched by what he’d heard, he knew quite well he should have never heard it. When Derek came off watch, muttering that he didn’t trust the dwarf and Brightblade and the Ice Folk to keep a good lookout, Brian had to work hard to keep from leaping up and slugging him.

The next morning, Derek and Aran set out to take a look at Ice Wall Castle to see it for themselves. They took along Raggart’s grandson, who was also named Raggart, as a guide.

Raggart the Younger, as he was called, though he was close to thirty, had eagerly volunteered to accompany the two knights. Raggart was the tribe’s historian, which meant that he was the tribal storyteller. The Ice Folk kept no written history (few could read or write), and thus all important events were chronicled in song and story. Young Raggart had learned the history from the previous historian, now dead some fifteen years, and he related the stories on a daily basis, sometimes singing them, sometimes acting them out, with himself taking all the roles, sometimes making a tale of them. He could mimic any sound, from the swishing of the runners of the ice boats as they sped across the frozen landscape to the wailing howl of wolves and the quarreling cawings of sea birds, and he used the sounds to enliven his recitals.

Young Raggart foresaw adding a glorious episode to the tribal lore, one he would witness firsthand. He presented the knights with a crude drawing of the castle’s interior, though exactly what good this was going to do them was open to question, since they had no intention of going inside. When Derek asked him how he knew what the castle’s interior looked like, since he had admitted that he’d never been inside Ice Wall, Raggart had replied that he’d put it together from information found in a very old poem composed by a long-lost ancestor who had investigated the castle three hundred years ago. Though Derek had grave misgivings about the map, it was, as he said, better than nothing, and he accepted it and studied it with interest before they left. Their number included Tasslehoff, not because he was wanted, but because Derek could not find any way short of running a sword through the kender to get rid of him.

Brian had been supposed to accompany his fellows, but he had declined. Derek had not been pleased and he had been on the point of ordering Brian to come, but there was something oddly rebellious and defiant in Brian’s manner. Not wanting to make an issue of it, Derek had swallowed his anger and instead told Brian to keep an eye on Brightblade and the others. Brian had stared at Derek in grim silence and then turned and walked off without a word.

“I think our friend has fallen in love with that elf woman,” Derek said in disapproving tones to Aran as they departed. “I will have to have a talk with him.”

Aran, who had seen the fond looks Brian and Lillith gave each other, knew Derek was completely and utterly wrong in this, but it amused the knight to let Derek remain under his misapprehension. Trekking over the snow after their guide, Aran looked forward gleefully to hearing one of Derek’s sonorous lectures on the evils of loving anyone who wasn’t “our own kind”.

Brian had been going to eat a solitary breakfast in his tent. Laurana, hearing he remained behind, was concerned and came to ask after his health. She was kind and gracious and truly seemed to care about him. Remembering that he had spied on her last night, Brian felt worse than the meanest scoundrel that ever roamed the sewers of Palanthas. Brian could not refuse her invitation, and he joined her and her friends, along with the chief of the Ice Folk, in the chieftent.

The companions were much more cheerful this morning. They spoke of their absent comrades freely, without the sorrow of loss, wondering where they were and what they were doing. Brian acted surprised to hear their joyful news. His acting wasn’t very good, but the others were so happy none of them noticed.

The conversation turned to the dragon orb. Harald listened to all they said, keeping his thoughts to himself. Gilthanas made no secret of the fact that he believed the orb should go to the elves.

“Lord Gunthar has pledged that the orb will be taken to the Whitestone Council. The elves are part of the Whitestone Council—” Brian began.

“We were,” Gilthanas interrupted. His lip curled. “We are no longer.”

“Gil, please don’t start—” Laurana began.

Then, glancing at Sturm, perhaps thinking what he’d said about honey-coating everything, she fell silent.

“Here now!” Flint was saying. “What does this dragon orb do that is so blasted important?” His bushy brows came together in a frown. The dwarf looked first at Brian, then at Gilthanas.

“Well?” Flint demanded, and when neither answered, he grunted, “I thought so. All this fooferah to find something the kender said he read about in a book! That should tell you the answer right there—mainly that we should leave the fool orb where it sits and go home.” Flint sat back, triumphant.

Sturm smoothed his mustaches preparatory to saying something. Gilthanas opened his mouth at the same time, but they were both interrupted by Tasslehoff who burst into the chieftent, agog with excitement, brimming with importance, and shivering with cold.

“We found Ice Wall Castle!” he announced. “Guess what? It’s made of ice! Well, I guess it isn’t really. Derek says underneath all the ice are stone walls and the ice has simply accumulated”-Tas brought out the big word proudly—“over the years.”

He plopped himself down on the floor and gratefully accepted a warming drink of some steaming liquid. “That burns clear down to my toes,” he said thankfully. “As for the castle, it’s perched way, way, way up on top of a mountain made of ice. Derek has this great idea about how we’re going to storm the castle, find the dragon orb, and kill the wizard. The castle is a wonderful place. Raggart sang us a song about it. The song tells about underground tunnels and a magical fountain of water that never freezes and then, of course, there’s the dragon’s lair with the dragon orb and the dragon inside. I can’t wait to go!”

Tas took another gulp of his drink and let out a moist breath. “Whew, boy, that’s good! Anyway, where was I?”

“—getting my people slaughtered,” Harald stated angrily.

“Was I?” Tasslehoff looked surprised. “I didn’t mean to.”

“In order to reach Ice Wall Castle, my people will be forced to travel over the glacier, where we will be visible for miles along the way—easy pickings for the white dragon,” Harald went on, growing angrier the more he talked. “Then those who by some miracle manage to survive the dragon’s attack will be targets for the dragon-men who will shoot my warriors as full of arrows as a prickly pig!”

“What’s a prickly pig?” Tas asked, but no one answered.

Derek had entered the tent.

Harald was on his feet, glaring at the knight. “So you would send my people to their deaths!”

“I had intended to explain my plan myself,” Derek stated, with an exasperated glance at the kender.

Tasslehoff grinned and waved and said modestly, “That’s all right, Sir Knight. No need for thanks.”

Derek turned to Harald. “Your people can slip up to the castle under the cover of darkness—”

Harald shook his head and gave an explosive snort that seemed to expand the walls of the tent. The Ice Folk inside the chieftent put down their work to give him their full attention.

“What is wrong with that idea?” Derek demanded, disconcerted by the sight of so many dark and emotionless eyes fixed upon him.

Harald looked to Raggart the Elder. The old priest in his gray robes rose, tottering on shaking legs, leaning on the arm of his grandson for support.

“Wolves roam about the castle by night,” Raggart stated. “They would see us and report back to Feal-Thas.”

Derek thought at first he was joking, then realized the old man was serious. He appealed to the chief. “You are a man of reason. Do you believe such nonsense as this? Wolf guards—it is a child’s tale!”

Harald once again swelled with rage and it seemed likely he would blast Derek out of the tent if he got started. Raggart rested a warding hand on Harald’s arm, and the chief choked back his rage and was silent.

“According to you, the gods themselves are child’s tales, aren’t they, Sir Knight?” asked the old man.

Derek replied in measured tones, “I had a beloved brother who believed in these gods. He died a terrible death when our castle was attacked and overrun by the dragonarmies. He prayed to them to save us, and they did nothing. This proves to me there are no gods.”

Elistan stirred at this and seemed about to speak.

Derek saw this and forestalled him. “Spare your breath, Cleric. If there are such gods of so-called ‘good’ who refused to heed my brother’s prayers and let him die, then I want nothing to do with them.”

He looked about the tent, at the eyes watching him. “Many of your people may die, Chieftain, that is true, but many people in other parts of Krynn have already laid down their lives for our noble cause—”

“—so that you can find this dragon orb and take it back to your homeland,” said Harald dourly.

“And we will slay the wizard Feal-Thas—”

Harald gave another terrific snort.

Derek was flushed with anger, at a loss for words. He was accustomed to obedience and respect, and he was getting neither. He was obviously baffled by Harald’s stubborn obtuseness, for that is what he considered it.

“You do not understand the importance—” Derek began impatiently.

“No, it is you who do not understand,” Harald thundered. “My people fight only when we must fight. We do not go seeking battle. Why do you think our boats are swift? To carry us away from the conflict. We are not cowards. We fight if we must, but only if we must. Given a chance, we run. There is no shame in that, Sir Knight, because every day of our lives of we fight deadly foes: shifting ice, bitter wind, biting cold, sickness, starvation. We have fought these foes for centuries. When you leave, we will continue to fight them. Will this dragon orb of yours change anything for us?”

“It may or it may not,” interjected Elistan. “A single pebble falling into a lake sends out ripples that expand and keep expanding until they reach the shore. The distance between Solamnia and Icereach is vast, yet the gods have seen fit to bring us together. Perhaps for the dragon orb,” he said, looking at Derek, then shifting his gaze to Harald, “or perhaps to help us learn to honor and respect one another.”

“And if Feal-Thas were destroyed, I think it unlikely Ariakas would send anyone to take his place,” Sturm said. “To my way of thinking, the attack on Tarsis did not prove the Dark Queen’s strength; it showed her weakness. If there was a way we could work together—”

“I have told you the way,” Derek interrupted angrily. “By attacking Ice Wall castle—”

Laurana quit listening. She was sick of the quarreling, sick of the fighting. Derek would never understand Harald. The chief would never understand Derek. Her thoughts turned to Tanis. Now that she too believed he was alive, she wondered if he was with that human woman, Kitiara. Laurana had seen her with Tanis in the dream. Kit was lovely, with her black curly hair, crooked smile, flashing black eyes…

There had been something familiar about her. Laurana had the feeling she’d seen those eyes before.

Now you’re being silly, she told herself. Letting your jealousy run away with you. Sturm’s right. Kitiara’s nowhere near Silvanesti. Why should she be? Strange that I feel this connection to her… as if we’ve met…

“We will carry on with our plans, Chieftain, no matter what you choose to do—” Derek was saying heatedly.

Laurana rose to her feet and walked off.

Tasslehoff had long since grown bored with the conversation. He was in the back of the chieftent having a grand rummage through his pouches to the delight of several children squatting on the floor around him. Among his treasures was a broken piece of crystal whose smooth planes and sharp edges formed a triangular shape.

He must have picked it up in Tarsis, Laurana realized. It looked as though it might have once graced an elegant lamp or maybe was part of the stem of a broken wine glass.

Tasslehoff was squatting directly beneath one of the ventilation holes in the roof. The midday sun streamed down, forming a bright halo around the kender.

“Watch this!” he said to the children. “I’m going to do a magic trick taught to me by a great and powerful wizard named Raistlin Majere.”

Tas held the crystal to the sun. “I’m going to say the magic words now. ‘Oooglety booglety’.” He twitched the crystal to make tiny rainbows go dancing about the tent. The children shouted in glee and Derek, in the front of the tent, cast them all a stern look and ordered Tasslehoff to stop fooling around.

“I’ll show you fooling around,” Tas muttered and he twitched the crystal again, causing one of the rainbows to crawl over Derek’s face.

The knight blinked as the sunlight hit his eyes. The children clapped and laughed and Tas smothered a giggle. Derek rose angrily to his feet. Laurana gestured to him that she would deal with it, and Derek sat back down.

“Did Raistlin really teach you how to do that?” Laurana asked, sitting beside Tas, hoping to distract the kender from his torment of the knight.

“Yes, he did,” said Tas proudly, adding eagerly, “I’ll tell you the story. It’s very interesting. Flint was designing a setting for a jeweled pendant for one of his customers, and the pendant went missing. I offered to help him find it, and so I left to go to Raistlin and Caramon’s house to ask if they might have seen it. Caramon wasn’t home and Raistlin had his nose in a book. He said I wasn’t to bother him and I said I would just sit down and wait for Caramon to come back, and Raistlin asked me if I meant to stay there all day, annoying him, and I said yes, I had to find this jeweled pendant, and then he put down the book and came over to me and turned all my pockets inside out and, would you believe it? There was the pendant!”

Tas had to stop for breath before continuing. “I was really happy to think I’d found it and I said I’d take it back to Flint, but Raistlin said, no, he would take it to Flint after supper and I was to go away and leave him alone. I said I thought I would wait for Caramon anyway, because I hadn’t seen him since yesterday. Raistlin eyed me in that way of his that kind of sends crawly feelings through you and then he asked would I go if he taught me a magic trick? I said I would have to go, because I’d want to show the trick to Flint.

“Raistlin held the jewel up to light and he said the magic words and he made rainbows! Then he had me hold the jewel up the to the light and taught me the magic words and I made rainbows! He showed me another magic trick, too. Here, I’ll do it for you.”

He held the crystal to the sun so that the light passed through it and beamed brightly on the floor. Tas shoved aside one of the fur rugs, exposing the ice beneath. He held the crystal steady, focusing it on the ice. The light struck the ice and it began to melt. The children gasped in wonder.

“See?” said Tas proudly. “Magic! The time I did that for Flint, I set the tablecloth on fire.”

Laurana hid a smile. It wasn’t magic. Elves had been using prisms for as long as there had been elves and crystals, fire and rainbows.

Fire and rainbows.

Laurana stared at the melting ice and suddenly she knew how the Ice Folk could defeat their foes.

Laurana stood up. First she thought she would tell the others, and then she thought she wouldn’t. What was she doing? Here she was, an elf maiden, telling battle-hardened Solamnic knights how to fight. They wouldn’t listen to her. Worse, they might laugh at her. There was another problem. Her idea depended on faith in the gods. Was her faith strong enough? Would she bet her life and the lives of her friends and the lives of the Ice Folk on that faith?

Laurana walked slowly back. She imagined speaking out and felt suddenly queasy, as she had the very first time she’d played her harp for her parents’ guests. She’d given a beautiful performance, or so her mother had told her. Laurana couldn’t remember any of it, except throwing up afterward. Since her mother’s death, Laurana had acted as her father’s hostess. She had performed numerous times for their guests. She’d spoken before dignitaries and later, she’d talked to the assembled refugees, and she had not been nervous, perhaps because she had been in her father’s shadow or in Elistan’s. Now, if she spoke up, she would have to stand on her own in the glaring sunlight.

Keep quiet, you fool, Laurana scolded herself and she was determined to obey and then she thought of Sturm, telling her to stand up for what she believed in.

“I know how to assault Ice Wall Castle,” she said and, as they stared at her in astonishment, she added breathlessly, surprised at her own courage, “With the help of the gods, we will make the castle attack itself.”

10 Too much of a good horse. The priest of Takhisis

Kitiara rode all night. Salah Kahn’s horse had been languishing in his stall for several days and was spoiling for a gallop. Kitiara had to occasionally rein him in, so as not to tire him out. They had a long journey ahead of them. Dargaard Keep was hundreds of miles distant, and danger crouched behind every bush, watched every crossroads.

She tried to calculate, as she rode, when her absence would be discovered. She hoped not until dawn, at the time of her scheduled execution, but with the chaos over the destruction of the Dark Abbey, she couldn’t be certain. Dragons would carry the news of her escape far and wide. Word would spread fast.

