Riverwind

Chapter Three

River wind stood at the edge of a chasm. Below, hidden by billowing smoke, something deadly lingered. As he stood, he heard a sweet voice call his name.

“Goldmoon!”

On the opposite side of the chasm, Goldmoon waited, her fine, bright hair and white gown whipping about in the wind. She called to him plaintively. Riverwind felt helpless, desperate to reach her. There was no way across-no bridge, no rope, not even a vine to cling to.

Tall figures emerged behind Goldmoon. One was Lore-man, the other, her father, Arrowthorn. They took her by the arms and pulled her back. She fought them, but they were too strong. Riverwind's heart raced. He must get across! He would go back and seek another route.

He turned abruptly, and there was Hollow-sky, grinning fiercely. He had a corpse's pallor, and his clothes were mottled with grave mold. Without a word, they grappled. Riverwind was bigger, but the dead man's strength was inexorable. Riverwind was pushed back. He dug in his toes, bent his knees, tried to get low on Hollow-sky's chest to get better advantage. It didn't help. His heels hung in the air. With one mighty shove, Hollow-sky hurled Riverwind into the chasm.

He hit bottom almost at once. Stunned, he could hardly move. Smoke filled his eyes and nose. The sound of movement filtered through his dazed mind. Riverwind's blood turned to ice water when a howl rent the thick haze.

The wolves! They were all around him. He tried to rise, got to his knees, but they were on him in one savage, silent rush. Riverwind broke their bones with his bare hands, but fangs tore into his arms and legs. The wolves knocked him onto his back and held him there. The largest wolf stalked up to his spread-eagled form. Kyanor. The beast's head lowered, his red eyes boring into Riverwind's. Razor-sharp fangs pierced the plainsman's throat…

Riverwind sat up so swiftly that he rapped his elbow against the limestone boulder behind him. A nightmare. His breath came hard and rough, leaving a plume of warm vapor in the mountain air. Not far away, Catchflea snored peacefully.

Be calm, he told himself. It wasn't real.

Or was it?

Somewhere on the dark escarpment, Riverwind heard a rustling noise, followed by a trickle of falling pebbles. The terror from his dream returned, but he mastered it. He'd been helpless in his nightmare. He was definitely not helpless in the waking world.

“Hsst, Catchflea!” he whispered, reaching for his saber. The old man missed a beat in his snoring, then resumed his usual ripsaw rhythm. “Wake up!” Riverwind repeated, punctuating his words with a prod. Catchflea snorted and his eyes batted open.

“Wha-? It's a dark morning, yes?”

“Ssh! There's someone out there!”

“Who could it be? Most travelers avoid the mountains.”

“The Nightrunners,” Riverwind said grimly.

“The wolves? What shall we do?”

“You do nothing. Stay here!” Riverwind drew his saber in one quick motion and rolled to a standing crouch. Though he listened with all his hunt-honed senses, he heard nothing. The night was still.

None of Krynn's moons shone at that hour, and the stars were feeble lanterns at best. Riverwind surveyed the gently sloping field of stone. It could have been a night-scavenging fox or bird. Or only his imagination, sparked by his terrible dream.

He'd almost convinced himself that there was nothing out there when he heard another sound: the distinct ringing of metal, like chain-or a sword hilt against armor?

The sound came from ahead, on his left. Riverwind pressed close to the perimeter of boulders and worked his way toward the noise.

Something scraped the rock behind him. He swung the saber in a backhand cut. The blade struck the boulder just an inch in front of Catchflea's nose.

“I told you to stay where you were!” Riverwind whispered fiercely.

“I saw something!” hissed the old man.

“What?”

“A blue light, like a will o' the wisp.”

“WhereT'

Catchflea extended his right arm. “Out there.”

“I'll circle left. You stay here, unless you want me to trim that beard of yours the hard way.”

Riverwind was a dozen yards away from Catchflea when he saw the eerie blue light. It was small and round, a feeble glow, about knee-high off the ground. It wobbled a bit back and forth, but didn't move away. Riverwind approached in a low crouch. Nearer, he saw a vague shape above the blue light. It was too lightly built to be Kyanor or one of his pack.

