Elven Star

28

“So,” said Calandra, looking from Paithan to Rega, standing before her on the porch, “I might have known.”

The elf woman started to slam the front door. Paithan interposed his body, preventing the door from shutting, and forced his way inside the house. Calandra backed up a pace, holding herself tall and straight, her hands clasped, level with her cinched-in waist. She regarded her brother with cold disdain.

“I see you have adopted their ways already. Barbarian! Forcing your way into my home!”[29]

“Excuse me,” began Zifnab, thrusting in his head, “but it’s very important that I—”

“Calandra!” Paithan reached out to his sister, grasped hold of her chill hands. “Don’t you understand? It doesn’t matter anymore? Doom is coming, like the old man said! I’ve seen it, Callie!” The woman attempted to pull away. Paithan held onto her, his grip tightening with the intensity of his fear.

“The dwarven realm is destroyed! The human realm dying, perhaps dead, right now! These three”—he cast a wild-eyed glance at the dwarf and the two humans standing, ill-at-ease and uncomfortable, in the doorway—“are perhaps the only ones left of their races! Thousands have been slaughtered! And it’s coming down on us next, Callie! It’s coming on us!”

“If I could add to that—” Zifnab raised a forefinger. Calandra snatched her hands away and smoothed the front of her skirt. “You’re certainly dirty enough,” she remarked, sniffing. “You’ve gone and tracked filth all over the carpet. Go to the kitchen and wash up. Leave your clothes down there. I’ll have them burned. I’ll have clean ones sent to your room. Then sit down and have your dinner. Your friends”—sneering, she cast a scathing glance at the group in the doorway—“can sleep in the slave quarters. That goes for the old man. I moved his things out last night.” Zifnab beamed at her, bowed his head modestly. “Thank you for going to the trouble, my dear, but that really wasn’t neces—”

“Humpf!” Turning on her heel, the elf woman headed for the stairway.

“Calandra, damn it!” Paithan grabbed his sister’s elbow and spun her around. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“How dare you speak to me in that tone!” Calandra’s eyes were colder and darker than the depths of the dwarven underground. “You will behave in a civilized manner in this house, Paithan Quindiniar, or you can join your barbaric companions and bed with the slaves.” Her lip curled, her gaze went to Rega. “Something you must be used to! As for your threats, the queen received news of the invasion some time ago. If it is true—which I doubt, since the news came from humans—then we are prepared. The royal guard is on alert, the shadowguard is standing by if they are needed. We’ve supplied them with the latest in weaponry. I must say,” she addled grudgingly, “that all this nonsense has, at least, been good for business.”

“The market opened bullish,” offered Zifnab to no one in particular. “Since then, the Dow’s been steadily dropping—”

Paithan opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Homecoming was like a dream to him, like falling asleep after grappling with terrible reality. Not longer than the turning of a few petals, he had been facing a gruesome death at the rending hands of the tytans. He had experienced unnameable horrors, had seen dreadful sights that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He had changed, sloughed off the carefree, indolent skin that had covered him. What had emerged was not as pretty, but it was tougher, resilient, and—he hoped—more wise. It was a reverse metamorphosis, a butterfly transformed into a grub.

But nothing here had changed. The royal guard on alert! The shadowguard standing by, if they are needed! He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t comprehend it. He had expected to find his people in turmoil, sounding alarms, rushing hither and thither. Instead, all was peaceful, calm, serene. Unchanged. Status quo.

The peace, the serenity, the silence was awful. A scream welled up inside him. He wanted to shriek and ring the wooden bells, he wanted to grab people and shake them and shout, “Don’t you know! Don’t you know what’s coming! Death!

Death is coming!” But the wall of calm was too thick to penetrate, too high to climb. He could only stare, stammering in tongue-tied confusion that his sister mistook for shame.

Slowly, he fell silent, slowly loosened his grip on Calandra’s arm. His elder sister, without a glance at any of them, marched stiffly out of the room.