The one advantage she had was that Ariakas would assume she would head for Solamnia, there to join up with her blue dragon command and lead them in rebellion against him. It was what he would have done in her place. He would concentrate his searchers on the roads leading to Solamnia. Those bounty hunters would be disappointed. Kit wasn’t heading west. She was riding north, to the accursed realm known as Nightlund, a land no one visited unless he had a death wish or an exceptionally good reason for not being anywhere else.

Part of Solamnia, the realm had originally been known as Knightlund. The land was heavily wooded, rugged, and mountainous. Not suitable for farming, at the time of the Cataclysm it was only sparsely populated. A wealthy and influential Knight of the Rose, Sir Loren Soth, was ruler of the region. His family’s keep was built in the northern part of Dargaard Mountains. Designed to resemble a rose, the castle was considered a marvel of architecture. Family legend had it that Soth’s grandfather imported dwarven craftsman to build the castle and that its construction took one hundred years. A city called Dargaard grew up around the keep, but most of the other settlements in Knightlund were located along the river and did brisk business in milling, logging, and fishing.

The Cataclysm devastated Knightlund. Earthquakes split the mountains. The river overflowed its banks and, in some places, shifted course. Every settlement along the river was destroyed. Lives were lost, livelihoods ended.

The people in other regions of Solamnia were also hard-hit by the disaster. Concentrating on their own survival, they could not worry about what was happening in Knightlund. Most believed the lord of the region was dealing with the disaster.

Then survivors came stumbling out of that land, telling strange and terrible tales. The once-magnificent Dargaard Keep was destroyed, and that was not the worst of the story. Murder had been done in the keep; its mistress and her little child had died horribly in a fire that had swept through the wondrous castle, leaving it blackened and crumbling. With her dying breath, so it was said, she had called down a curse on the man who could have saved her and his child, but in his jealousy and rage, he had walked off and left them to perish in the flames.

Sir Loren Soth, once a proud and noble knight of Solamnia, was now a knight of death, doomed to live in the shadowy realm of the undead. The wailing voices of the elf women who shared his curse moaned night after night, repeating to him the tale of his tragic downfall. Warriors of fire, bone and blackened armor, stained with their own blood, were constrained by their master’s curse to mount eternal patrol atop the crumbling walls and slay in fury any living person who challenged them.

The gods of Light had doomed Lord Soth to a tormented existence, forced to constantly reflect upon his own guilt. They hoped eventually he would ask forgiveness, redemption. Takhisis wanted to claim him for her own and she gifted him with powerful magicks, hoping to persuade him to turn his back on salvation and serve her. But Soth had apparently turned his back on all gods—good and evil, for he would not march forth to terrorize the world as Takhisis had hoped. He remained in his keep, brooding and terrible, dealing merciless death to those who dared disturb him.

These were the reports from Knightlund, and few believed them at first, but more stories came out of that dark land and all told the same tale. The city of Dargaard, which had escaped the Cataclysm relatively unscathed, was abandoned; its citizens fled in terror, vowing to never go back, but with the stories of dread banshees and undead warriors came tales of fabulous treasure, wealth unimaginable stashed away in the storerooms of the keep. Many were the greedy and venturesome who traveled to Dargaard in search of fame, wealth, and glory. The only ones who ever returned were those who had been so stricken by terror at the sight of the keep’s blackened walls and broken towers that they never went closer. Such was the land’s evil repute that some grim jokester suggested the name be changed from “Knightlund” to “Nightlund”. Over time, that was how the realm became generally known, and now it was written thus on the maps.

No one had actually seen Lord Soth, or, if any person had, he had not lived to tell of it. Was the death knight a myth, a creation of mothers trying to scare children into good behavior? Perhaps it was a tale from the excited mind of some inventive kender? Or did he really exist?

Kitiara would have been the first to discount such fanciful stories but for Queen Takhisis, who had been so persistent in her urging, and for another reason. Kit’s father had traveled to Nightlund. Drawn by rumor of wealth untold and scoffing at the “granny tales,” Gregor uth Matar was one of the few to make it back alive. This happened because, as he freely admitted, his instinct for self-preservation had convinced him that no amount of money was worth the danger. He had always joked about his journey to Nightlund, but when, as a little girl, Kit had pressed him for details, Gregor had told her that some things were best forgotten. He had laughed when he said it, but there had been a shadowed look in his eye that she had never seen before, a look she had never forgotten.

And here she was, riding to this dread land, home to the living as well as the dead, a haunt for the desperate and dangerous, driven to hiding in Nightlund because they were hunted everywhere else.

As Kitiara rode that night, she thought of this, thought of her father, recalled the horror stories she had heard. Not far from Neraka, she came to a fork in the road. One highway led west. The other led north. Kit reined in her horse. She looked to the west, to Skie, who would be over his sulking fit by now and wondering what had happened to her. She was sorely tempted to take the western route, return to her troops, challenge Ariakas. Do just what he feared she would do.

She considered this option, forcing herself to examine it. Skie would side with her, she was sure of that. She would not be able to count upon the other blue dragons. Queen Takhisis, angry over Kit breaking her vow, would turn her back on her and the blue dragons would not go against their Queen. Kit’s own troops would be divided. She might rally half of them to her cause. The others would desert. Handsome Bakaris would join her, but he was not all that trustworthy. He’d turn on her in an instant if the money was good enough.

Kitiara shifted in the saddle. There was one other reason, the most important, why she would not ride west. She might break her vow to her Queen, but Kitiara uth Matar could not break a vow to herself. She had vowed to return to Ariakas in triumph, strong and powerful, so strong he would not dare cross her. To accomplish that, she needed a strong and powerful ally—an ally such as Lord Soth. It was either victory or death.

Kitiara rode north.

Day dawned, bright and cold, and Kit realized the horse was going to be a problem. The magnificent stallion with his jet-black glossy coat, his long mane, sweeping tail, and powerfully muscled body was obviously a valuable animal. People stopped and stared at him in admiration. Their gaze shifted to his rider, to Kit, clad once more in her gambeson. She had used the poignard to slash the threads’ embroidered design off the quilted fabric of her gambeson, already worn from much use. She had no cloak in this cold weather and that made her look even more down-at-the-heels. Everyone who saw that horse would instantly wonder how a shabby sellsword such as herself had managed to acquire the rare and noble beast. Everyone she met would be certain to remember the expensive horse and its beggarly rider.

Kit left the main road, seeking shelter in the woods. She searched until she found a shallow depression where she could tether the horse. Worn out from her exhausting ordeal, she needed sleep. Kit’s mind was busy with the problem of the horse as she drifted off. She had named him Windracer and she needed his strength, power and stamina to carry her to Nightlund. She needed his speed in case Ariakas’s forces closed in on her. She had to find some way they could ride openly on the road and not call attention to themselves.

Her mind worked as she slept, and Kit woke refreshed in the early evening, with what she hoped was a solution to her problem.

Leaving the horse concealed in the forest, Kit made herself even more disreputable-looking. She smeared dirt on her face, shook her hair over her eyes, then returned to the highway. She was still too close to Neraka for comfort, and her heart beat rapidly when a troop of goblin soldiers marched past on their way into the city. She crouched behind a tree and the goblin soldiers passed by her, never noticing she was there.

A merchant caravan approached, but it was guarded by several well-armed mercenaries and she allowed it to pass. After that, with night closing in, the number of travelers dwindled. Kit was starting to grow frustrated and impatient. She was wasting valuable time, and she had just about decided to risk riding as she was when the traveler she had been hoping to meet came along—a priest of Takhisis, obviously of high rank, probably a spiritor. A large medallion of faith dangled ostentatiously from a heavy golden chain around his neck. He wore black velvet robes and a lamb’s wool cloak of fine quality. His fingers were adorned with rings of jet and onyx set in gold. His saddle and trappings were expensive hand-tooled leather.

He was a short man, of stout build with a ruddy complexion. Unlike the dark priests of the Temple, he obviously enjoyed his dinner and his wine. He carried no weapon other than a riding crop. Kit waited for his armed escort to appear, but no one came. She heard no sound of hoofbeats. Though he was riding the roads near Neraka alone, the priest did not seem worried or nervous. Kit should have wondered about this odd circumstance but she was in haste and this victim was too perfect to pass up.

As the priest’s horse drew near, Kit rose from her place by the tree. Keeping her head lowered to conceal her features, she limped up to the priest, her hand extended.

“Please, dark father,” she said, her voice harsh, “spare a steel coin for a soldier wounded in the service of our Queen.”

The priest cast her a baleful glance and raised his riding crop in a threatening manner.

“Wretched cur, I have nothing to give you,” he said churlishly. “It is unseemly for one of our troops to be caught begging. Take your miserable carcass off the public road!”

“Please, father…” Kitiara whined.

The priest lashed out at her with the riding crop, striking for her head. The blow missed, but Kit gave a cry and fell back as though it had landed.

The priest rode on without a look. Kit waited a moment to be certain he was alone and no guards were following at a distance. Seeing no one else on the road, she ran lightly and silently after him. She leaped, vaulted onto the back of the horse, and wrapped her arm around the priest’s neck. She put her knife to his throat.

The priest was taken completely by surprise. At the touch of cold steel, he gasped and went stiff in the saddle.

“I asked you nicely the first time, dark father,” Kit said reproachfully. “You refused to give me anything, so now I’m insisting. It’s only because you are a servant of the Dark Queen that I don’t slit your throat, so you might want to thank her. Now get down off the horse.”

She shifted the knife to the man’s ribs and gave him a prod. She could feel his pudgy body quivering, and she assumed it was with fear. The dark priest sullenly dismounted. Kitiara slid deftly off the horse to land on the ground behind him. He started to turn. She kicked his knees out from under him, and he sagged to the ground with a groan.

“Hand over your money—” Kit began.

To her astonishment, the priest surged to his feet. Grasping his medallion, he held it out in front of him and cried out in fury, “May Queen Takhisis hear my prayer and shrivel your heart. May she flay your flesh from your bones, suck the breath from your body, and destroy you utterly!”

His flabby body shook with rage, his voice resounded with confidence. He had no doubt that the dark goddess would answer him, and for a terrifying moment, neither did Kitiara. The night air crackled with the power of his prayer and she cringed, waiting for the wrath of Takhisis to immolate her.

Nothing happened.

The crackling subsided and dwindled away. Kitiara’s flesh remained intact. Her heart continued to beat. She kept right on breathing.

Kit raised her head. The priest was still holding the medallion, but he was starting to look uneasy. “Takhisis!” he cried, and now there was a note of panic in his voice, “shrivel this miscreant’s heart and flay the flesh—”

Kitiara burst out laughing.

“You are calling on the wrong god if you want to stop me, dark father. Next time, try praying to Paladine. Now strip off those robes. I want your belt, your jewelry and that fat purse of yours. Quickly!”

She emphasized her words with her knife, prodding him in the midriff. The priest tore off his chain and his rings and flung them to the ground at her feet. Then he stood there, glowering, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Dark father, the only reason I don’t gut you is that I don’t want to ruin those warm robes,” Kit told him.

She was nervous, fearing someone might come. She walked forward, the point of her blade darting at his neck.

“But if you force me—”

The priest tossed his purse at her head, then, cursing her to every dark god he could think of, he dragged his robes off over his head. Kit made a bundle, tying up the money and the jewels inside the robes and cloak. She slapped his horse’s rump, so that the animal bounded off down the road, leaving the dark priest to stand shivering in his breeches, still calling down imprecations on her.

Chuckling, Kit entered the forest, wending her way through the thick underbrush to where she had Windracer concealed. The last she saw of the priest, he was running down the road, yelling loudly for his horse. Kit had seen the slash marks made by his riding crop on the animal’s neck, and she guessed the horse was not going to be inclined to stop and wait for him.

Kitiara pulled on the sumptuous black velvet robes of a high ranking priest over her own clothes. She draped the golden chain with the Queen’s medallion around her neck. The rings he’d worn were too big for her fingers. She put them in the purse that was filled with steel coins.

“How do I look?” she asked Windracer, modeling for the horse, who appeared to approve. Perhaps he, too, could foresee the best inns, the finest oats, the warmest stables.

Kitiara was transformed from a lowly sellsword into a wealthy priest of Takhisis. No one would think to question how she came to be in possession of such a valuable horse. She could ride the main roads by day. She could sleep in real beds, not spend her nights in ravines. Her pursuers would be searching for a renegade Highlord, a warrior woman. They would never think to look for a high-ranking spiritor. The wretched priest would tell his tale to the first sheriff he encountered, but as far as he knew, he’d been attacked by a beggar or perhaps, since she’d mentioned Paladine, a servant of the God of Light.

Kitiara laughed heartily. She ate a good meal—the priest’s own dinner—and then mounted her horse. She rode on, heading north. She had left one danger behind.

Unfortunately, that left her plenty of time to reflect upon the truly appalling danger that lay ahead.

11 The frostreaver. The making of a squire

Laurana’s idea for the attack on Ice Wall Castle caused an uproar. The knights were opposed, her friends were in favor, while Harald was dubious but interested. They spent that night and the next day arguing about it. Harald eventually agreed to go along with it, mainly because Raggart the Elder approved it, but partly because Derek was opposed to it. Derek said tersely that no military man of any sense would go into battle armed with only faith in gods who, if they existed at all, had proved themselves faithless. He would have no part of it.

Brian had to admit that on this issue he sided with Derek. Laurana’s plan was ingenious, but it depended on the gods, and even Elistan said that he could not guarantee the gods would join the battle.

“Yet you are willing to risk your life because you believe the gods, on the off-chance, might come to your aid,” Aran pointed out, politely offering his flask around before taking a drink himself.

“I did not say that. I said I have faith the gods will aid us,” Elistan replied.

“But in the next breath, you say you can’t promise they will do so,” Aran argued good-naturedly.

“I would never presume to speak for the gods,” Elistan said. “I will ask them humbly for their help, and if they deem it right, they will grant it. If for some reason they refuse to give their aid, then I will accept their decision, for they know what is best.”

Aran laughed. “You’re giving the gods a break. If they help you, they get the credit, but if they don’t, you supply them with excuses.”

“Let my try to explain,” said Elistan, smiling. “You told me that you have a dearly loved nephew who is five years old. Let us say this child begs you to allow him to play with your sword. Would you give him what he wants?”

“Of course not,” said Aran.

“You love your nephew very much. You want him to be happy, yet you would deny him this. Why?”

“Because he is a child. For him, a sword is a toy. He does not yet have the mental capacity to understand the danger he would pose to himself and others around him.” Aran grinned. “I see what you are saying, sir. You claim this is the reason the gods do not give us everything we ask for. We might cut ourselves to ribbons.”

“Granting us all our wishes and desires would be the same as allowing that little child to play with your sword. We cannot see the gods’ eternal plan and how we fit into it. Thus, we ask in faith and hope we will be given what we want, but if not, we have faith that the gods know what is best for us. We accept the will of the gods and move forward.”

Aran considered this, washing it down with a pull from the flask, but he still shook his head.

“Are you a believer in these gods?” he asked, turning to Sturm.