Abruptly, the silence of the chase ended when River-wind's quarry stumbled and fell with a loud jingle. He's wearing mail, the plainsman surmised. Gripping his saber tightly, he sprinted toward the light. The broken shale almost cost Riverwind his footing, though, and he skidded but kept his feet.

On the ground was a dimly glowing globe the size of Riverwind's head. Warily, he poked at it with his sword. There was a brass handle affixed. It was some sort of lamp. Riverwind picked it up. The globe was very lightweight. The blue radiance roiled and seethed within as he turned the strange object in his hands. A tingle passed through the handle to Riverwind's arm, so he hastily dropped the globe. This was no time to fool with magical devices.

A shadow darted across open ground a few yards away. Abandoning stealth, Riverwind followed the evasive intruder. The dim figure led him back toward his camp. The interloper paused just long enough to snatch Riverwind's deerskin bag and carry it off.

“Hold there!” the plainsman shouted. “Drop that!”

“He's over this way!” Catchflea cried.

“Get down, Catchflea!”

Riverwind picked up a hefty rock and threw it at the sound of fleeing feet. There was a soft thud and a faint gasp of pain. Riverwind gave a cry of triumph and charged after the intruder. He went only a few steps before bowling into Catchflea.

“Oof! Look out there!”

“Watch your feet-ow! Mind that sword-”

Riverwind untangled himself in time to see the silhouette of the thief as he righted himself and scrambled over a pile of boulders along the eastern rim of the clearing. The phantom had a familiar form: a head, two arms, two legs, but he couldn't tell if it were human, dwarf, or kender. The intruder paused briefly, then leaped over the rocks and was lost from sight.

“Come back with my pack!” Riverwind yelled. Almost all his meager possessions were in that bag.

He and Catchflea got to their feet. “Get the blanket and follow me,” Riverwind said hastily. He sheathed his saber and made for the rocks where the thief had gone. The boulders were jagged and brittle, but Riverwind clawed his way to the top. He crouched on the crest and tried to pierce the deep gloom of the ravine below. It was like trying to see into a well of midnight.

A stone flew out of the dark and struck him stingingly on the chin. Losing his balance, Riverwind sat down hard and started to slide. He slowed his descent by digging in his heels, but decided this was as easy a way to get to the bottom of the slope as any.

The slope ended, but instead of the bottom of the hill, Riverwind's feet met empty air. As his legs sailed into space, he tried to grab ground on each side to stop his headlong plunge, but the ground was loose and rocky. Trailing a train of gravel, Riverwind slid off into a void and fell, and fell, and fell.

“Catchflea, look out!” was all he could shout. Agonizing, slow seconds passed as Riverwind fell feet-first into darkness. Any moment, the hard bottom would rush up and smash him, crush the life from his body.

Riverwind flailed his arms and legs, and still he fell, air flowing up, rippling the sleeves of his jerkin and making the tassels on his pants slap against his legs. Riverwind quickly realized something else: he was falling too slowly-far too slowly. His downward speed seemed no more than if he were running at a casual lope. Or was it that the air itself was thick, clinging to him like syrup, retarding his plunge? Something was slowing his fall. Something not natural. Magic.

That realization was frightening enough to make sweat break out on his face. As the fall continued, however, Riverwind overcame his fear. He looked up. He couldn't see the hole he'd fallen into. Around him were vague suggestions of wall moving past, but when he put out an arm to make contact, his balance shifted and he tumbled face over feet. After some frantic scrambling, Riverwind regained his poise. Thereafter he kept his hands at his sides.

He had no idea how long he'd been falling. He had no idea of time. Nothing but the wind and black walls surrounded the falling plainsman. “Where am I falling to?” he asked out loud.

“And how do we get back up?” replied a distant voice above him.

Riverwind called, “Catchflea, is that you?”

“It is me, yes.”

“Where are you?”

“I should say thirty feet above you.”

Riverwind tried to see him, but it was too dark. “Did you fall into the hole too?” he said loudly.

“No, I jumped after you.”

“What!”

“Follow and descend, the acorns told me, yes?”

“Do you do everything those oak nuts tell you?” Riverwind asked.

“Everything, tall man.”

Riverwind shook his head ruefully, but, somehow, he felt better knowing he was not completely alone in this bizarre plunge. Catchflea's thin voice drifted down: “How do we get back up?”