Somehow I’ve got to warn them, he thought confusedly, somehow make them understand.

“Paithan …”

“Aleatha!” Paithan turned, relieved to find someone who would listen to reason. He held out his hand—

Aleatha slapped him across the face.

“Thea!” He put his hand over his stinging cheek. His sister’s face was livid, her eyes feverish, the pupils dilated. “How dare you? How dare you repeat these wicked human lies!” She pointed at Roland.

“Take this vermin and get out! Get out!”

“Ah! Charmed to see you again, my—” began Zifnab. Roland couldn’t hear what was being said but the hatred in the blue eyes staring at him spoke for her. He raised his hands in apology. “Listen, lady, I don’t know what you’re saying, but—”

“I said get out!”

Fingers curled to claws, Aleatha flew at Roland. Before he could stop her, sharp nails dug into his cheek, leaving four long bleeding tracks. The startled man hied to fend the elf woman off without hurting her, hied to grasp the flailing arms.

“Paithan! Get her off me!”

Caught flat-footed by his sister’s sudden fury, the elf jumped belatedly after her. He grasped Aleatha around the waist, Rega tugged at her arms and, together, they managed to drag the spitting, clawing woman away from Roland.

“Don’t touch me!” Aleatha shrieked, striking out impotently at Rega.

“Better let me handle her,” gasped Paithan, in human. Rega backed off, moved to her brother’s side. The human dabbed at his injured cheek with his hand, glared at the elf woman sullenly.

“Damn bitch!” he muttered in human, seeing blood on his fingers. Not understanding his words, but fully comprehending their tone, Aleatha lunged at him again. Paithan held her, wrestling her back, until suddenly her anger was spent. She went limp in her brother’s grip, breathing heavily.

“Tell me it’s all a lie, Paithan!” she said in a low, passionate voice, resting her head on his chest. “Tell me you’ve lied!”

“I wish to Orn I could, Thea,” Paithan answered, holding her, stroking her hair. “But I can’t. I’ve seen … oh, blessed Mother, Aleatha! What I’ve seen!” He sobbed, clasped his sister convulsively.

Aleatha put both hands on his face, lifted his head, stared into his eyes. Her lips parted in a slight smile, her eyebrows lifted. “I am going to be married. I am going to have a house on the lake. No one, nothing can stop me.” She squirmed out of his embrace. Smoothing back her hair, she arranged the curls prettily over her shoulders. “Welcome home, Paithan, dear. Now that you’re back, take the trash out, will you?”

Aleatha smiled at Roland and Rega. She had spoken the last words in crude human.

Roland put his hand on his sister’s arm.

“Trash, uh? Come on. Sis. Let’s get out of here!” Rega cast a pleading glance at Paithan, who stared at her helplessly. He felt like a sleeper who, on first awakening, can’t move his limbs.

“You see how it is!” Roland snarled. “I warned you!” He let loose of her, took a step off the porch. “Are you coming?”

“Pardon me,” said Zifnab, “but I might point out that you haven’t really any place to go—”

“Paithan! Please!” Rega begged.

Roland stomped down the stairs onto the mossy lawn. “Stay here!” he shouted back over his shoulder. “Warm the elf’s bed! Maybe he’ll give you a job in the kitchen!”

Paithan flushed in anger, took a step after Roland. “I love your sister! I—”

—The sound of horns trumpeted through the still, morning air. The elf’s gaze turned in the direction of Lake Enthial, his lips tightened. Reaching out, he caught hold of Rega, drew her close. The moss began to rumble and quake beneath their feet. Drugar, who had said no word, made no movement the entire time, slid his hand into his belt.

“Now!” cried Zifnab testily, clinging to the porch railing for support. “If I may be allowed to finish a sentence, I’d like to say that—”

“Sir,” intoned the dragon, its voice rising from beneath the moss, “they’re here.”

“That’s it,” muttered Haplo, hearing the horn calls. He looked up from his hiding place in the wilderness, made a gesture to the dog. “All right. You know what to do. Remember, I just want one!”