“I am,” Sturm replied gravely.

“Do you believe that the gods truly know what is best for you?”

“I have proof,” Sturm said. “When we were in Thorbardin, searching for the Hammer of Kharas, I prayed to the gods to give the hammer to me. I wanted the sacred hammer to forge the legendary dragonlances. At least, that is what I told myself. I was angry with the gods when they saw fit to give the hammer to the dwarves.”

“You’re still angry about that!” Flint said with a shake of his head.

Sturm gave a wry smile. “Perhaps I am. I do not to this day understand why the gods saw fit to leave the hammer in the dwarven kingdom when we need it so sorely. But I do know why the gods did not give the hammer to me. I came to realize I did not want the hammer for the good of mankind but for my own good. I wanted the hammer because it would bring me glory and honor. To my shame, I even went so far as to agree to participate in a dishonorable scheme to keep the hammer and defraud the dwarves.

“When I realized what I had done, I asked the gods for forgiveness. I like to think I would have used the hammer for good, but I am not sure. If I was willing to sink so low to obtain it, perhaps I would have sunk even lower. The gods did not give me what I thought I wanted. They gave me a greater gift—knowledge of myself, my weakness, my frailties. I strive daily to overcome these faults, and with the help of the gods and my friends, I will be a better man.”

Brian looked at Derek as Sturm was speaking, especially the part about wanting the hammer for his own glory. But Derek wasn’t listening. He was still arguing with Harald, still trying to persuade the chief to go along with his scheme. Perhaps it was just as well Derek did not hear Sturm’s admission. Derek’s opinion of Sturm, already low, would have dropped below sea level.

Aran continued to question Elistan about the gods, asking their names and how Mishakal differed from Chislev, and why there were gods of neutrality, such as Lillith had talked about, and how the balance of the world was maintained. Aran listened to Elistan’s responses attentively, though Brian guessed that Aran’s interest in these newfound gods was purely academic. Brian couldn’t imagine the cynical Aran embracing religion.

Derek’s voice rose sharply, stopping the discussion.

“You expect me to entrust the success of my mission to the ravings of a couple of old men and the foolish notions of a girl? You are mad!”

Harald stood up and gazed down at Derek.

“Mad or not, if you want my people to attack the castle, Sir Knight, then we do it my way—or rather, the way of the elf woman. Tomorrow morning at dawn.”

Harald walked out. Derek fumed, frustrated, but ultimately impotent. He had to either take this offer or forego his mission. Brian sighed inwardly.

An unwelcome thought suddenly crossed Brian’s mind. No one knew anything about this dragon orb. What if it turned out to be an artifact of evil? Would Derek still take it back to Solamnia just to realize his own ambition? Brian had the unhappy feeling Derek would.

Brian looked at Sturm, a man who had freely admitted he’d been weak, who spoke openly of his flaws and faults. Compare that to Derek, a Knight of the Rose, tested and proven in battle, confident, sure of himself—a man who would scorn to admit he had faults, would refuse to acknowledge any weakness.

Are you sure he’s a knight? the kender had asked.

In many ways, Sturm Brightblade was a truer knight than Derek Crownguard. Sturm, with all his weaknesses, flaws, and doubts, strove every day to live up to the high ideal of knighthood. Sturm had not come on this quest seeking the dragon orb. He had come because Derek had commandeered the kender, and Sturm would not abandon his friend. Whereas Brian knew quite well that Derek would sacrifice the kender, the Ice Folk, everyone, including his friends, to gain what he wanted. Derek would say (and perhaps he would believe) he was doing this for the good of all mankind, but Brian feared it was only for the good of Derek Crownguard.

Derek left the chieftent in a rage. Aran went after Derek to try to calm him down. Harald, Raggart, and Elistan, along with Gilthanas and Laurana, removed to a tent that Raggart had now dedicated to the gods to discuss their plans for assaulting the castle on the morrow. Tasslehoff had not been seen in hours, and Flint, certain the kender had fallen into a hole in the ice, said he was going to see if he could locate him.

Brian had an idea regarding Brightblade. Derek would be furious and likely turn against Brian forever, but he felt this could be the right thing to do. Brian had just one doubt about Sturm, one question to ask him before putting his plan in motion. Sturm was about to go with Flint to search for the kender, when Brian stopped him.

“Sturm,” said Brian, “could I speak to you a moment in private?”

Flint said he could find the dratted kender on his own and left Sturm alone with Brian. Brian’s tent being occupied, Brian asked Sturm if they could go to his.

“I have a question for you,” Brian said, once they had settled themselves among the furs. “This is none of my business, and my question is impertinent. You have every right to be angry with me for asking. If you are, that’s fine. I will understand. I will also understand if you refuse to answer.”

Sturm looked grave, but indicated Brian could go ahead.

“Why did you lie to your friends about being a knight? Before you answer”—Brian admonished, raising a warning hand—“I have seen the regard and esteem in which your friends hold you. I know it wouldn’t have made any difference to them whether you were a knight or not. You agree that this is true?”

“Yes, that is true,” Sturm said in a low voice, so low Brian had to lean forward to hear him.

“And when they found out you had lied, that made no difference to them either. They still admire you, trust you, and look up to you.”

Sturm lowered his head and passed his hand over his eyes. He could not speak for his emotions.

“Then why lie?” Brian asked gently.

Sturm lifted his head. His face was pale and drawn, but he smiled when he spoke. “I could tell you that I never lied to them. You see, I never told them in so many words that I was a knight. But I led them to believe I was. I wore my armor. I spoke about the knighthood. When someone referred to me as a knight, I did not deny it.”

He paused, gazing thoughtfully into the past. “After my return, if Tanis had said to me, ‘Sturm, are you now a Knight of Solamnia?’ I think I would have found the strength to tell him that my candidacy had been turned down.”

“Unjustly,” Brian said firmly.

Sturm looked startled. He had not expected support from this quarter.

“Please go on with your explanation,” Brian urged. “Don’t think I’m asking out of smugness or idle curiosity. I’m trying to sort out some things for myself.”

Sturm appeared slightly perplexed, but he proceeded. “Tanis did not ask me that question. He took it for granted I was a knight, and so did my other friends. Before I could put things right, all hell broke loose. There was the blue crystal staff and hobgoblins and a lady to protect. Our lives changed forever in an instant, and when the time came when I could have told my friends the truth, it was too late. The truth would have caused complications.

“Then there was my pride.” Sturm’s expression darkened. “I could not have endured Raistlin’s smug triumph, his snide remarks.”

Sturm sighed deeply. His voice softened and he seemed to be speaking to himself, as though Brian were not there, “And I wanted to be a knight so badly. I could not bear to relinquish it. I vowed to be worthy of it. You must believe that. I vowed I would never do anything to disgrace the knighthood. I believed that if I lived my life as a knight, I could somehow make the lie right. I know what I did was wrong, and I am deeply ashamed. I have ruined forever my hopes of becoming a knight. I accept this as my punishment. But if the gods will it, I hope someday to stand before the Council, confess my sins, and ask their forgiveness.”

“I think you are a better knight than many of us who bear the title,” said Brian quietly.

Sturm only shook his head and smiled. He started to say something, but was interrupted by Flint, who thrust his head into the tent to yell, “That blasted kender! You won’t believe the fix he’s got himself into this time! You better come.”

Sturm excused himself and hurried off to rescue Tas from his latest predicament. Brian remained in the tent, thinking things over, and at last he made up his mind. He would do it, though he thought it likely Derek would never speak to him again.

That night, the Ice Folk held a celebration to honor the gods and ask their blessing for the attack on Ice Wall Castle. Derek grumbled that he supposed he would have to attend, since otherwise it would offend his host, but he added grimly that he wouldn’t stay long. Aran stated that, for his part, he was looking forward to it; he enjoyed a good party. Brian was also looking forward to the celebration, but for a different reason.

The chieftent had been cleared of all work, leaving room for dancing. Several of the elders sat around an enormous drum, and they beat on it softly as Raggart the Elder related tales of the old gods he had heard from his father and his father before him. Sometimes chanting, sometimes singing, the old man even performed a few dance steps. Raggart the Younger then took over, relating stories of heroes in past battles to embolden the hearts of the warriors. When he was finished, Tasslehoff, sporting a black eye but otherwise fine, sang a bawdy song about his own true love being a sailing ship, which completely mystified the Ice Folk, though they applauded politely.

Gilthanas borrowed a whalebone flute and played a song that seemed to bring with it the scent of spring wildflowers borne on warm, gentle breezes. So evocative was the elf’s playing that the chieftent, hazy with the smoke of the peat fires and the strong odor of fish, smelled of lilac and new grass.

When the singing and story-telling was done and they had all eaten and drunk, Raggart the Elder raised his hands for silence. This took some time, as the children (and the kender) were excited by the festivities and could not settle down. Eventually, however, a hush spread through the chieftent. The Ice Folk looked at Raggart expectantly; they knew what was going to happen. Derek muttered that he supposed they could leave now, but since neither Aran nor Brian moved, Derek was bound to stay.

Raggart the Elder reached down to an object wrapped in white fur that had been lying at his feet. He raised it up reverently in both hands and held it out in front of him. He said something softly and his grandson, Raggart the Younger, gently released the leather thongs that held the fur in place. The fur fell aside. The object glistened in the light of the fire.

The Ice Folk gave a soft sigh and all rose to their feet, as did the guests, once they understood this was expected of them.

“What is it?” Tasslehoff asked, standing on tiptoe and craning his neck. “I can’t see!”

“A battle axe made of ice,” said Sturm, marveling.

“Truly? Ice? Flint, give me a boost!” cried the kender, putting his hands on Flint’s shoulders, prepared to jump up on him.

“I will do no such thing!” said the outraged dwarf, batting away Tas’s hands.

Raggart frowned at the disruption. Sturm grabbed hold of Tas and dragged him around to stand in front, giving the kender a good view and allowing Sturm to keep firm hold of him, for he could see Tas’s fingers twitching with longing.

Raggart began to speak. “Long, long ago, when the world was new-made, our people lived in a land far from here, a land parched and scorched by the fierce young sun. There was no food, no water. Our people withered in the heat, and many died. At last, the chief could stand it no more. He begged the gods for help, and one of the gods, the Fisher God, answered. He knew of a land where fish were plentiful and fur-bearing animals abounded. He would show our people the way to that land, for he feared evil beings were trying to take it over. There was one problem—the land knew summer only briefly. It was a land of winter, a land of snow and ice.

“The chief and his people were heartily sick of the burning sun, the sweltering heat and constant hunger. They agreed to move, and the Fisher God gave them clothes suitable to the cold and taught them how to survive in the long winter. Then he lifted them in his hand and brought them to Icereach. The last gift the god gave them was the knowledge of how to make weapons of ice.

“The frostreavers were blessed by the gods, and even when the gods turned from us in their righteous anger, those of us who waited patiently for the gods to return continued to make frostreavers, and though the gods were gone, their blessing lingered as did our faith in them.

“On the eve of battle, it is tradition for the cleric who makes the frostreavers to look into the heart of each person and select the one who has the skill and courage, wisdom and knowledge to be a great warrior. To that person, the gods give the gift of a frostreaver.”

The warriors of the Ice Folk formed a line at the side of the chieftent and Harald, with a gesture, indicated their guests were to join them.

Flint frowned and shook his head. “Plain steel is good enough for Reorx and it’s good enough for me,” he said. “No offense to you or the Fish God,” he added hastily.

Raggart smiled at the dwarf and nodded. Laurana did not join the line. She remained standing beside Flint, along with Elistan. Sturm and Gilthanas took their places in line, Sturm being there mainly to keep an eye on Tasslehoff. Brian, Derek and Aran stood at the end.

Raggart, bearing the weapon swathed in white fur, walked along the line. He walked past the Ice Folk warriors, past Gilthanas and Sturm, and, to the kender’s vast disappointment, he carried the glistening weapon past Tasslehoff, who reached out to touch it.

“Ouch!” Tas snatched back his fingers. “I burned myself on ice!” he cried happily. “Look, Sturm, the ice burned me! How did that happen?”

Sturm shushed the kender.

Raggart continued on toward the three knights.

Derek muttered in disgust, “What am I going to do with a weapon made of ice? I suppose I’ll have to take it. It would insult them, otherwise. I still hope to persuade their chief to go along with my plan.”

Raggart walked past Aran, who eyed the weapon curiously and gave it a toast with his flask. The cleric walked past Brian and headed toward Derek, only to move past him.

Raggart halted, frowning. He glanced around, and his brow cleared. He turned from the line of warriors and walked over to Laurana. With a bow, he held out the frostreaver.

Laurana gasped. “There must be some mistake!”

“I see a tall tower, a blue dragon, and a bright silver lance whose light is dimmed by great sorrow,” said Raggart. “I see an orb broken and another orb stained with the blood of evil. I see golden armor shining like a beacon-light in the forefront of the battle. The gods have chosen you, lady, to receive their gift.”

Raggart extended the frostreaver. Laurana looked about in bewilderment, silently asking what to do. Sturm smiled encouragement and nodded. Gilthanas frowned and shook his head. Elf women train for battle, as do elf men, but the women do not fight unless the situation is desperate, and no elf woman would ever put herself forward as a leader of men!

“Take it, Laurana!” Tasslehoff called out eagerly. “But be careful. It burned me. See, look at my fingers!”

“The axe is well-crafted, I’ll say that for it,” said Flint, eying the weapon critically. “Heft it, lass. See what it feels like.”

Laurana flushed. “I am sorry, Raggart. I am truly honored by this gift. But I have the strangest feeling. I fear that by taking it, I’m taking hold of destiny.”

“Perhaps you are,” said Raggart.

“But that isn’t what I want,” Laurana protested.

“We each seek our destiny, child, but in the end, it is destiny that finds us.”

Laurana still hesitated.

Derek muttered to Brian, “If there was any evidence needed that the old man is a crackpot, we now have it.”

He spoke in Solamnic and kept his voice low, but Laurana heard, and she understood. Her lips tightened. Her face set in resolute lines. She reached out her hand, and, flinching a little in anticipation of the flesh-burning, bone-chilling cold, she grasped the frostreaver and lifted it from its fur bed.

Laurana relaxed. She held the weapon with ease. Strangely, the ice was no colder than the hilt of a steel sword. She lifted it to the light, admiring the beauty. The frostreaver was made of crystal-clear ice, cut and polished so that it was smooth, its lines elegant and simple.

The weapon appeared quite large and heavy, and her friends winced a little, expecting to see her drop it or lift it clumsily. To their astonishment, when Laurana hefted it, the frostreaver was perfectly suited to her grip.

“It seems to have been made for me,” she said, marveling.

Raggart nodded as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. He instructed her on the weapon’s use and care, warning her to keep it out of direct sunlight and away from the heat of the fire.

“For,” Raggart said, “although the ice from which we craft these is blessed by the gods and is unusually thick and dense, the frostreaver will melt, though not as fast as ordinary ice.”

