Elven Star

27

“What … what is he?” asked Rega, staring at the unconscious man lying on the deck. The man was obviously seriously injured—his skin was burned and blackened, blood oozed from a wound on his head. But the woman held back, afraid to venture too close. “He … he glowed! I saw him!”

“I know it’s been a difficult time for you, my dear—” Zifnab gazed at her in deep concern.

“I did!” Rega faltered. “His skin glowed! Red and blue!”

“You’ve had a hard day,” said Zifnab, patting her solicitously on the arm.

“I saw it, too,” added Roland, rubbing his solar plexus and grimacing. “And what’s more, I was about to lose my hold on him, my arms were getting weak, and those … those markings on his hand lit up like a torch. Then my hands lit up, and suddenly I had enough strength to drag him down through the hatch.”

“Stress,” said the old man. “Does queer things to the mind. Proper breathing, that’s the key. All together, with me. Good air in. Bad air out. Good air in.”

“I saw him standing out there on the deck, fighting those creatures,” murmured Paithan, awed. “His entire body radiated light! He is our savior! He is Om! Mother Peytin’s son, come to lead us to safety!”

“That’s it!” said Zifnab, mopping his brow with his beard. “Orn, favors his mother—”

“No, he doesn’t,” argued Roland, gesturing. “Look! He’s human. Wouldn’t Mother what’s-her-name’s kid be an elf—Wait! I know! He’s one of the Lords of Thillia! Come back to us, like the legend foretold!”

“That, too!” said the old wizard hastily. “I don’t know why I didn’t recognize him. The spitting image of his father.”

Rega appeared skeptical. “Whoever he is, he’s in pretty bad shape.” Cautiously approaching him, she reached out a hand to his forehead. “I think he’s dying—Oh!”

The dog glided between her and its master, its glance encompassing all of them, saying plainly, We appreciate the sympathy. Just keep your distance.

“There, there, good boy,” said Rega, moving a little nearer. The dog growled, bared its sharp teeth. The plumed tail began to slowly brush from side to side.

“Let him alone. Sis.”

“I think you’re right.” Rega edged back, came to stand beside her brother. Crouched in the shadows, forgotten, Drugar said nothing, might not have even heard the conversation. He was staring intently at the markings on the back of Haplo’s hands and arms. Slowly, making certain no one was looking at him, Drugar reached within his tunic and drew forth a medallion that he wore around his neck. Holding it up to the light, he compared the rune carved into the obsidian with the sigla on the man’s skin. The dwarf’s brow furrowed in puzzlement, his eyes narrowed, his lips tightened.

Rega turned slightly. The dwarf thrust the medallion beneath his beard and shirt.

“What do you think, Blackbeard?” the woman asked.

“My name is Drugar. And I think I do not like being up here in the air in this winged monster,” stated the dwarf. He gestured toward the window. The vars shore of the gulf was sliding beneath them. The tytans had attacked the humans on the bank. Around the shore’s edge, crowded with helpless people, the gulf water was beginning to darken.

Roland looked out, said grimly, “I’d rather be up here than down there, dwarf.”

The slaughter was progressing swiftly. A few of the tytans left it to their fellows and were attempting to wade into the deep gulf water, their eyeless heads staring in the direction of the opposite shore.

“I’ve got to get back to Equilan,” said Paithan, drawing out his etherilite and studying it intently. “There isn’t much time. And I think we’re too far north.”

“Don’t worry.” Zifnab rolled up his sleeves, rubbed his hands together eagerly. “I’ll take over. Highly competent. Frequent flyer. Over forty hours in the air. DC-three. First class, of course. I had a superb view of the control panel every time the stewardess opened the curtain. Let’s see.” The wizard took a step toward the steering stone, hands outstretched. “Flaps up. Nose down. I just—”

“Don’t touch it, old man!”

Zifnab started, snatched his hands back, and attempted to look innocent. “I was just—”

“Not even the tip of your little finger. Unless you think you’d enjoy watching your flesh melt and drop off your bones.”

The old man glowered at the stone fiercely, eyebrows bristling. “You shouldn’t leave a thing that dangerous lying around! Someone could get hurt!”

“Someone nearly did. Don’t try that again, old man. The stone’s magically protected. I’m the only one who can use it.” Groggy, Haplo sat up, stifling a groan. The dog licked his face, and he put his arm around the animal’s body for support, hiding his weakness. The urgency had subsided, his injuries needed healing—not a difficult task for his magic, but one that he preferred undertaking without an audience.