The dog bounded off into the jungle, disappearing from sight in the thick foliage. Haplo, tense with anticipation, glanced around the coppice where he lay hidden. All was ready. He had only to wait.

The Patryn had not gone to the elven house with the rest of his shipboard companions. Making some excuse about performing repairs on his vessel, he had stayed behind. When he had seen them cross the large backyard, its moss blackened and charred from Lenthan’s rocketry experiments, Haplo had climbed over the ship’s hull to walk along the wooden “bones” of the dragon wing. To walk the dragon wing. To risk everything, life included, to gain your goal. Where had he heard that saying? He seemed to recall Hugh the Hand mentioning it. Or had it been the elf captain whose ship the Patryn had “acquired”? Not that it mattered. The saying didn’t count for much with the ship parked securely on the ground, the drop beneath only about three feet instead of three thousand. Still, Haplo had thought, jumping down lightly to the ground, the sense of the saying was, at this moment, appropriate.

To walk the dragon wing.

He crouched in his hiding place, waiting, running over the runes he would use in his mind, fingering each like an elven jeweler searching for flaws in a string of pearls. The construct was perfect. The first spell cast would trap the creature. The second hold it, the third bore into its mind—what mind there was.

In the distance, the horn bleats grew louder and more chaotic, sometimes one would end in a horrible, gurgling cry. The elves must be battling their enemy, and the fighting was drawing near his position from the sounds of it. Haplo ignored it. If the tytans handled the elves the way they had handled the humans—and Haplo didn’t have any reason to suppose the elves would do any better—the fight wouldn’t last long.

He listened, straining, for another sound. There it came—the dog’s barking. It, too, was moving in his direction. The Patryn heard nothing else, and at first he was worried. Then he remembered how silently the tytans moved through the jungle. He wouldn’t hear the creature, he realized, until it was on him. He licked his dry lips, moistened his throat.

The dog bounded into the coppice. Flanks heaved, tongue lolled from its mouth, its eyes were wide with terror. Wheeling, it turned in the middle of the grove and barked frantically.

The tytan came close behind. As Haplo had hoped, the creature had been lured away from its fellows by the pesky animal. Entering the grove, it stopped, sniffed. The eyeless head revolved slowly. It smelted or heard or “saw” man. The tytan’s giant body towered over Haplo, the eyeless head stared directly at the Patryn. When the tytan ceased movement, its camouflaged body blended almost perfectly into the background of the jungle. Haplo blinked, almost losing sight of it. For a moment, he panicked, but he calmed himself. No matter. No matter. If my plan works, the creature’ll be moving, all right. No doubt about that!

Haplo began to speak the runes. He raised his tattooed hands.

The sigla seemed to glide off his skin and dance into the air. Flashing fiery blue and flaming red, the runes built upon themselves, multiplying with extraordinary speed.

The tytan gazed at the runes without interest, as if the creature had seen all this before and found it intensely boring. The tytan moved toward Haplo, the incessant question rattled in his head.

“Citadel, right. Where is the citadel? Sorry, I can’t take time to answer you right now. We’ll talk in just a few moments,” Haplo promised, backing up. The rune construct was complete, and he could only hope it was working. He eyed the tytan closely. The creature continued coming toward him, its wistful pleading changing instantly to violent frustration. Haplo felt a qualm, his stomach clenched. Beside him, the dog whined in terror.

The tytan paused, turned its head, slavering mouth gaped open in confusion. Haplo began to breathe again.

Sigla, glowing red and blue, had twined together, draping themselves like huge curtains over the jungle trees. The spell wrapped completely around the coppice, surrounding the tytan. The creature turned this way and that. The runes were reflecting its own image back to it, flooding its brain with pictures and sensations of itself.

“You’re all right. I’m not going to hurt you,” said Haplo soothingly, speaking in his own language—the language of the Patryns, similar to that of the Sartan. “I’ll let you go, but first we’re going to talk about the citadel. Tell me what it is.”