Laurana thanked him and the Ice Folk, and lastly she thanked the gods. She swathed the frostreaver in its fur blanket, and, her cheeks still flushed, she asked in a low voice that the celebration continue. The drumming started again, when Brian, his heart beating fast, raised his hand.

“I have something to say.”

The drums fell silent. Aran and Derek stared at him in astonishment, for they knew how much their friend hated public speaking. Everyone else regarded him warmly, expectantly.

“I… um…” Brian had to stop a moment to clear his throat and then he continued, speaking rapidly to get this ordeal over. “There is one among us whom I have come to know well on this journey. I have been witness to his courage. I have come to admire his honesty. He is the embodiment of honor. Therefore”—Brian drew in a deep breath, knowing well the reaction he was going to get—“I hereby take Sturm Brightblade, son of Angriff Brightblade, as my squire.”

Brian’s cheeks burned. The blood pounded in his ears. He was dimly aware of polite applause from the Ice Folk, who had no idea what this meant. Finally, he dared to raise his head. Sturm had gone quite pale. Laurana, seated next to him, was applauding warmly. Gilthanas played a martial flourish on the flute. Elistan said something to Sturm and pressed his hand. The color returned to Sturm’s face. His eyes shimmered in the firelight.

“Are you certain about this, my lord?” Sturm asked in a low undertone. He cast a sidelong, meaningful glance at Derek, whose face was dark, suffused with anger.

“I am,” Brian said, and he reached out to clasp Sturm’s hand. “You realize what this does for you?”

Sturm nodded and said brokenly, “I do, my lord. I cannot tell you how much this means…” He bowed deeply. “I am honored by your regard, my lord. I will not fail you.”

Overcome with emotion, Sturm could say no more. Flint came over to congratulate him, as did Tasslehoff.

Laurana leaned over to ask Brian, “I heard you say this will do something for him. What will it do? Isn’t Sturm too old to be a squire? I thought squires were young lads who acted as servants to a knight.”

“Generally they are, though there are no age restrictions. Some men remain squires all their lives, content in that position. By making him my squire, Sturm may now apply to take his knightly trials, something he could not have done otherwise.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I have named Sturm my squire, the transgressions he committed which would have barred him from the knighthood are now expunged.”

A small frown line creased Laurana’s smooth forehead. “What transgression could Sturm have possibly committed?”

Brian hesitated, unwilling to say.

“I know he lied about being a knight,” Laurana said. “Sturm told me. Is that what you mean?”

Brian nodded, then looked up as a blast of frigid wind blew through the chieftent, causing the fires to waver. Derek had stalked out.

Laurana’s troubled gaze followed him. “You mean Derek would have used that to block Sturm’s application?”

“Oh, yes,” said Brian, nodding emphatically. “By making Sturm my squire, I’m telling the Council that I have decided his error in judgment should be forgiven and forgotten. Derek won’t even be able to bring up the fact that Sturm lied about being a knight.”

Sturm was patiently answering Tasslehoff’s questions, promising him that if he ever rode in a tourney, Tas could be the one to carry his shield, an honor that left the kender aglow with pleasure.

“I do not think Sturm lied,” said Laurana softly.

“As it happens, neither do I,” said Brian.

Aran walked over to shake Sturm’s hand and extend his congratulations, then went to Brian.

“Derek wants to see you outside,” he said in Brian’s ear.

“Is he very angry?” Brian asked.

“I figure he’s out there gnawing the edge off his sword blade,” Aran said cheerfully. He clapped Brian on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. You did right. I’ll say as much over your grave.”

“Thanks,” Brian muttered.

The dancing started. The elders began beating out a lively rhythm on the drums and chanting. Young and old took the floor, forming a circle, joining arms, dipping and bobbing and weaving. They drew Laurana in, and even persuaded Flint, who kept falling over his own feet and tripping up the line, much to everyone’s mirth. Brian, sighing, headed for the tent opening.

Sturm stopped him. “I fear this will cause trouble between you and Derek.”

“I fear you’re right,” said Brian with a wry smile.

“Then don’t go through with it,” said Sturm earnestly. “It is not worth it—”

“I think it is. The knighthood needs men like you, Sturm,” Brian said. “Maybe more than it needs men like us.”

Sturm started again to protest. Brian unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to him. “Here, Squire. Have that weapon cleaned and polished by morning when we ride to battle.”

Sturm hesitated, then he accepted the sword with a grateful smile. “I will, my lord,” he said, bowing.

Brian walked into the icy wind blowing off the glacier. He saw pale shapes slinking outside the ring of tents—wolves, watching them. He wondered if Raggart was right, if the wolves were spies. They certainly seemed intent upon them. He shivered in the cold, and found more cold awaiting him—cold fury.

“You did that deliberately to discredit me!” Derek said accusingly. “You did it to destroy my credibility and make me look the fool!”

Brian was astonished. Whatever else he had expected, it wasn’t this. “I don’t believe it! You think I made Sturm my squire just to get back at you?”

“Of course,” Derek returned. “Why else would you do it? Brightblade is a liar, quite possibly a bastard. Ye gods, you might as well have made the kender your squire! Or perhaps you’re saving that for tomorrow night!” he snapped viciously.

Brian stared at Derek in amazement too great for words.

“I want both you and Aran in our tent before moon rise,” Derek continued. “You will need your rest for the morrow. And tell Brightblade he is to report to me then as well. As a squire, he now falls under my jurisdiction. He will obey my orders. No more siding with the elves against me. Mark my words—the first time Brightblade disobeys me will be the last.”

Derek turned and walked off toward the tent the knights shared, his boots crunching on the ice, his sword clanking at his side.

Brian, sighing deeply, went back to the warmth and merriment of the chieftent. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the wolves slinking and sidling about the outskirts of the camp.

12 Feal-Thas sets a trap. Derek dreams of dragons

Upon his return to Ice Wall Castle from Neraka, Feal-Thas sent for the leader of the draconians to ask if any strangers had been seen in the vicinity. The draconians reported that a group of outsiders, including three Solamnic knights, had attacked two draconian guards. The knights and the rest of their companions were skulking about the camp of the Ice Folk. Feal-Thas had no doubt these were the knights sent by Kitiara, part of Ariakas’s scheme to plant the dragon orb among the Solamnics.

Ariakas had explained his plan to Feal-Thas when he’d been in Neraka. The emperor had used the analogy of besieging armies throwing the carcasses of plague-ridden animals over the walls into the enemy city so the disease could infect the defenders. Ariakas was applying the same principle here, except that the dragon orb would take the place of a plague-ridden cow. The knights would carry the dragon orb into Solamnia and there fall under its sway, as had the wretched King Lorac of Silvanesti.

Feal-Thas had agreed to go along with the scheme. He could do nothing else. Ariakas wore the Crown of Power. Takhisis loved him, while the Queen and Feal-Thas were barely on speaking terms. Feal-Thas took comfort in the fact that accidents happened, especially to glory-seeking knights. Ariakas could hardly fault Feal-Thas if this Solamnic ended up in the dragon’s belly.

There was another problem that Ariakas had not considered, because Feal-Thas had not told him. The dragon orb had its own plots and schemes.

For hundreds of years, ever since the dragons had gone to sleep following the Dark Queen’s defeat at the hands of Huma Dragonbane, the dragon orbs, made of the essence of dragons, had waited for their Queen’s return. Finally they heard Takhisis’s voice call out to them, as it had called out to her other dragons. Now this orb yearned to be free of its prison and back in the world. Feal-Thas heard its whispered temptations, but he was wise enough to shut his ears to them. Others—those who wanted to hear it, wanted to believe it—would listen.

Having heard the draconian report, Feal-Thas hastened to Sleet’s lair to make certain the dragon orb was safe. The white dragon had been ordered to guard the orb, and she would obey that order to the best of her abilities. Unfortunately, Sleet’s abilities did not fill the wizard with confidence. The white dragon was not particularly intelligent, nor was she clever, subtle, or cunning, whereas the dragon orb was all these and more.

Feal-Thas walked the frozen tunnels beneath the castle. He carried no light. At his coming, an icy enchantment caused the tunnels to shimmer with blue-white radiance. He passed the chamber that had once housed the orb and glanced inside. The traces left by the Guardian’s victims was still visible-blood covered the floor, spattered the walls. He paused to regard the gruesome scene. Some of that blood was Kitiara’s. Feal-Thas had been informed, just as he was leaving Neraka, that Kitiara had escaped her execution. Feal-Thas was disappointed, but hardly surprised. She was lucky, that one, lucky and fearless and smart—a dangerous combination. Ariakas should have never allowed her to live this long. Feal-Thas would be doing everyone a favor by getting rid of her.

He just had to find the way to get around that luck of hers.

Feal-Thas entered the white dragon’s lair. A magical snow, created by the dragon, drifted down around her. The snow kept her cool, kept her food—two dead thanoi and a human—from spoiling until she was at leisure to eat it. Sleet was dozing, but she woke up fast enough when she smelled elf. Her nostrils twitched. One eye was a red glittering slit. Her claws dug into the ice floor and her white lips curled back over her yellow fangs. She did not like Feal-Thas, and the feeling was mutual.

The whites are the smallest of the Dark Queen’s dragons and the least intelligent. They are good at killing and not much else. They obey instructions, but only if they are kept simple.

“What do you want?” Sleet muttered.

Her white scales glittered blue in the wizard-light. Her wings were folded over her back, her long tail curled around her massive, snow-covered body. Though small compared to a red dragon, she nearly filled the vast cavern she had inherited from some other white who had built it long, long ago, perhaps around Huma’s time. Pallid sunlight gleamed through the lair’s entrance at the far end, sparkling on walls coated with snow and hoarfrost from the dragon’s breath.

“I am here to ascertain that you are comfortable and have all you require,” said Feal-Thas smoothly.

The dragon snorted, blasting frost from her nose. “You came to check on your precious dragon orb because you don’t trust me. It’s safe. See for yourself. Then go bury your head in a glacier.”

The white dragon rested her head in the snow. Her red eyes watched Feal-Thas.

The orb stood upon an icy pedestal. Its colors static, suspended, the orb looked dead. As Feal-Thas approached the orb and his thoughts focused on it, it came to life. The colors began to swirl around the globe’s interior, making it look like a rainbow-glistening soap bubble—blue, green, black, red, white—changing and shifting, merging and separating.

Feal-Thas drew near. As always, his hands itched to touch it. He longed to try to exert his power over it, take command of it, become the orb’s master. He knew he could. It would be easy. He was powerful, the most powerful elf archmage who had ever lived. Once he had the orb, he would wrest the crown from Ariakas, challenge Queen Takhisis herself…

“Ha, ha.” Feal-Thas laughed gently. He came to stand before the dragon orb, his hands clasped tightly in his sleeves. “Nice try. You might as well give up,” he advised the orb. “I will not relinquish you. I know the danger you pose. You must try your blandishments on someone else, such as this Solamnic knight who has come to free you.”

The colors flashed briefly, swirled furiously, then settled back into a slow, drifting, seemingly-aimless motion.

“I thought that might interest you. I am certain if you apply yourself, you can snag him. You are the object of his desire. You should find it easy to seize hold of him, lure him to you, as your sister orb did Lorac.” Feal-Thas paused, then said quietly, grimly, “As you did me.”

The orb darkened, its colors blending, black with hatred.

“With me you failed,” Feal-Thas continued, shrugging. “You might well succeed with the knight. You could summon him here, then send the dragon away on some trumped-up errand. But you don’t need me to tell you that.” Feal-Thas wagged a finger at the orb. “You are toying with me, hoping to ensnare me.”

He again clasped his hands and said scornfully, “Spare yourself the trouble. Your tempting promises haven’t worked in three hundred years; they won’t work now.”

The colors swirled again, and this time green was uppermost.

“You are suspicious of my motives, as you should be. Of course it’s a trap. You bring the knight; I will slay him.” Feal-Thas gave another shrug. “Still, you might succeed. I might fail. Take the gamble.” He paused, then said quietly, “What choice do you have?”

Feal-Thas turned and walked away. He could see the light of the orb reflected on the ice walls flashing red, then purple, then going sullen, greenish black. He did not see, as he left, all the colors merging together in a riotous display of triumph.

Derek woke again from a dream of dragons. He gasped, breathing hard, not from fear, but with exultation. He lay awake, staring into the darkness, reliving the dream, which had been vividly real.

Usually his dreams were gray and black and nonsensical. He dismissed dreams, considering them wild forays of the slumbering, undisciplined mind. Derek never thought about his dreams or bothered to remember them, and he viewed with impatience those who yammered on about them.

But these dreams were different. These dreams were splashed with color: reds and blues, greens, blacks and shades of white. These dreams were filled with dragons, enemy dragons, clouding the skies. The sun shining on their scales made a hideous rainbow. People fled from them in open-mouthed, screaming terror. Blood, smoke, and fire spilled and billowed and crackled around him. He did not run. He stood firm, gazing up at the beating wings, the open mouths, the dripping fangs. He should have been holding his sword, but in its place he held a crystal orb. He raised up the orb to the heavens and he cried out a stern command and the dragons, shrieking in rage, fell from the skies, dying like shooting stars, trailing flame.

Derek was bathed in sweat and he threw off the fur blankets. The bitter cold felt good to him, slapped him out of the dream, brought him to conscious awareness.

“The orb,” he said softly, exultantly.

13 The assault on Ice Wall Castle

“Wake up, you two,” Derek ordered sharply.

“Huh? What?” Aran sat up, still half-asleep, muddled and alarmed. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

Brian reached for his sword, feeling about for it, since he couldn’t see in the darkness. Then he remembered—he’d given his weapon to Sturm. Brian groaned inwardly. A knight without his sword. Derek would view that as a most serious transgression.

“Be quiet,” said Derek in a low voice. “I’ve been thinking things over. We’re going to go along with this insane plan of the elf woman to attack the castle—”

“Derek, it’s the middle of the night,” Aran protested, “and cold as a goblin’s backside! Tell me in the morning.” He flung himself down and pulled the furs over his head.

“It is morning, or near enough,” said Derek. “Now pay attention.”

Brian sat up, shivering in the chill. Aran peered at him over the edge of the blanket.

“So we go along with the plan to attack the castle,” Aran said, scratching his stubble-covered chin. “Why do we need to talk about it?”

“Because I know where to find the dragon orb,” said Derek. “I know where it is.”

“How do you know?” Brian asked astonished.

“Since you appear to be so enamored of these newfound gods, let us say they told me,” Derek returned. “How I know is not important. This is my plan. When the attack starts, we will leave the main body, sneak into the castle, recover the orb, and—” He halted, half-turned to stare outside. “Did you hear that?”

“No,” said Brian.

Derek, muttering something about spies, ducked out of the tent.

“The gods told him about the orb!” Aran shook his head in disbelief and reached for his flask.

“I think he was being sarcastic. This isn’t like Derek,” Brian added, troubled.

“You’re right. Derek may be a stiff-necked, sword-up-the-butt, arrogant lunkhead, but at least he’s been an honorable, stiff-necked, sword-up-the-butt, arrogant lunkhead. Now he’s lost even that endearing quality.”