Fighting dizziness and pain, he buried his face in the dog’s flank, the animal’s body warm beneath his hands. What did it matter if they saw? He’d already revealed himself to them, revealed to them the use of rune magic, of Patryn rune magic, that had been absent from their world for countless generations. These people might not recognize it, but a Sartan would. A Sartan … like the old man… .

“Come, come. We’re most grateful that you rescued us and we’re all extremely sorry for-your suffering but we don’t have time to watch you wallow in it. Heal yourself, and let’s get this ship back on the right heading,” stated Zifnab.

Haplo looked up, fixed the old man with a narrow-eyed stare.

“After all, you are a god!” Zifnab winked several times. A god? Hell, why not. Haplo was too tired, too drained to worry about where deification might lead him.

“Good boy.” He patted the dog, eased the animal away from him. The dog looked around worriedly, and whined. “It’ll be all right.” Haplo lifted his left hand, placed it—runes down—over his right hand. He closed his eyes, relaxed, let his mind flow into the channels of renewal, revival, rest. The circle was formed. He felt the sigla on the back of his hands grow warm to the touch. The runes would glow as they did their work, smoothing, healing. The glow would spread over his entire body, replacing damaged skin with whole. A murmur of voices to!d him that this sight was not lost on the audience.

“Blessed Thillia, look at that!”

Haplo couldn’t think about the mensch, couldn’t deal with them now. He didn’t dare break the concentration.

“Quite well done,” crowed Zifnab, beaming at Haplo as if the Patryn were a work of art he, the wizard, had conjured. “The nose could use a little touching up.”

Lifting his hands to his face, Haplo examined himself with his fingers. His nose was broken, a cut on his forehead dripped blood into his eye. One cheekbone appeared to be fractured. He would have to perform superficial repair for the moment. Anything more would send him into a healing sleep.

“If he is a god,” questioned Drugar suddenly, only the second time the dwarf had spoken since the rescue, “then why couldn’t he stop the tytans? Why did he run away?”

“Because those creatures are spawns of evil,” answered Paithan. “All know that Mother Peytin and her sons have spent eternity battling evil.” Which puts me on the side of good, thought Haplo, with weary amusement.

“He fought them single-handedly, didn’t he?” the elf was continuing. “He held them off so that we could escape, and now he’s using the power of the wind to fly us to safety. He has come to save my people—”

“Why not my people?” demanded Drugar, angrily. “Why didn’t he save them?”

“And ours,” Rega said, lips trembling. “He let our people all die—”

“Everyone knows elves are the blessed race,” snapped Roland, casting Paithan a bitter glance.

Paithan flushed, faint red staining the delicate cheek bones. “I didn’t mean that! It’s just—”

“Look, be quiet a minute! All of you!” Haplo ordered. Now that his pain had eased and he was able to think clearly, he decided he was going to have to be honest with these mensch, not because he was any great believer in honesty, but because lying looked as if it was going to be a damn nuisance. “The old man’s got it wrong. I’m not a god.”

The elf and the humans began babbling at once, the dwarf’s scowl grew darker. Haplo raised a tattooed hand for silence. “What I am, who I am, doesn’t matter. Those tricks you saw me do were magic. Different from your own wizards’, but magic just the same.”

He shrugged, wincing. His head throbbed. He didn’t think the mensch would use this information to figure out he was the enemy—the ancient enemy. If this world was in any way similar to Arianus, the people had forgotten al! about the dark demigods who had once sought to rule them. But if they figured it out and came to realize who he was, that was their hard luck. Haplo was too hurt and too tired to care. It would be easy to get rid of them before they did his cause any harm. And right now, he needed answers to his questions.

“Which way?” he demanded, not the most pressing question, but one that should keep everyone occupied.

The elf lifted some sort of device, fiddled with it, and pointed. Haplo steered the ship in the direction indicated. They left the Kithni Gulf and the slaughter on its banks far behind. The dragonship cast its shadow over the trees beneath them, sailing through the variegated shades of green—a dark reflection of the real ship.