A blue glimmer appeared below. Gingerly, Riverwind bent at the waist to see it better. The light was the same color as the strange globe he'd found above. The glimmer grew closer. Then, it-or rather, he-swept past. It was another globe. Just like the first, except that this one was mounted on the wall of the shaft.

The fall went on so long that Riverwind became impatient. The blue globe vanished overhead, though he saw Catchflea outlined briefly in the feeble aura. When another azure dot appeared far below his feet, Riverwind decided to try to knock the globe loose. He wanted to take it with him to provide some illumination. He gauged his position. The sphere should just brush his outstretched fingertips.

His precarious equilibrium failed as he reached farther out. Riverwind crashed into the wall and bounced off. His hand rapped the globe smartly. There was no chance to grab it. The globe jostled free of whatever was holding it in place and, instead of falling with him, floated up and away. It narrowly missed the old man, still falling above Riverwind.

“What was that?” Catchflea cried in alarm. When Riverwind explained, the old man cried, “Don't meddle with them! You could disrupt the spell that cushions our fall.”

The air, which had been crisp and cold as they went down, gradually got warmer and heavier. In quick succession, Riverwind passed through several rings of fiery hot stone, radiating dull red heat into the shaft. By this fleeting light he saw that the shaft at this point was about eight feet wide. The walls were smoothly polished.

He heard Catchflea exclaim as he dropped through the hot rings. After a word of encouragement to the old man, Riverwind decided to make one last effort to halt his descent. He drew his knife and attempted to drive it into the hard stone wall. The flame-hardened tip struck sparks, but didn't so much as scratch the dark rock. Riverwind lost his grip and the knife fell from his fingers. It fell far faster than he was going. A few seconds later he heard a clang from below. His knife had hit something. The bottom, perhaps?

All at once the shaft constricted to a narrow neck, as in a funnel. The strange force that restrained his fall brought Riverwind nearly to a halt in midair. Riverwind crossed his arms over his chest and slipped through the shaft's neck, banging his left hip and shoulder smartly before landing in the chamber below. Riverwind's legs folded under him, and stars swam in his eyes.

He lay stunned long enough for something soft to drape over him. By the smell he knew it was his horsehair blanket. Hard on its heels, Catchflea arrived at the funnel mouth. He hung for just a second by his fingers, then let go. The old soothsayer landed with a thud across Riverwind's chest.

“My apologies! You are not hurt, yes?” he gasped.

Riverwind coughed and lifted the skinny old man off him. “Nothing is broken,” he replied. “Considering how far we've fallen, we can thank the gods for that.” He tried to stand but became dizzy and collapsed again.

“My head is swinging like a dry gourd in the wind,” he said, clasping his head between his hands.

“I'm quite giddy myself,” Catchflea sputtered. He was lying flat on his back. Lifting an arm to point to the ceiling, he added, “There's the hole we passed through, yes. Do you think we could reach it from here?”

Riverwind rocked back on his haunches to see the aperture overhead. “That's twenty feet up,” he said. “Even if you stood on my shoulders, you couldn't reach it.” He suddenly realized how well they could see. The chamber was lit by blue globes. The lamps-each about the size of Riverwind's head-were spaced irregularly along the wall. Nearly a dozen were lit, but many others were dark.

The chamber was circular, forty feet across. The walls and floor were black basalt, dense and smooth, speckled with reflective mica. Beyond Catchflea was an open doorway, lit by a blue globe.

The floor had stopped heaving, and Riverwind's knees became solid again. He wobbled to his feet, gave Catchflea a hand, and hauled the old soothsayer up.

“What is this place?” Catchflea asked.

“I cannot tell you. Whatever it is, I don't like it.”

“Oh? We are alive, yes?”

“Yes, but for how long? How will we get out of here?” Riverwind muttered. He limped to the wall and touched a glowing orb lightly with a fingertip. The stable light writhed within its sphere, arcing from side to side as if to avoid the spot Riverwind had touched.

“What are these things?” he wondered aloud. Catchflea was at one of the others. He lifted it off the cup-shaped base carved in the rock of the wall and held the globe at arm's length.

“At least we have light,” the old man said. “Shall we go?”