Brian pulled on his thick boots, figuring he might as well get up. The gray light of dawn was seeping into the tent. “Maybe he’s right. If we sneak into the castle—”

“That’s my point,” interrupted Aran, gesturing with the flask. “Since when does Derek sneak anywhere? This is the same Derek who had to turn the Measure upside down to find a way for us to enter Tarsis without proclaiming ourselves as knights to all and sundry. Now he’s sneaking into castles and stealing dragon orbs.”

“The castle of the enemy,” Brian pointed out.

Aran shook his head, unconvinced. “The Derek we once knew would have walked up to the front of that castle, banged on the door, and challenged the wizard to come out to do battle. Not very sensible, admittedly, but that Derek would have never considered turning sneak thief.”

Before Brian could respond, Derek crawled back inside the tent. “I’m certain the elf was eavesdropping, though I couldn’t catch him. It doesn’t matter now. The camp is starting to stir. Brian, go wake Brightblade. Tell him what we’re doing, and order him to keep this to himself. He’s not to tell the others, especially the elf. I’m going to talk to the chief.”

Derek left again.

“Are you going to go along with this crazy scheme of his?” Aran asked.

“Derek gave us an order,” Brian replied, “and… he’s our friend.”

“A friend who’s going to get us all killed,” Aran muttered. Buckling on his sword belt and taking a final pull on the flask, he stuffed it into his coat and stomped out of the tent.

Brian went to wake Sturm and found the knight already awake. A thin sliver of light spilled out from underneath the tent.

“Sturm?” he called softly, pushing open the flap.

The light came from a burning wick placed in a dish of oil. Sturm sat cross-legged on the floor, rubbing the blade of Brian’s sword with soft, brushed hide.

“Almost finished, my lord,” said Sturm, looking up. The light of the flame shone in his eyes.

Brian squatted down. “The order to clean my sword was meant to be a jest.”

“I know,” said Sturm, smiling. His hand with the cloth glided slowly, carefully, over the sword’s blade. “What you did for me meant more to me than you can ever know, my lord. This is my poor way of showing my gratitude.”

Brian was deeply touched. “I need to talk to you,” he said. He explained Derek’s plan to use the attack as a diversion, slip into the castle, and steal the orb.

“Derek says he knows where the orb is located,” Brian added.

“How could he?” Sturm asked, frowning.

Brian didn’t want to repeat Derek’s sarcastic gibe about the gods, and so he evaded the question. “Derek has ordered you to accompany us.”

Sturm regarded him in troubled silence. The frown line in his forehead deepened. “Far be it from me to question the orders of a Lord Knight of the Rose—”

“Oh, go ahead—question!” Brian said wearily. “Aran and I have been doing nothing else since we came on this mission.” He lowered his voice. “I’m worried about Derek. He’s become increasingly obsessed with this dragon orb. Almost consumed by it.”

Sturm looked very grave. “I know something of magic, not by choice, mind you, but because I was around Raistlin so much—”

“Your friend the Red Robe wizard,” Brian clarified.

“Not friend, exactly, but, yes, he’s the one I meant. Raistlin always cautioned us that if ever we came upon any object that might be magical, we were to leave it alone, have nothing to do with it. ‘Such artifacts are designed to be used by those who have studied magic and know and understand its deadly potential. They pose a danger to the ignorant’.”

Sturm grimaced. “The one time I did not heed Raistlin’s warning, I paid for it. I put on a magical helm I had found and it seized hold of me—” Sturm stopped, waved the story aside. “But that’s another tale. I think if Raistlin were here, he would caution us against this orb, warn us against coming anywhere near it.”

“You make it sound like the orb has something to do with changing Derek, but how is that possible?” Brian argued.

“How is it possible for a dwarven helm to steal a man’s soul?” Sturm asked with a rueful smile. “I don’t know the answer.”

Tossing aside the cloth, he held the blade to the flame, watched the light flare off the gleaming metal. Sturm placed the sword on his bent arm, knelt on one knee, and offered it, hilt-first, to the knight.

“My lord,” he said with profound respect.

Brian accepted the sword and buckled it on beneath his coat. The belt was not large enough to fit over the bulky fur.

Sturm picked up the ancient blade of the Brightblades, his most valued inheritance from his father. He gestured toward the tent’s entrance. “After you, my lord.”

“Please, call me Brian,” said Brian. “I keep thinking you’re talking to Derek.”

It seemed the gods were with Derek and the Ice Folk, at least at the start, for the day dawned clear, the sun shone bright, and a brisk wind sprang up, an unusually warm wind for this time of year, Harald told them. He consulted Raggart the Elder, who said the gods sent this good weather as a sign they favored the venture. And because the gods were with them, he was going to go on the raid.

Harald and Raggart the Younger were both shocked. The old man could scarcely walk on his own. Both attempted to dissuade Raggart the Elder, but he would not listen. He tottered out to the ice boat unaided, carrying with him his frostreaver. When Raggart the Younger tried to assist him, the old man testily ordered his grandson to quit hovering around him like some damn mother bear.

Laurana brought her own frostreaver. She had planned to bring along her sword to use in battle. She was honored by the gift of the axe, but felt uncomfortable using it, since she was not trained in wielding such a weapon. But her sword was not in her tent. Laurana searched and searched and eventually realized it was probably inside Tasslehoff’s tent, along with everything else that had gone missing from the camp during the past few days. She had no time to go rummaging through the kender’s treasure hoard, so, fearing she would be late, she grabbed the frostreaver and hastened out into the morning.

She was gazing into the bright sunshine, thinking her plan might work after all, when Gilthanas caught up with her.

“Don’t you think you should stay here in camp with the other women?”

“No,” said Laurana indignantly and kept walking.

Gilthanas fell in beside her. “Laurana, I overheard Derek talking to his friends this morning—”

Laurana frowned and shook her head.

“It’s a good thing I did,” Gilthanas said defensively. “When the attack starts, the knights are going to use it as a diversion to enter the castle after the dragon orb. If Derek goes, I’m going with him. Just so you know.”

Laurana turned to face her brother. “You want me to stay here because you plan to take the dragon orb for yourself and you think I’ll try to stop you.”

“Won’t you?” he demanded, glowering.

“What will you do? Fight the knights? All of them?”

“I have my magic—” Gilthanas said.

Laurana shook her head and walked on. Gilthanas called angrily after her, but she ignored him. Elistan, walking toward the ice boat, heard Gilthanas’s shout and saw Laurana’s angry flush.

“I take it your brother does not want you to go,” said Elistan.

“He wants me to stay with the women.”

“Perhaps you should heed his concerns,” Elistan said. “The gods have blessed us thus far and I have faith they will continue to aid us, but that doesn’t mean we will not be in danger—”

“He’s not concerned about my safety,” Laurana said. “Derek and the other knights plan to use the battle as a diversion. They’re going to sneak into Ice Wall Castle to steal the dragon orb. Gilthanas intends to go after them, because he wants the dragon orb. He’s prepared to kill Derek over it or at least he thinks he is, so you see why I have to go.”

Elistan’s graying eyebrows came together; his blue eyes glinted. “Does Harald know of this?”

“No.” Laurana’s cheeks burned with shame. “I can’t tell him. I don’t know what to do. If we tell Harald, it will only cause trouble, and the gods are smiling on us this day—”

Elistan looked up at the bright sun, the cloudless sky. “It certainly seems they are.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “I see you carry the frostreaver.”

“Yes, I didn’t want to. I don’t know how to use it. But I couldn’t find my sword. Tasslehoff must have run off with it, though he swears he didn’t.” Laurana sighed. “But then, that’s what he always swears!”

Elistan gave her a keen look, then said, “I think you should go with your brother and the others.” He smiled and added enigmatically, “This time, I think Tasslehoff is telling the truth.”

He walked off to join up with Harald, leaving Laurana to stare after him, puzzled, wondering what he meant.

The Ice Folk kept their boats hidden in a cove created by a natural formation of the glacier. The warriors crowded on board, as many as the ice boats could carry. Those who doubled as sailors took hold of the ropes, ready for the order to raise the massive sails. They looked to Harald to give the command. The chief opened his mouth, but the word died on his lips. He stared uneasily up into the sky.

“What is it now?” Derek demanded, irritated.

“I feel it,” Sturm said, and he crouched in the shadow of a mast and yanked Tasslehoff down beside him.

“The dragon. I think you should take cover, my lord.”

Derek said nothing in reply, but he did duck down, squatting on the deck, muttering in Solamnic that this was yet another attempt by Harald to avoid making the assault.

The warriors sought shelter, either flattening themselves on the deck or climbing over the rails to hide on the ice beneath the boat. Everyone felt a sense of unease. They could hear the wind whistling through the rigging, but nothing more. Still, no one moved, the feeling of terror growing on everyone. Even Derek crouched back farther in the shadows.

The white dragon, Sleet, was suddenly above them, white wings spread, her scales glittering like snow crystals in the morning sun. The fear of the dragon squeezed hearts and stopped breathing. Men cowered on the decks. Weapons fell from limp hands. In the camp, children wailed and dogs howled in terror. The dragon’s head dipped. Her red eyes looked toward the camp. Those warriors who had been able to overcome the terror gripped their weapons and prepared to defend their families.

Sleet gave a lazy flap of her wings. She snarled and snapped her teeth at them, but that was all. She flew on, skimming low over the ice boats.

Those crouching terrified on the boats watched the dragon’s massive underbelly pass over the masts. No one dared move or even draw breath as she flew ponderously above them. Sleet had an odd habit of using her legs to fly, almost as though she were swimming through the air, so that when her wings swooped downward, her legs came together, then spread apart as her wings lifted. This tended to slow her flight and it was some time before she flapped and swam out of sight, flying straight into the sunrise.

No one moved until certain she was gone. Then, the fear lifting from their hearts, they rose and looked at each other in amazement, hardly daring to speak what they were now daring to hope.

“The dragon has left the castle!” cried Harald in disbelief. He stared into the bright sunshine until the tears blurred his vision, then turned to Raggart the Elder and grabbed the cleric in a bear hug that, fortunately, was fur-lined or he might have crushed the old man’s frail bones. “The gods be praised! The dragon has left Icereach!”

Elistan rose to his feet, his hand still clasping his medallion. He looked a little dazed and overwhelmed by the gods’ largess. He’d expected a miracle, but nothing quite this miraculous.

The warriors started to raise a cheer, but Harald feared the dragon might hear and return, and he shushed them and ordered them to get on with their business. They raised the sails. The wind caught hold of the canvas and propelled the ice boats forward, sending them sliding on their sharp blades across the ice.

Flint had, of course, raised objections to riding in the boat, claiming that he always fell overboard. The dwarf had been persuaded by Sturm that the ice boats were not like boats that sailed upon water; there would be no bobbing and tossing on the waves. If Flint did fall overboard, which was highly unlikely, there was no chance he could drown.

“No, I’ll just break my head on the glacier,” Flint grumbled, but since it was either go on the boat or be left behind, he agreed to go with them.

Sadly, Flint soon discovered ice boats were far worse than any other type of transportation he’d ever encountered, including griffons. Ice boats could travel over ice far faster than a boat could sail the water, and they careened across the glacier, sometimes going so fast the wind lifted them up onto one runner and they tilted sideways. The Ice Folk grinned and opened their mouths wide when this happened, swallowing the wind.

Poor Flint huddled in a recessed corner, his arms wrapped tightly around a rope, his eyes squinched shut in order not to see the horrendous smash-up he was convinced was coming. Once he opened one eye, only to see Tasslehoff clinging to the neck of the figurehead carved in the shape of a beaked sea monster. The kender shrieked in delight as tears from the stinging wind whipped off his cheeks. His topknot flapped behind him like a flag. Shuddering, Flint swore that this was the end. He meant it. No more boats of any kind. Ever.

Derek paced the deck, or tried to. He kept stumbling sideways and eventually, realizing this ineptness was impairing his dignity (the Ice Folk had no difficulty standing on the canting deck), he took his place at the rail alongside Harald. Raggart the Elder and Elistan sat on barrels, appearing to enjoy the wild ride. Gilthanas kept near Derek. Sturm stood beside Tasslehoff, ready to grab the kender should he lose his grip and go flying. Laurana kept away from the others, especially Derek, who had not been at all pleased at her decision to accompany them and had tried his best to send her back to camp. He had appealed to Harald, but received no support from the chief. Laurana had been given a frostreaver. She was an acknowledged warrior and welcome to come. Harald might have changed his mind had he known her true intent.

Sitting on the deck, the wind blowing in her face, Laurana considered what she was planning to do and she was appalled at herself. She trembled at the thought and was not certain she had the courage to go through with it. Several times, her heart would fail her and she would decide that when they reached their destination, she would stay in the boat. No one would fault her. Everyone would be relieved. Despite the fact that she’d been given the frostreaver, the warriors were uncomfortable having a woman in their midst. Derek was angry, and even Sturm cast her worried glances.

Laurana had fought draconians in Pax Tharkas and she had acquitted herself well. Tanis and the others had praised her skill and her courage in battle. Though elf women are all trained to fight—a tradition that dates back to the First Dragon War, when the elves fought for their very survival—Laurana was not a warrior. But she could not let Gilthanas end up in a fight with the knights, and she had the terrible foreboding that this was what it would come to if no one was there to stop him. She might have once relied upon Sturm to side with Gilthanas, keep him out of trouble, but Sturm had other loyalties now. He was bound to obey his lord, and Laurana would not force him to make a choice between duty and friendship.

The ice boats sped across the glacier, racing toward the castle. The warriors crowded the sides, enjoying the wild ride. The plan of attack was simple. If the gods came to their aid, the warriors would fight. If not, they would use the swift-sailing boats to carry them away. The only enemy who could catch them was the dragon, and she was gone. But they all had faith that the gods, who had already done so much, would do more.

Victory was assured.

The single tower of Ice Wall Castle, rising high in the air, appeared to be the only part of the fortress made of stone. The castle walls were covered in centuries of accumulated ice. The guards atop the ramparts walked on ice. Stone stairs had long since disappeared, covered by ice. So many layers of ice coated the walls that the tops of the watchtowers were now practically on a level with the ramparts.

As the boats drew nearer, they saw soldiers massing on the icy battlements. The soldiers were enormous, large and hulking.

“Those are not draconians,” said Derek.

“Thanoi,” said Harald, glowering. “Our ancient enemy. They are also called walrus-men, for they have the tusks and massive girth of a walrus and they walk upright, like men. They have no love for Feal-Thas. They have come just for a chance to kill us. So much for a surprise assault. The wizard was warned of our coming.”

“The wolves,” said Raggart the Elder knowingly. “They were prowling about the camp last night. They heard our war-feast and they told him we were coming.”

Derek rolled his eyes at this, but he kept quiet.

“Yet Feal-Thas sent away the dragon,” Sturm said in puzzled tones. “That makes no sense.”

“Perhaps it was a ruse,” suggested Raggart the Younger. “Perhaps the dragon is lurking nearby, ready to attack us.”

“No,” Raggart the Elder returned. He pressed his hand over his heart. “I do not feel her presence. The dragon is gone.”