The humans and the elf remained standing, huddled together in the same spot, staring with rapt fascination out the window. Every once in a while, one of them would cast Haplo a sharp, darting glance. But he noted that they would occasionally look at each other with the same suspicion. The three had not moved since coming aboard, not even when arguing, but held themselves tense, rigid. They were probably afraid that any sort of movement might send the ship spinning out of control, crashing to the trees below. Haplo could have reassured them, but he didn’t. He was content to let them stay where they were, frozen to the deck, where he could keep an eye on them.

The dwarf remained crouched in his corner. He, too, had not moved. But Drugar kept his dark-eyed gaze fixed on Haplo, never once looking out the window. Knowing that dwarves always preferred being underground when they could, the Patryn understood that flying through the air like this must be a traumatic experience for the dwarf. Haplo didn’t notice fear or uneasiness in Onager’s expression, however. What he saw, oddly enough, was confusion and bitter, smoldering anger. The anger was directed, seemingly, at Haplo. Reaching out his hand, ostensibly to stroke the dog’s silky ears, the Patryn turned the animal’s head, aiming the intelligent eyes at the dwarf. “Watch him,” Haplo instructed softly. The dog’s ears pricked, the tail brushed slowly side to side. Settling down at Haplo’s feet, the animal laid its head on its paws, gaze fixed, focused.

That left the old man. A snore told Haplo he didn’t have to worry about Zifnab for the moment. The wizard, his battered hat stuck over his face, lay flat on his back on the deck, hands crossed over his chest, sound asleep. Even if he was shamming, he wasn’t up to anything. Haplo shook his aching head.

“Those … creatures. What did you call them? Tytans? What are they? Where did they come from?”

“I wish to Om we knew,” said Paithan.

“You don’t?” Haplo stared suspiciously at the elf, certain he was lying. He switched his gaze to the humans. “Either of you?” Both shook their heads. The Patryn looked to Drugar, but the dwarf apparently wasn’t talking.

“Al! we know,” said Roland, elected to speak by his sister’s poke in the ribs, “is that they came down from the norinth. We heard they destroyed the Kasner Empire there, and now I believe it.”

“They wiped out the dwarves,” added Paithan, “and … well … you saw what they did to the Thillian realm. And now they’re moving into Equilan.”

“I can’t believe they came out of nowhere!” Haplo persisted. “You must have heard of them before this?”

Rega and Roland looked at each other, the woman shrugged helplessly. “There were legends. Old wives’ tales—the kind you tell when it’s darktime and you’re sitting around, trying to see who can come up with the scariest story. There was one about a nursemaid—”

“Tell me,” urged Haplo.

Rega, pale, shook her head and turned her face away.

“Why don’t you drop it, all right?” Roland said harshly. Haplo glanced at Paithan. “How deep’s the gulf, elf? How long will it take them to cross it?”

Paithan licked dry lips, drew a shivering breath. “The gulf is very deep, but they could go around it. And we’ve heard they’re coming from other directions, from the est as well.”

“I think you had better tell me all you know. Old wives have been known to hold onto the wisdom of generations.”

“All right,” said Roland, in resigned tones. “There was an old woman who came to stay with the king’s children while the king and queen were off doing whatever it is kings and queens do. The children were spoiled brats, of course. They tied the nursemaid up in a chair, and proceeded to wreck the castle.

“After a while, though, the children got hungry. The old woman promised that, if they let her loose, she’d bake them some cookies. The children untied the nursemaid. The old woman went to the kitchen and baked cookies that she made in the shape of men. The old woman was, in reality, a powerful wizardess. She took one of the man-shaped cookies and breathed life into it. The cookie grew and grew until it was larger than the castle itself. The nursemaid set the giant to watch the children while she took a nap. She called the giant a tytan—”

“That word, tytan,” Paithan interrupted. “It’s not an elven word, it’s not human. Is it dwarven?” He glanced at Drugar.

The dwarf shook his head.

“Then where does that word come from? Maybe knowing its original meaning and source would tell us something?”

It was an arrow shot at random, but it might land too close to the bull’s eye. Haplo knew the word, knew its source. It was a word from his language and that of the Sartan. It came from the ancient world, referring originally to that world’s ancient shapers. Over time, its meaning had broadened, eventually becoming synonymous with giant. But it was an unsettling notion. The only people who could have called these monsters tytans were the Sartan … and that opened up entire realms of possibility.

“It’s just a word,” Haplo said. “Go on with the story.”