Riverwind pulled his hand away from the seething luminescence and the light quieted. “Where?”

“To look for a way out, yes.”

Catchflea picked up Riverwind's blanket, rolled it tightly, and tossed the resulting bundle over his shoulder. Riverwind drew his saber and started into the tunnel. “Don't you want a lamp?” asked Catchflea.

“No. There's something disquieting about those things.”

Riverwind stepped into the passage. The tunnel stretched far ahead. At odd intervals a globe could be seen glowing. There were others that were dark. He scanned the ceiling and walls for some clue as to who could have made this place. What sort of strange creatures lived in this dismal underground place?

The floor sloped slightly downward. Riverwind raised a hand to his mouth to call out, but Catchflea prudently reminded him to keep quiet. “I've heard all manner of tales about evil creatures that dwell in the ground-miner goblins, kobolds, tommyknockers. Those who intrude on their domain seldom live to tell of it.” Riverwind glanced back. The old man's face was pale and bloodless by the blue glow of the odd lamp. He wasn't jesting. Riverwind advanced more slowly, and kept his back to the cold, hard wall.

Aside from the strange lamps, there was little to see in the tunnel. The ceiling was arched, and whoever had cut the tunnel was evidently shorter than Riverwind. He had to crouch low to avoid the projecting globes. A light coat of dust covered the floor. Riverwind noticed his own footprints when he turned to speak to Catchflea.

“Put the light on the floor, old man,” he said intently. “I want to see something.”

They squatted in the center of the passage. “See, here are the marks of my moccasin boots,” Riverwind said. His large, flat soles made broad smudges in the gray dust. “And these are yours.” Catchflea's ragged footwear, laced up bits of leather and cloth, made distinctive prints.

“And there,” Riverwind pointed, “is a third set.” He spoke in a whisper.

Sure enough, a third set of feet had passed that way. The prints were quite normal-looking, though small and slim. A child, perhaps? The third one had preceded the two men, and had gone right down the center of the corridor. At a run, too; the toeprints were widely spaced and the heel print was almost nonexistent.

“The thief, yes?” whispered Catchflea. Riverwind nodded solemnly. The intruder had deliberately jumped into the hole, knowing the magic spell would lower him to this place. He and Catchflea were on the thief's own terrain now. Caution was paramount.

Riverwind hefted his saber, and they resumed the advance.

The tunnel bent sharply to the right. The globes here were dark, leaving Riverwind and Catchflea in blackness. Despite the mild temperature, the warrior sweated. It was oppressive, the close confines of the tunnel, especially when Riverwind considered all that rock over his head, heavy and impenetrable, pressing in, pressing down on him. Riverwind straightened his hunched posture slightly, and his head connected with the roof. Solid. Unyielding.

“Is the tunnel getting smaller?” he said tightly.

“Not that I can tell,” Catchflea replied.

Riverwind moved uncomfortably. He could not stand straight in the tunnel. “Plainsmen were not meant to be moles,” he muttered. He turned to Catchflea. “I want out of here. I want to see the sky, feel the wind on my face. I want to stand up straight!”

“How will you get there, tall man? Fly up the shaft, yes?” Riverwind had an angry retort ready, but the old man smiled disarmingly. “Your fear is not real, my friend. There is no present danger.”

“I feel-closed in!”

“So you are, as am I. Pay no attention to it. I have mastered my fear. If I can do it, you can, yes.”

Riverwind took several deep breaths. The old soothsayer was right. This tunnel was solid, in no danger of collapsing. There was no reason to be afraid. He said it aloud: “There is no reason to be afraid.”

Light footfalls sounded ahead of them. Catchflea caught Riverwind's arm, eyes wide with alarm. Riverwind nodded. The thief was not far away. If he could navigate in this inky hole, so could the son of Wanderer.

“You, thief! Stand where you are!” Riverwind roared. The sound was deafening in the tunnel. The steps seemed to cease, then resumed rapidly. The odd metallic ringing was louder than before. “Follow,” Riverwind said to Catchflea. He jogged down the passage with his saber in his hand. The floor sloped downward more steeply here. Riverwind slowed. He wasn't going to be tricked into another hole.