“There could be many reasons,” said Derek briskly. “The war rages on in other parts of Ansalon. Perhaps the dragon was needed elsewhere. Perhaps this Feal-Thas is overconfident. He thinks he does not need her help against us. What it means,” he added in a low voice to his friends, “is that the dragon orb has been left unprotected.”

“Except by a thousand walrus-men and a few hundred draconians, not to mention a dark elf wizard,” Aran grumbled.

“Don’t worry.” Derek stomped his feet on the deck to warm them. He was in a good humor. “Brightblade’s gods will assist us.”

Sturm did not hear Derek’s sarcastic remark. He was watching the thanoi crowding the ramparts, brandishing their weapons and leaning over the walls to shout insults at their foes. The warriors shouted back, but they seemed daunted. The thanoi clustered thick on the walls, forming a dark, unbroken line of steel that encircled the top of the fortress.

“Feal-Thas brings in thousands of troops to guard the castle, yet he sends away the dragon,” Sturm remarked, shaking his head.

“There are white bears up there,” cried Tasslehoff. “Like the bear we saved!” He turned to the chief. “I thought bears were friends of your people.”

“The thanoi make slaves of the white bears.” Harald told him. “They goad them and torment them until the bears come to hate anything that walks on two legs. They will attack on sight.”

“First draconians, then walrus-men, now mad bears. What next?” grumbled Flint.

“Have faith,” said Elistan, resting his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder.

“I do,” said Flint stoutly. He patted his axe. “In this. And in Reorx,” he added quickly in dwarven, fearing that the god, who was known to be touchy, might take offense.

The ice boats were sailing within arrow range. At first the warriors were not worried. The thanoi, with their thick hands and claws, were not archers. But then arrows began thunking into the ice ahead of them, and they realized draconian archers were on the walls. Two arrows struck the side of the boat, their shafts quivering in the wood, and Harald ordered the boats to a halt. They lowered the sails. The boats slowed and slid to a stop.

The warriors stared up at the walls in grim silence. No cheers, no elation, as there had been when they started. The Ice Folk numbered about three hundred, and they faced an army of over a thousand. They were exposed, out in the open. Their enemy was safely ensconced in a fortress of ice. Derek had not yet admitted defeat, but even he was daunted.

A large boulder, thrown from the wall, crashed on the ice near the lead boat. If the boulder had found its mark, it would have smashed through the bottom of the boat, perhaps snapped the mast, killing any number of warriors. Other boulders began to rain down on them, hurled by the strong arms of the thanoi.

Harald turned to Elistan. “We cannot stay here waiting for them to make a lucky hit. The gods must either aid us, or we must retreat.”

“I understand,” said Elistan. He looked at Raggart the Elder, who nodded his head.

“Lower the ladder,” Raggart ordered.

Harald was astonished. “You mean to leave the boat?”

“We do,” said Elistan calmly.

Harald shook his head. “Impossible. I won’t allow it.”

“We must move closer to the castle,” Elistan explained.

“That will take you into arrow range. They would use you for target practice.” The chief shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”

“The gods will keep us safe,” declared Raggart. He gave Harald a shrewd look and added cannily, “You either believe or you don’t believe, Chieftain. You can’t have it both ways.”

“It is easy to have faith when you are safe and snug in the chieftent,” Elistan added.

Harald frowned, rubbed his beard and looked from one to the other. The warriors clustered around them, watching their chief, waiting to see what he would do. Laurana was assailed by sudden doubt. This had been her idea, but she never meant for Elistan to place his life at risk. As he said, it was easy to have faith when you were snug and safe. She longed to try to dissuade him. As if reading her thoughts, he glanced over at her and smiled reassuringly. Laurana smiled back, hoping her smile radiated confidence, hoping it didn’t look as shaky as it felt.

“Lower the ladder,” Harald said at last, reluctantly, grudgingly.

“I will go with them,” Sturm offered.

“No you will not,” said Derek. “You will remain with us, Brightblade,” he added in Solamnic. “If this crazy scheme of theirs works, which I doubt, I plan to enter the castle and you will be close by to attend us.”

Sturm didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do. He was a squire, pledged to serve the knights.

“You could do nothing to protect us anyway, Sir Knight,” Raggart the Elder told him, “but I thank you for the thought.”

The cleric of Habakkuk clasped hold of his medallion in one hand and raised his other hand, calling for silence. The warriors hushed. Many bowed their heads.

“Gods of Light, we come to you as children who ran away from home in anger and now, after years of wandering, lost and alone, we have at last found our way back to your loving care. Be with us now as we go forth in your name, Fisher God, and in your name, Father God, to fight the evil trying to claim the world. Be with our warriors, strengthen their hands, and banish fear from their hearts. Be with us. Grant us your divine blessing.”

His prayer finished, Raggart walked off. He walked strongly, no longer tottering, and he shoved away the hand of his grandson. The old man walked over to a rope ladder hanging from the rail, and, grasping it with firm hands, climbed down it as nimbly as he had when he was a lad more than seventy years ago. Elistan followed more slowly, being unaccustomed to boats and ladders, but at last both stood safely on the ice.

The enemy crowded the walls, curious to see what was happening. At the sight of two elders, one clad in long white robes and the other in blue-gray, walking fearlessly toward them, the thanoi began to hoot and snort in derision.

“Do you send your old women to fight?” one shouted, and raucous laughter went up along the walls, followed immediately by a flurry of arrows.

Laurana watched in terror, her heart in her throat. The arrows landed all around the clerics. One arrow pierced Elistan’s sleeve. Another stuck in the ice in between Raggart’s feet. The two kept walking, unafraid, their hands clasping their medallions.

“The archers will find their aim the next time,” said Derek grimly. “I knew this was folly. Come, Brightblade, we must go fetch the two old fools back.”

“No!” Harald stood barring the way. “They went with my sanction.”

“Then you must answer for the consequences,” said Derek.

Another flight off arrows sped from the walls. These missed their targets as well. More arrows fell around Elistan and Raggart, none hit them.

A warrior started to cheer, but his comrades shushed him. They watched in silence, reverent, awe-struck. The jeering on the walls had ceased, replaced by a rumble of anger and cries of “shoot again!”

Elistan and Raggart paid no attention to the jeers or the arrows. They came to a halt within the shadow of the castle walls. Lifting their medallions in their hands, they held them high to meet the rays of the morning sun.

The wind strengthened and shifted, blowing with unusual warmth, bringing with it a hint of spring. Everyone waited tensely, not one sure what was going to happen.

“They didn’t say the magic words,” Tas whispered, worried.

Sturm hushed him.

The bright sun struck first one medallion and then the other. Both blazed with light. The clerics held the medallions steady and the light grew in intensity until those watching had to avert their eyes. Then a single beam of radiant, blazing white light shot from Elistan’s medallion. The beam, strong and powerful, struck the wall of Ice Wall Castle. A moment later, another beam of light, this one blue in color, lanced out from Raggart’s medallion, hitting a different section of wall.

No one moved or spoke. Many gasped in awe. Everyone stared transfixed, except Derek, who was engrossed in fixing a loose buckle on his sword belt. Sturm started to say something to call his attention to what was happening.

“Don’t waste your breath,” said Brian quietly. “He won’t look, and even if he did, he wouldn’t see.”

Elistan’s beam of light burned into the ice on the castle wall, and the ice shuddered. A sound like thunder splintered the air. The ice cracked and sheered off the wall, sliding down to the ground with a dull roaring sound. Where Raggart aimed his beam of holy light, huge chunks of ice broke apart and slid down the wall.

The two beams shone more brilliantly by the moment as the gods grabbed hold of the sun and hurled it against the walls of ice. The thanoi crowding the battlements had ceased their jeering and were staring down in astonishment. At first they did not recognize their danger. But then one, less thick-headed than the others, saw what was bound to happen if the assault on the icy castle walls continued.

The archers redoubled their efforts. But the arrows continued to miss their marks, while those that passed inside the beam of holy light vanished in puffs of smoke. The ice cracked and sloughed off, and those watching began to see the stone beneath.

Elistan shifted his beam of light to strike the ice-covered battlements. Some of the thanoi standing near that blazing light panicked and tried to flee, only to run into those packed in around them. The trapped thanoi shoved the others out the way. Their fellows shoved back. Roars of fear and rage rose into the air and were drowned by another thunderous crack. The ice on the battlements shifted and shook, and with no more ice to support it, the icy battlements cracked and fell with a sound like an avalanche.

The thanoi, hundreds of them, came down with the ice, their shrieks and bellows terrible to hear. The thanoi standing on the wall Raggart had under assault tried frantically to escape, but their battlement gave a shake and a shiver and collapsed. Ice and thanoi cascaded to the ground.

The cracks in the ice continued to spread outward, like the web of a demented spider, running around the side of one wall, racing up over the next. Then it seemed as if the entire castle was collapsing, its ice walls sliding and slipping, rumbling and falling. Only the stone tower stood immovable, seeming invulnerable.

Harald gave an exultant roar, and, waving a gigantic frostreaver over his head, ran toward the side of the boat, bellowing for his men to follow. He did not bother with the ladder, but vaulted over the rail. His warriors poured after him. The warriors on the other ice boats did the same, and soon the entire force was running across the ice, eager to attack any of the enemy who had managed to survive the collapse.

Derek ordered the knights to wait until the boat was cleared. He leaned over the rail, staring at the castle wall intently, then seemed to find what he was searching for. He ran for the ladder, ordering Sturm, Brian and Aran to follow. Tas did not hear his name included in the order, but he assumed this was simply an oversight. The kender gleefully vaulted over the railing and was soon running happily alongside Derek.

The knight, without missing a stride, gave the kender a shove that sent him flying. Tasslehoff landed on his belly on the ice, arms and legs akimbo. He did a couple of spins before he slid to a halt and lay there, gasping for breath.

Sturm turned to go back to see if Tas was all right. Derek snapped an order at him. Sturm seemed about to disobey.

“I’ll take care of him!” Laurana shouted, hurrying to Tas’s side.

Sturm looked grim, but he turned to run after the knights.

Gilthanas had been right. Derek was not going to join the fight. He was angling away from the battle.

Laurana helped Tas to his feet. The kender was unharmed but extremely indignant.

“Derek said he didn’t need me! After all the help I’ve been to him! He wouldn’t have known anything about that stupid old orb if it wasn’t for me. Well, we’ll see about that!”

Before Laurana could catch him, Tas had dashed off.

“I told you so,” said Gilthanas. He took hold of her, detaining her as she would have gone after Tas.

“I’m not staying behind,” she said defiantly.

“I know you’re not,” he said curtly. “I just want to let them get a head start, so they don’t know we’re following.”

She sighed. Part of her was glad he hadn’t tried to force her to remain behind and another part desperately wished he had. She felt the same dread she had felt when the dragon flew overhead, though she did not know why, for there was no dragon around. She and Gilthanas caught up with Tasslehoff, whose short strides were no match for the long legs of the knights.

“I’m coming with you,” Tas announced, his breath puffing in the cold air.

“Good,” said Gilthanas. “You might be useful.”

“I might?” Tas was pleased, but dubious. “I don’t think I’ve ever been useful before.”

“Where is Derek going?” Laurana wondered, mystified.

Derek had been heading for the castle wall, but now he slanted off, leading his small force around a corner to the back of the castle, on the very edge of the glacier.

Gilthanas squinted his eyes against the bright light to see, then pointed to an area close to the ground. “There! He’s found a way in.”

The ice had broken away from beneath the wall and, like slicing through the side of honey-comb, the removal of the ice wall laid bare scores of tunnels beneath the castle.

Derek chose the nearest tunnel and ordered his small force inside.

Gilthanas and Laurana and Tas held back, waiting for the knights to get far enough ahead so they could safely pursue them. The three were about to enter when they heard heavy footfalls and a gruff voice calling out loudly, “Wait up!”

Laurana turned to see Flint, slipping and sliding, come running clumsily over the snow.

“Make haste! We’re going to lose them!” Gilthanas said irritably. Walking soft-footed, he crept inside the tunnel. “Keep behind me,” he ordered his sister, “and take care you don’t hurt yourself with that thing.” He glared at the frostreaver.

“What are you doing here, doorknob?” Flint demanded, glaring at Tas.

“Gilthanas says I might be useful,” Tas said importantly.

“In a pig’s eye!” Flint snorted.

Doubting herself, feeling she was in the way, Laurana followed. She had to go. Gilthanas was acting strangely. Derek was acting strangely. Neither was himself, and it was all because of this dragon orb.

She began to hope fervently they never found it.

14 The wolf pack. The trap. Laurana’s destiny

Inside Sleet’s lair, now empty, the white wolf stood near his master. Though the dragon was gone, her magical snow continued to fall, drifting down around them in large flakes that landed on the wolf’s fur, forming a woolly white blanket. The wolf blinked his eyes free of the snow. The other members of the wolf pack stood or paced around him, ears twitching, pricking, listening. The lead female, mate to the wolf, lifted her nose and sniffed the air. She stiffened.

The other wolves stopped their pacing, lifted their heads, alert, their attention caught and held. The she-wolf looked over her shoulder at her mate. The male wolf looked at Feal-Thas.

The winternorn stood unmoving. The snow matted his fur robes, forming a second cloak. He stared down the tunnels, lit with the enchanted light, for he did not want his foes bumbling about in the dark, and he, too, sniffed the air. His ears pricked.

The ground shook as though with an earthquake. The tunnels creaked and groaned. He could hear above him the screams of the injured and dying—the sounds of battle. The castle was under assault. Feal-Thas didn’t give a damn. Let the gods of Light throw their temper tantrums. Let them melt this place to the ground. It only needed to hold together long enough for him to destroy the thieves who were after his dragon orb.

The snow stopped falling as Feal-Thas spoke words of magic, chanting a powerful spell. He sang words at the beginning of the chant, but it ended in a howl. The white fur of his robes adhered to his flesh. His nails grew long and curled under, transforming into claws. His jaw jutted forward, his nose lengthened to become a snout. His ears shifted, elongated. His teeth were fangs, sharp and yellow and hungry for blood. He stood on all fours, feeling muscles ripple across his back, feeling the strength in his legs. He reveled in his strength.

He was a massive wolf, lord of the wolves. He stood head and shoulders over the other wolves of the pack, who slunk around him, staring at him with their red eyes, uncertain, wary, yet prepared to follow where he would lead.

His senses heightened, Feal-Thas could smell what the other wolves smelled—the scent of humans borne on the frost-crusted air. He could hear the rasping of their breath and their firm footfalls, the clank of a sword, the occasional scrap of conversation, though not much, for they were saving their breath for breathing.

His trap had worked. They were coming.

Feal-Thas leaped forward on all fours, muscles bunching, expanding, bunching, expanding. His legs gathered up the ground, pushing off from it, reached out for more. The wind whistled past his ears. The snow stung his eyes. He opened his mouth and sucked in the biting air, and saliva spewed from his lolling tongue. He grinned in ecstasy, reveling in the run, the hunt, and the prospect of the kill.