The tytan lunged in the direction of Haplo’s voice. The Parryn moved, darting aside. The tytan grabbed wildly at air.

Haplo, having expected this attack, repeated his question patiently.

“Tell me about the citadel. Did the Sartan—”

Sartan!

The tytan’s fury struck, astonishing in its raw power, a stunning blow to Haplo’s magic. The runes wavered, crumbled. The creature—freed from the illusion—turned its head toward Haplo.

The Patryn fought to regain his control, and the runes strengthened. The tytan lost him, groped blindly for its prey.

You are Sartan!

“No,” replied Haplo. Praying his strength held, he wiped sweat from his face. “I am not a Sartan. I am their enemy, like yourself!” Vou lie! You are Sartan! You trick us! Build the citadel, then steal our eyes!

Blind us to the bright and shining light!

The tytan’s rage hammered at Haplo, he grew weaker with every blow. His spell wouldn’t hold much longer. He had to escape now, while the creature was, for the moment, still confused. But it had been worth it. He had gained something. Blind us to the bright and shining light. He thought he might be starting to understand. Bright and shining … before him … above him… .

“Dog!” Haplo turned to run, stopped dead. The trees had vanished. Standing before him, all around him, everywhere he looked, he saw himself. The tytan had turned the Patryn’s own magical spell against him. Haplo fought to quell his fear. He was trapped, no escape. He could shatter the spell surrounding him, but that would shatter the spell surrounding the tytan at the same time. Drained, exhausted, he didn’t have the strength to weave another rune fabric, not one that would stop the creature. The Patryn turned to his right, saw himself. He turned left, faced himself—wide-eyed, pale. The dog, at his feet, dashed about in frantic circles, barking wildly. Haplo sensed the tytan, blundering about, searching for him. Sooner or later, the creature would stumble into him. Some-dung brushed against him, something warm and living, perhaps a gigantic hand …

Blindly, Haplo hurled himself to one side, away from the creature, and slammed into a tree. The impact bruised him, drove the breath from his body. He gasped for air, and realized suddenly that he could see! Trees, vines! The illusion was ending. Relief flooded him, banished instantly by fear. That meant the rune spell was unwinding. If he could see where he was, then so could his enemy.

The tytan loomed over him. Haplo lunged, diving into the moss, scrabbling to escape. He heard the dog behind him, valiantly trying to defend its master, heard a sharp, pain-filled whine. A dark, furry body crashed to the ground beside him.

Grabbing a tree branch, Haplo staggered to his feet.

The tytan plucked the weapon from his grip, reached down, grabbed his arm. The tytan’s hand was enormous, the palm engulfed the bone and muscle, fingers squeezed. The tytan pulled, wrenched Haplo’s arm from the socket. He sagged to the ground.

The tytan jerked him back up, tightened its grip. Haplo fought the pain, fought gathering darkness. The next rug would rip the limb from his body.

“Pardon me, sir, but may I be of any service?”

Fiery red eyes poked up out of the moss, almost on a level with Haplo. The tytan pulled; Haplo heard cracking and snapping, the pain nearly made him lose consciousness.

The red eyes flared, a scaly green head, festooned with vines, thrust up from the moss. A red-rimmed mouth parted, shining white teeth glistened, the black tongue flickered.

Haplo felt himself released, hurled to the ground. He clasped his shoulder. The arm was dislocated, but it was still attached. Gritting his teeth against the pain, afraid to draw attention to himself, he lay on the moss, too weak to move, and watched.

The dragon spoke. Haplo couldn’t understand what it said, but he sensed the tytan’s rage seeping away, replaced by awe and fear. The dragon spoke again, tone imperative, and the tytan fled back into the jungle, its green, dappled body moving swiftly and silently, making it seem to the Patryn’s dazed eyes as if the trees themselves were running away.

Haplo rolled over, and blacked out.