“The children were afraid of the tytan, at first. But they soon found out it was gentle and kind and loving. They began to tease it. Snatching up the man-shaped cookies, the children would bite the heads off and threaten to do the same to the giant. The tytan grew so upset that it ran away from the castle and …” Roland paused, frowning thoughtfully. “That’s odd. I didn’t think of it before now. The tytan in the story loses his way and goes around asking people—”

“ ‘Where is the castle’!” Paithan murmured.

“ ‘Where is the citadel,’” Haplo echoed.

Paithan nodded, excited. “ ‘Where is the citadel? What must we do?’ ”

“Yes, I heard it. What’s the answer? Where is the citadel?”

“What is a citadel?” Paithan asked, gesturing wildly. “Nobody even knows for certain what the word means!”

“Anyone who knows the answer to their questions would truly be a savior,” said Rega, her voice low. Her fist clenched. “If only we knew what they wanted!”

“Rumor has it that the wisest men and women in Thillia were spending day and night studying the ancient books, searching desperately for a clue.”

“Maybe they should have asked the old wives,” said Paithan. Haplo rubbed his hands absently over the rune-covered steering stone. Citadel, meaning “little city.” Another word in his language, and that of the Sartan. The path before him stretched smooth and clear, leading one direction. Tytans—a Sartan word. Tytans—using Sartan magic. Tytans—asking about Sartan citadels. And here the path led him slam-up against a stone wall. The Sartan would never, never have created such evil, brutal beings. The Sartan would never have endowed such beings with magic … unless, perhaps, they knew for certain that they could control them. The rytans, running amok, running out of control—was it a clear indication that the Sartan had vanished from this world as they had vanished (with one exception) from Arianus?

Haplo glanced at the old man. Zifnab’s mouth gaped wide open, his hat was slowly slipping down past his nose. A particularly violent snore caused the old man to inhale the battered brim, nearly strangling himself. He sat up, coughing and spluttering and glaring about suspiciously.

“Who did that?”

Haplo glanced away. He was beginning to reconsider. The Patryn had met only one Sartan before—the bumbling man of Arianus who called himself Alfred Montbank. And though Haplo hadn’t recognized it at the time, he came to realize that he felt an affinity for Alfred. Deadly enemies, they were strangers to the rest of the world—but they were not strangers to each other. This old man was a stranger. To put it more precisely, he was strange. He was probably nothing more than a crackpot, another crazy, bug-eating prophet. He had unraveled Haplo’s magic, but the insane had been known to do a lot of bizarre, inexplicable things.

“What happened at the end of the story,” he thought to ask, guiding the ship in for a landing.

“The tytan found the castle, came back, and bit off the children’s heads,” answered Roland.

“You know,” said Rega, softly, “when I was little and I heard that story, I always felt sorry for the tytan. I always thought the children deserved such a horrible fate. But now—” She shook her head, tears slid down her cheeks.

“We’re nearing Equilan,” said Paithan, leaning forward gingerly to look out the window. “I can see Lake Enthial. At least I think that’s it, shining in the distance? The water looks odd, seen from above.”

“That’s it,” said Haplo without interest, his thoughts on something else.

“I didn’t catch your name,” said the elf. “What is it?”

“Haplo.”

“What does it mean?”

The Patryn ignored him.

“Single,” said the old man.

Haplo frowned, cast him an irritated glance. How the devil did he know that?

“I’m sorry,” said Paithan, ever courteous. “I didn’t mean to pry.” He paused a moment, then continued hesitantly. “I… uh, that is Zifnab said … you were a savior. He said you could take … people to the … uh … stars. I didn’t believe it. I didn’t think it would be possible. Doom and destruction. He said I’d bring it back with me. Om help me, I am!” He gazed a moment out the window, to the land below. “What I want to know is … can you do it? Will you do it? Can you save us from … those monsters?”

“He can’t save all of you,” said Zifnab sadly, twisting his battered hat in his hands, finishing it off totally. “He can only save some. The best and the brightest.”

Haplo glanced around, saw eyes—slanted elf eyes, the human woman’s wide dark eyes, the human male’s bright blue eyes, even the dwarf’s black, shadowed eyes, Zifnab’s crazed, shrewd eyes. All of them staring at him, waiting, hoping.

“Yeah, sure,” he answered.

Why not? Anything to keep peace, keep people happy. Happy and ignorant. In point of fact, Haplo had no intention of saving anyone except himself. But there was one thing he had to do first. He had to talk to a tytan. And these people were going to be his bait. After all, the children had asked for exactly what they got.