Inside the icy tunnel, Derek stopped to consult the map given to him by Raggart the Younger. The tunnels in which they stood had not been here three hundred years ago. The dragon’s lair was on the map, though it had not been named by the ancestor, since dragons had not been seen on Krynn for many centuries. The lair was denoted as a “cave of death” on the map, for the ancestor had seen a great many bones lying about, including several human skulls.

An abandoned dragon’s lair would be the logical place for Sleet to use as her lair, or so Derek concluded. He knew the general location of the lair from the map and he chose a tunnel that led in that direction. Sunlight lit their way, shining through the ice, turning the tunnel a shimmering blue-green. They had walked only a short distance when they came to a place where their tunnel intersected with two others. Derek gazed, frowning, at his map, not making much sense of it. Aran suddenly jabbed a finger at the icy wall.

“Look at this!” he exclaimed.

Arrows had been carved into the ice. One pointed straight up. Another pointed at what appeared to be a crude drawing of a dragon—a stick figure with wings and a tail. The knights investigated the other tunnels and found that each had similar arrows.

“The arrow pointing straight up must indicate that this tunnel leads up to the castle proper,” guessed Brian.

“And this tunnel leads to the dragon’s lair,” said Derek in satisfaction.

“I wonder what that X means,” Aran asked, taking a pull from his flask.

“And who put these here,” said Sturm.

Derek shrugged. “None of that matters,” he said, and led the way down the tunnel adorned with the figure of the dragon.

Gilthanas and Laurana, accompanied by Flint and Tas, shadowed the knights, creeping silently down the icy corridors. They halted when they heard the knights halt and listened to the discussion about the marked tunnels. When the knights continued on, they continued after them.

The small group moved silently, keeping their distance, and the knights did not hear them. Due to the cold, Flint had been forced to leave his chain mail and plate behind. Though he wore a sturdy leather vest and was wrapped to his eyeballs in layers of leather and fur, he maintained he was naked without his armor. The crunching of his thick boots was the only sound he made, aside from his grumbling.

Tasslehoff was so charmed by the idea of being useful that he was determined to obey Gilthanas’s orders to be quiet, even though that meant keeping all his interesting observations and questions bottled up inside him until he began to feel like a keg of ginger beer that had been sitting in the sun for too long—he was fizzing and about to explode.

The knights would sometimes pause to listen, to try to determine if any enemy was either in front of them or behind. When the knights stopped, Laurana and her group stopped.

Flint found this puzzling. “Why don’t we just catch up with them now?”

“Not until Derek leads me to the dragon orb.” The elf’s voice was grim. “Then he’ll find out I’m here—with a vengeance.”

Flint regarded Gilthanas in astonishment and shifted his worried gaze to Laurana. She gave Flint a pleading look, asking for understanding. Flint walked on, but he no longer grumbled, a certain sign he was upset.

The four continued to pursue the knights through the maze of tunnels. They passed the chamber where Feal-Thas had kept the dragon orb and its magical monstrous guardian. The knights noticed the chamber, but went on by, although they could hear Aran stating he’d found an X on the wall. At this, Gilthanas, who had also noticed the Xs on the walls, took a moment to investigate. Laurana went with him, leaving Flint and Tasslehoff to stand guard outside.

Laurana stared in shuddering horror at the bones, severed limbs and blood frozen in the snow.

“Look at that pedestal,” said Gilthanas triumphantly, pointing. “It was made to hold the dragon orb. Look at these runes. They speak of the orb and how it was created. That explains the carnage,” he added, looking about at the blood and gore. “We’re not the first to come in search of it.”

“You’re saying the orb was here and something or someone was guarding it, but it’s not here now. Perhaps we’re too late.” Laurana sounded hopeful.

Gilthanas cast her an angry look and was about to say something when they heard Flint bellow.

“The blasted kender,” the dwarf stated. “He ran off that way.” He pointed at a dragon-marked tunnel.

Almost immediately, Tasslehoff came dashing back. “I think I found it!” he said in a loud whisper. “The dragon’s lair!”

Gilthanas hastened off, with Tas leading the way, and Flint and Laurana hurrying behind him. Rounding a corner, the elf jumped quickly back into the tunnel. He motioned the others to come forward slowly.

“They’re here,” he mouthed, pointing.

Laurana peered cautiously around the corner into a large empty chamber. Icicles hung from the ceiling like white stalactites. The knights stood in the middle of the chamber, looking around.

“Where are the guards?” Brian was asking tensely. “We’ve come this whole way and not a sign of anyone.”

“If there were soldiers guarding this area, they have probably run off to join the battle,” said Derek. “Aran, you and Brightblade remain here, keep watch. Brian, you will come with me—”

“It’s a trap, my lord,” said Sturm, speaking with such calm and conviction that the knights were shocked into silence.

Derek quickly recovered. “Nonsense,” he said testily. “I think he may be right, Derek,” said Aran. “I’ve had the feeling all along that someone was following us.”

Gilthanas sidled farther down the tunnel and pulled Laurana with him.

“That explains why Feal-Thas sent away all those guarding the orb, including the dragon,” Brian added tensely. “He wanted to lure us into doing exactly what we are doing—walking into a trap.”

As if someone was listening, an eerie howl wailed in the darkness, bestial, mocking laughter that throbbed with enmity and a terrible threat of blood and pain and dying. The single voice was joined by countless more voices, their howls and cries reverberating through the tunnels.

Laurana clutched at her brother, who grabbed hold of her. Flint whipped out his axe, looking about wildly.

“What was that?” Laurana gasped. Her lips were numb with cold and fear. “What is that dreadful sound?”

“Wolves!” Gilthanas breathed, not daring to speak aloud. “The wolf packs of Feal-Thas!”

At a sharp command from Derek, the knights took up positions back to back, facing outward, their swords drawn. Steel glinted in the magical light.

The wolves surrounded the knights. White fur against white snow, red eyes glowing, the wolves circled the knights, padding quietly, closing in on them. Now the wolves had gone silent, intent on the kill, on avoiding the sharp steel, on leaping and dragging down and tearing apart, on gulping the hot blood.

One wolf, larger than the rest, held apart from the others, remaining outside the circle. This wolf did not join in the attack. He was watching, a spectator. It seemed to Laurana the wolf had a cruel smile in his dark eyes.

Elves have long studied the habits and nature of the animals who share their forest homes. They do not kill their animal neighbors, not even the predatory beasts, unless forced to do so.

Laurana knew the ways and habits of wolves, and no wolf would behave like this—sitting on his haunches, watching his fellows.

“Something’s not right. Wait, Flint!” she cried desperately, as the dwarf would have dashed off to join the battle. “Tas! Do you have those magical glasses of yours? The ones that see things for what they are!”

“I might,” said Tas. “I’m never sure what I have, you know, but I try to keep those with me.”

Laurana watched in agony as the kender, hampered by his fur gloves, began peering into and rummaging through his numerous pouches. From their hiding place in the tunnel, Laurana could see, out of the corner of her eye, the wolves closing the circle. There must be fifty of them or more. And still the one wolf watched the doomed knights and waited.

Tasslehoff continued rummaging. Frantic, Laurana grabbed one of the pouches, upended it, dumping stuff on the ground. She was about to do the same with the others, when Gilthanas pointed. The glasses sparkled and glittered in the magical light. The elf made a grab for them, but Tasslehoff was quicker. He snatched them up and, giving Gilthanas a reproachful glance, settled them on his nose.

“What am I looking at?” he asked.

“That big wolf.” Laurana knelt beside the kender, bringing herself to his eye level, and pointed. “The one there, standing apart from the others.”

“It’s not a wolf. It’s an elf,” said Tasslehoff, then he added excitedly, “No wait! It’s an elf and a wolf…”

“Feal-Thas…” Laurana whispered. “You know something of this wizard, Gil. How do we stop him?”

“An archmage!” Gilthanas gave a bitter laugh. “One of the most powerful wizards on Krynn—”

He halted. His expression grew thoughtful. “There might be a way, but you would have to do it, Laurana.”

“Me!” She gasped, appalled.

“You’re the only one who has a chance.” Gilthanas pointed. “You have the frostreaver.”

She had thrown the weapon to the ground to help Tasslehoff search through the pouches. It lay, gleaming crystalline clear, at her feet. She made no move to pick it up.

Gilthanas gripped her arm, speaking very fast. “Your weapon is magical. The wizard is a winternorn and the weapon is made of the same elements that fuel his magic. It is the one weapon that might kill him.”

“But… he’s a wizard.” Laurana quailed.

“He is not! Not now. Now he’s a wolf. He’s trapped in the wolf’s body, and he’ll be hampered in his spell casting! He won’t be able to speak the words of magic or make the gestures or use his spell components. You must attack now, before he shifts back!”

Laurana stood shivering, staring at the enormous white wolf. The other wolves continued to circle the knights, wary of the sharp steel, yet hungry for blood.

“You can do this, Laurana,” said Gilthanas earnestly. “You have to. Otherwise, there’s no hope for any of us.”

If Tanis were only here… Laurana stopped herself from thinking that. Tanis wasn’t here. She couldn’t depend on him or anyone else. This was up to her. The gods had given her the frostreaver. She didn’t know why. She hadn’t asked for it. She didn’t want it. She seemed a very poor choice. She wasn’t a knight. She wasn’t a warrior. Yet even as she thought this and railed against her fate, ideas on how she could attack the wizard began crystallizing in her mind. She spoke her thoughts as they came to her, almost without realizing what she was saying.

“He mustn’t see me coming. If he does, he might start to shift back to his true form. Gil, find somewhere you can use your bow. Keep his attention fixed on the battle, and if you can, drive him away from the rest of the pack.”

Gilthanas looked at her, startled, then gave an abrupt nod. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this. It’s my fault.” “No, Gil,” she said. “I made my own choices.” She thought back to the day she had run away from home to follow after Tanis. That choice had led her to the knowledge of the gods, to knowledge of herself. She was a far different person from the spoiled little girl she had once been. A far better person, or so she hoped. She wasn’t sorry, no matter what happened.

The circle of wolves began closing, moving in on their prey. Flint stood by her silently, stoutly.

“You can do it, lass,” he said in gruff assurance, then he added wistfully, “I wish I had time to teach you the proper way to wield that axe!”

She grinned at him. “I don’t think it’s going to make much difference.”

Gilthanas slipped to the tunnel opening, seeking a good location from which to use his bow. Laurana and Flint hurried down the tunnel’s slight incline and ventured out into the open. Feal-Thas did not hear them or see them, nor did the wolves. They were focused on the prey at hand, focused on the kill.

Tasslehoff had been having fun flipping his glasses up and down, seeing an elf one moment and a wolf the next. When this grew boring, he took off the glasses, looked about, and saw that he was alone.

Gilthanas had taken up a position at the end of the tunnel. He had drawn his bow and was nocking an arrow. Laurana, her frostreaver in her hands, was slipping up behind the pack of wolves. Flint was behind her, keeping one eye on the wolves and the other on Laurana.

“Try to hit his back, lass,” Flint told her. “Aim for the biggest part of him, and put your own back into it!”

Tas hurriedly thrust the glasses into a pocket and reached into his belt. There was Rabbitslayer, just where it always was, whether he had thought to bring it or not.

“Maybe after this I’ll rename you Wolf-Killer,” he promised the knife.

Tas started after his friends. He hadn’t been paying attention to Laurana’s orders to keep quiet, and he was about to raise his voice in a gleeful taunt when the words stuck in his throat.

The knights closed ranks, facing, as best they could, the coming onslaught. The wolves padded toward them, their eyes glittering red in the eerie light. Then snow began to fall, magical snow, drifting down out of the air. The light dimmed, hampering their ability to see.

“You damn fool!” Aran swore savagely at Derek, his voice rising in fury with each word. “You bloody, stupid, arrogant fool! What do you say now? What bloody words of wisdom are you going to spout at us before we all die?”

“Aran,” said Brian softly, his mouth so dry he could barely speak, “you’re not helping…”

Sturm was to Brian’s left. Sturm stood tall and steadfast, his sword point unwavering, his gaze fixed on the wolves. He was talking, but only to himself, the words low and barely audible. Brian realized Sturm was praying, asking for Paladine to aid them, commending their souls to the god.

Brian wished in sudden agony that he believed in a god—any god! That he was not staring into a hideous, eternally silent, eternally empty void. That the pain and the terror held some meaning, that his life held some meaning. That his death would have some value. That he had not found love at last only to lose it in an icy cave on some pointless venture. A bitter taste flooded his mouth. The gods might have returned, but too late for him.

“Brightblade, be silent,” said Derek, his voice rasping. “All of you, silence.”

He was the cool, calm commander, the leader in charge of the situation, a courageous example, an inspiration to his men as described in the Measure. If he had doubts, he wasn’t giving in to them. He believed in something, Brian thought. Derek believed in Derek, and he couldn’t understand why they didn’t believe in him as well. He expects us to die believing in him, Brian suddenly realized. That struck him as funny, and he gave a crackle of bitter laughter that brought another sharp rebuke from Derek.

“Pay attention!”

“To what?” Aran raved. “To the fact that we’re going to die horribly, torn apart by wild beasts, our bones hauled off to be gnawed in some den—”

“Shut up!” Derek shouted furiously. “All of you, shut up!’

According to the Measure, the leader never shouted, never lost his calm demeanor, never wavered or doubted, never showed fear…

Snowflakes fell into Brian’s eyelashes. He blinked them away rapidly, keeping his gaze fixed on the wolves. As if acting on some unheard signal, the wolves suddenly came at them in a rush.

Sturm gave a great roar of defiance and swung his sword in a slashing arc. A huge white wolf fell at his feet, blood welling from a wound in its neck.

Another wolf came bounding at Brian, snarling, fangs glistening. It suddenly sailed sideways, its body skidding on the ice. Brian saw, as it slid past him, an arrow sticking out of its ribs. A second arrow took another wolf in midair, felling it. Brian had no time to wonder or to look around. An enormous wolf galloped over the snow, charging at him. Brian tried to hit it with the blade of his sword, but the wolf, launching itself into the air, leaped on top of him. Huge paws thudded into his chest. The wolf’s weight bore Brian to the ground. His sword flew out of his gloved hands and went spinning away over the ice.

The wolf’s breath was hot on his face, smelling of rotting meat. Yellow teeth slashed his flesh. Saliva, now red with blood—his blood—splashed over him. The wolf had him pinned. He pummeled it with his hands, to no avail. The wolf sank its fangs into Brian’s neck, and he screamed. He knew he screamed, but, horribly, there was no sound except gurgling. The wolf savaged his neck, ready to rip out his throat. Then it gave a hideous yelp and tumbled or was kicked off him. Brian looked up to see Sturm yank his sword out of the wolf’s flank.

Sturm bent over him. Brian could barely see him in the falling snow.

Sturm gripped Brian’s hand, held it fast, even as he stabbed and slashed with his sword, fending off more wolves.

“I’ll get up in a minute,” Brian meant to tell him. “I’ll help you fight. I just have to… catch my breath…”

Brian held onto Sturm’s hand and tried to breathe, but no breath would come.

He held Sturm’s hand and the snow fell and the flakes were cold upon his lips and… he let go…

Laurana saw Brian fall. She saw Sturm bending over him, still fighting, trying to keep the wolves from attacking him. A wolf leaped on Sturm’s shoulders. With an enormous effort, he rose up, heaving the beast off him. The wolf landed on its back. Sturm drove his sword into its belly, and the beast yelped and snapped in pain, feet flailing in the air.

Aran fought expertly. His sword was slippery-wet with blood, and bodies lay about his feet. The wolves fell back, eyeing him, then several ganged up to bring him down. One dashed in behind him, digging its sharp fangs through his leather boot, sinking deep into his ankle, severing the tendon. Aran stumbled and the wolves leapt on him, snarling and growling, ripping and tearing. Aran cried out, shouting for help. Sturm could do nothing, could not come to his aid. A wolf had hold of the sleeve of his sword arm and was trying to drag him off-balance. Sturm beat at it with his fist, trying to force the jaws loose.

Laurana heard Aran’s cries and turned to look. “Flint, go help him!” she shouted.

Flint looked at her, frowning, doubtful, not wanting to leave her.

“Go!” she said urgently.

Flint cast her an agonized glance, then ran to Aran’s aid. The dwarf descended on the attacking wolves, coming at them from behind. Flint roared and hacked, and his axe was soon red with gore. The wolves, maddened with the smell of fresh blood, paid him little heed. They continued their assault on Aran, who had ceased to struggle. One wolf died with its teeth still clamped in Aran’s flesh.

Flint dragged the carcass off Aran, then stood over the knight’s body, fending off the wolves.

“Reorx aid me!” Flint cried, swinging his axe and the steel, covered with blood, flared red in the tunnel light. The wolves did not like the light and kept clear, but they continued to eye him.

“Aran?” Derek cried, half-turning. But he was fighting his own battle and could not see what had happened.

Flint glanced down at Aran, buried beneath wolf carcasses, but he dared not take his attention from the wolves. “Tas,” Flint yelled. “I need you! Over here! See to Aran,” he ordered as Tas came dashing up.

Tasslehoff frantically shoved and kicked aside the bloody bodies until he found Aran. The knight’s eyes were wide open and unblinking as the snowflakes fell into them. Half his face had been torn off. Blood pooled and froze on the ice beneath him.

“Oh, Flint!” Tas cried, choking in dismay.

Flint glanced over his shoulder.

“Reorx walk with him,” he said gruffly.

Tas yelled a warning, and Flint turned, swinging his axe as more wolves descended on them.

Sturm put his back to Derek’s, to keep the wolves from taking them down from behind as they had Aran. The two men stood in a circle of bodies. Some of the wolves, wounded, whimpered and tried futilely to stand. Others lay still. The ice was red with gore. The knights’ swords were slippery with blood that ran down the blade and gummed up the hilt. They were sweating beneath the fur coats. Their breath came fast and frosted their mustaches and eyebrows. The wolves watched, waiting for an opening. Every so often, an arrow would fly through the darkness and take down another, but by now Gilthanas was running low on arrows, and he had to make every shot tell.

“Aran?” Derek asked harshly, gasping for breath.

“Dead,” said Sturm, breathing hard.

That was all. Derek did not ask about Brian. Derek knew the answer. At one point, he had almost fallen over his friend’s body. The wolves closed in again.

Flint was on the defensive, battling for his life. He no longer roared; he had to save his breath. A wolf leaped at him. He swung his axe and missed, and the beast was on him, bowling him over. Tasslehoff jumped on the wolf’s back. Tas had gone into a sort of kender fury, screaming taunts that had no effect, for the wolves couldn’t possibly understand or care. Riding the beast, Tas stabbed the wolf in the neck, stabbed it again and again and again with all the strength in his small arm until it toppled over and lay dead.

Tasslehoff stood over the wolf, watching it grimly, ready to kill it all over if it should somehow spring back to life. When it moved, he gave a savage cry and started to strike again and nearly stabbed Flint, who was trying to crawl out from underneath the twitching body.

Laurana could see the chaos out of the corner of her eye. Using the wizard’s own magical snow as cover, Laurana circled around Feal-Thas to come at him from behind. Gilthanas fired at Feal-Thas, and the large wolf that was no wolf was driven away from the rest of the pack by Gilthanas’s arrows. Forced to remain on the fringes of the assault, Feal-Thas paced back and forth, watching the attack, his tongue lolling, fangs dripping as though he tasted the blood. He did not see Laurana until she was almost upon him, coming at him from behind. He did not hear her over the wolves’ howling and snarling.

Laurana saw Brian’s crumpled body lying on the bloody ice. She had been afraid, but now anger subsumed her fear. She lifted the frostreaver, and remembering Flint’s hastily imparted instructions, she started to swing, to strike the wolf-elf in the back, sever the spine…

Feal-Thas sensed her. He turned his wolf’s head and gazed at her, gazed deep into her heart. His eyes pinned her as the wolf had pinned Brian. She halted in mid-stride. The frostreaver hung in the air, poised, ready to strike a killing blow. But Laurana’s will seeped out of her. Feal-Thas stared at her, yellow eyes probing deep inside her, his thieving hand rifling her heart’s secrets, sifting and sorting, keeping what was valuable, tossing out the rest.

Laurana realized, horror-stricken, that Gilthanas had been wrong. The archmage could still work his magic from inside a wolf’s body. She was in the grip of enchantment, and she could do nothing except flutter helplessly like a butterfly on a pin.

The wolf growled, and she heard words in that bestial snarl.

“I have seen you before!”

“No!” Laurana whispered, quaking.

“Oh, yes. I saw you in Kitiara’s heart. I see her in your heart, and I see the half-elf in both. What fun is this?”

Laurana wanted to flee. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to sink to her knees and bury her face in her hands. But she couldn’t do anything. The wolf trotted closer and she was paralyzed, unable to break free of the fell gaze.

“Kitiara wants Tanis,” said Feal-Thas, “and she means to have him. If she succeeds, Lauralanthalasa, he will be lost to you forever. I am the only person powerful enough to stop her. Kill me, and you give Tanis to your rival.”

Laurana heard the din of shouts mingled with the howling of the wolves. She glanced over her shoulder, saw Brian with his throat torn, Aran dead, Flint crawling out from under the bodies and Tasslehoff fighting as tears ran down his cheeks, forming trails in the blood.

Feal-Thas knew in that moment he’d lost her. He saw his danger. First Kitiara had made a fool of him. She’d brought disaster on him, and now this elf woman was here to finish him off. He saw the two of them, Kitiara and Laurana standing together, laughing at him.

Rage boiled inside Feal-Thas. If he had been in his body, he would have destroyed this feeble woman with a word and a gesture. He would have to settle for tearing her apart, feasting on her flesh, drinking her blood. And someday, he would do the same to Kitiara.

Laurana felt the wizard’s grip release her. She saw the fury in the yellow eyes. She saw the attack coming. She gripped the frostreaver tightly, putting all her strength into it. Laurana forgot about Tanis, forgot about Kitiara. She gave herself and her past and her future into the hands of the gods. She took hold of her own destiny.

Fangs snapping, the wolf leaped at her.

“So be it,” Laurana said calmly, and she swung the frostreaver at the wolf’s throat.

The magical blade blessed by Habakkuk sliced the winternorn’s magic and cut deep into his neck. Blood spurted. Feal-Thas howled. The white wolf slumped to the ice, jaws open, tongue lolling, blood and saliva dribbling from its mouth. The yellow hate-filled eyes stared at her. The wolf’s flanks heaved, feet scrabbled and clawed the ice that was red with blood pouring from the fatal wound.

Faint words, dark and piercing as fangs, sank into her.

“Love was my curse! Love will be your curse and hers!”

The hatred and the life faded out of the wolf’s yellow eyes, and in the moment of his death the enchantment that had transformed Feal-Thas into the wolf snapped. One moment Laurana was staring at the corpse of a wolf. She brushed her eyes to clear them of snow, and when she looked again, the body of the elf lay on his back in a vast pool of blood. His head was nearly severed from his neck.

Laurana gasped and shuddered and turned away. She was sick with shock and horror. She started shaking, and she couldn’t stop. She had some dim realization that she was still in danger—the wolf pack might turn on her, attack her. She looked up to see one wolf running toward her, and she struggled to lift the frostreaver, but it seemed suddenly immensely heavy. Gasping for breath that wouldn’t seem to come, she braced herself.

The wolf paid no heed to her. It padded up gently to the body of the elf, sniffed at the blood, then it threw back its head and gave a wailing howl of grief. The other wolves, hearing the howl, broke off the attack and began to wail. The wolf nuzzled Feal-Thas. The beast looked at Laurana, its gaze going to the glittering, blood-stained frostreaver. The wolf snarled at her, turned, and slunk away. The rest of the pack trailed after, disappearing down the tunnels.

Laurana sagged to her knees. She still held the frostreaver clutched in her hands. She did not think she could ever let go.

Gilthanas knelt beside her, putting his arm around her.

“Are you all right?” he asked fearfully, when he could speak.

“I’m fine,” she said through stiff lips. “The wizard didn’t hurt me.”

She realized, suddenly, this was true. Feal-Thas had tried to hurt her with his terrible curse, but he had not touched her. If love had been the elf’s curse, it was because he had let something beautiful grow into something dark and twisted. She didn’t know about Kitiara. None of that made sense. For Laurana, love was her blessing and would continue to be, whether Tanis returned her love or not.

She was not perfect. She was well aware there would be times when she would know despair, jealousy, and sorrow, but with the help of the gods, love would bring her closer to perfection, not hinder her in the pursuit.

“I’m all right,” she repeated firmly and, rising to her feet, she threw the frostreaver down on top of the body of the dead wizard. “How are the others?”

Gilthanas shook his head. Sturm stood protectively over the bodies of Aran and Brian. Sturm was covered in blood, pale and exhausted, but he did not appear to be hurt. Flint had firm hold of Tasslehoff, who was wildly waving the blood-smeared Rabbitslayer and screaming that he was going to kill every wolf in the world.

Laurana hurried to the kender and put her arms around him. Tas burst into tears and collapsed into a sodden and blood-covered heap on the ice.

Derek had a gash on his face and claw marks on his hands and arms. One of the sleeves of his fur coat hung in tatters. Blood oozed from a bite on his thigh. He gazed down at the bodies of Aran and Brian with a slight frown, as if trying to recollect where he’d seen them before.

“I’m going into the dragon’s lair to find the orb,” he said at last. “Brightblade, stand guard. Don’t let anyone come after me, especially the elves.”

“Gilthanas and Laurana probably saved your life, Derek,” said Sturm hoarsely, his throat raw.

“Just do as you’re ordered, Brightblade,” Derek said coldly.

He limped out of the chamber, heading for the dragon’s lair.

“The gods go with him,” Laurana murmured.

“Hah! Good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say,” said Flint, patting the hiccupping kender on the back.

15 The dragon orb. The knight

The dragon orb was pleased. All was going better than hoped. The powerful archmage who had kept the orb prisoner—kept it safe, too, though the orb now gave no thought to that—was dead. Over the centuries, the orb had come to hate Feal-Thas. The orb had repeatedly tried to lure the wizard into using it, hoping to bring the wizard under its control. Feal-Thas had been too smart for that and the orb had seethed and schemed, seeking a way out of this godforsaken place.

Then the place was no longer godforsaken. Takhisis returned and spoke sweet words of blood, fire, and victory, and the orb heard her blandishments and longed to be a part of her new world. But Feal-Thas would not let the orb go. He was so powerful, with his own powerful advocate among the gods, that the wizard could turn a deaf ear to Takhisis.

Then Ariakas came up with a scheme to use the orb to bring about the downfall of the Solamnics. Kitiara came to set his plan in motion. She killed the guardian, and Feal-Thas was forced to hand over the orb to the care of an obtuse and thick-skulled dragon. More, in his arrogance, the wizard was foolish enough to use the orb to lure his enemies into an ambush. The orb had not taken an active role in the destruction of Feal-Thas, but it was pleased to think that it had, in some small way, been of use.

Now the victorious knight was coming to claim his prize. The essences of the five dragons trapped inside the orb roiled and writhed in anticipation. The orb glowed with a hideous light that sank to nothing the moment the knight set foot in the chamber. The orb went clear as a crystal lake on a fine midsummer’s day. Not a ripple disturbed its placid surface. Pure and innocent-seeming, benign, harmless, it sat upon its pedestal and waited.

The knight entered the lair in naive glory and total ignorance. He limped in, moving slowly and cautiously. Sword drawn, he looked about for the dragon or any other guardians. He would find none. The lair was empty, except for Sleet’s victims—dead bodies encased in ice to be thawed and eaten when she, the lazy beast, did not feel like hunting.

The knight found the orb immediately. The dragon minds inside could both see and feel his yearning. He proceeded warily, however, advancing at a crawl, constantly looking over his shoulder, fearful of something sneaking up behind him. The orb waited patiently.

At last, certain he was alone in this chamber, the knight sheathed his sword and limped toward the orb. He took from his belt a sack made of deer hide. He looked at the orb, looked at the sack, and frowned slightly. The orb was too large. It would not fit inside.

A sound came from behind him and the knight dropped the sack, drew his sword, and turned around. Instantly, the orb shrank itself down, becoming just the right size. The sound was not repeated and the knight turned back. He was startled to see the orb appeared to be smaller. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. He fell back a step.

The orb sat on its pedestal, blandly innocent.

The knight shook his head. He was wounded, bleeding, exhausted. He’d been mistaken. He again sheathed his sword, picked up the sack and spread it on the icy floor, ready to receive the orb. He reached out his hands and placed them on the crystal orb, prepared to lift it off its stand and put it in the sack.

Oh, the things about magic the knight did not know, but which he would soon find out!

To his everlasting sorrow.

There are magical words that must be spoken by the person who touches the orb. These words would not assure the orb would come under the person’s control, but they would weaken the will of the dragons caught within. The person placing his hands upon the orb should have a strong and powerful will and should be ready to seize hold and dominate the essence of the trapped dragons. He must be ready to meet the hands that will reach out, grab hold, and try to drag him down.

The knight thought he had only to pick up a globe of clear crystal. He was suddenly and terrifyingly disabused of this notion. Light flared from the globe and struck him directly in the eyes. He closed his eyes against the blinding glare and did not see the colors start to swirl and dance. He did not see the hands that reached out and grabbed hold of his.

The knight gasped. He tried to free himself, but he was not strong enough. His will wavered. He was ignorant, confused, and horribly afraid. He did not understand what was happening and the orb had an easy time of it. It dragged him down and dragged him under, held him fast until he ceased to struggle.

The dragons began to whisper to him, words of despair, meant to destroy hope.

When they were finished with the knight, they let him go.

Pleased with himself, never realizing that forever and always he would hear the voices whispering doom to him in the night, Derek Crownguard bore the dragon orb out of Ice Wall Castle.

16 The dead and the living

The 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