The tunnel bent back to the left. A misshapen shadow skittered crazily across the wall. When it vanished, so too did the thief's footsteps fade. Riverwind sidled around the corner and was dazzled by bright light. He threw up a hand to shade his eyes.

“What is it?” hissed Catchflea from around the corner.

“A room. The light is bright!” Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the illumination. Riverwind lowered his hand. “Come along, Catchflea, and be quiet.”

They slipped into a very large, high-ceilinged chamber. The light came from a huge, disk-shaped lamp that hung from the ceiling by brass chains. Fire flickered within, flooding the room with light. Riverwind inched along the wall, his eyes going left and right.

The room was irregularly shaped. All around them were piles of goods of every description. Things seemed to be sorted according to what they were made of. There was a lot of wood: poles, tool handles, clapboards, shingles, beams of considerable thickness with the mortise holes still showing. Beyond the wooden goods were heaps of leather items: old shoes, boots gray with mildew, belts, gloves, leggings, arrow quivers, peaked caps such as foresters wore, thongs, lacings, a hodgepodge of hide products ranging in quality from the very decrepit to the pristine.

And there was more. Wicker baskets and glazed pottery. Jars of tar, beeswax, and soap. In all, the chamber resembled a merchant's warehouse.

Riverwind and Catchflea wandered among the piles of stuff, pondering the wisdom of thieves who stole old shoes instead of gold. While Riverwind headed to the right, the old man went left down a narrow aisle. There, discarded carelessly with three rolls of homespun linen, was River-wind's bag. The lacing was still drawn tight, the contents untouched.

“Over here! I found it!” Catchflea called hoarsely.

With his height, Riverwind was able to see over most of the piles. He found Catchflea and gratefully slipped the bag's strap over his shoulder.

“There's wood aplenty here. Maybe we could build some sort of ladder?” Catchflea said. He reached under the hem of his tattered shirt for the gourd and acorns.

“What are you doing?”

Catchflea knelt on the stone floor. “Trying to find out what we should do,” he said. He began the invocation over the acorns. Another sound-droning voices-drifted to them.

“Someone's coming,” Riverwind whispered. “No time for that now.” Out came the saber.

The welter of voices, echoing through the tunnel, grew louder. The speakers seemed unconcerned about being heard, for they were talking in loud, harsh voices.

Riverwind motioned to Catchflea to stay put, then tiptoed around a pile of sawn planks and climbed up the side. Lying prone on the top planks, Riverwind peered over the end. Six figures poured into the next aisle. Five wore bright steel armor on their chests and legs. Their helmets were curious, shaped like tall, divided cones. The sixth person was smaller and wore a loose shirt and kilt made of some shimmering black fabric. The neck of the shirt rose up in a cowl that covered his face in shadows. He was held firmly in the grip of one of the larger figures. He spoke in tremulous tones.

Riverwind did not understand their speech. These folk spoke like no one he'd ever heard before.

The loudest soldier, who had to be the leader, stood gazing around the room. He made a sharp demand of the little one in black. When an answer was not forthcoming, the leader rapped him with a short metal baton. Riverwind frowned. He didn't like cruelty, whatever its logic.

The little fellow spoke slowly, gesturing at the array of goods around him. With rapid, angry words, the leader pointed in the direction Riverwind and Catchflea had come, and then to the way they themselves had entered. The small one made plaintive sounds. The leader seized him by the shirt and flung him into the arms of the other soldiers. They dragged the protesting fellow away.

Riverwind climbed down and got Catchflea from his hiding place under the homespun. Come with me, he signed to the old man. Say nothing.

They skulked along an aisle parallel to the soldiers and their cringing captive, always keeping bales of booty between them. In tine heart of the chamber was an operv space. There, two soldiers forced the captive to his knees. The leader approached from the side with his sword raised.

Riverwind acted. He knew a pending execution when he saw one.

“Ha!” he cried, springing into the clear. The soldiers started back. They were considerably shorter than the plainsman, whose height seemed to intimidate them. They drew stubby swords and closed together, armored shoulders clanking as they fell into line. Their helmets were closed with hammered metal visors resembling very stylized faces, with embossed grimaces and chiseled eyebrows. The condemned fellow, whose features were still hidden by the drooping cowl, pointed excitedly at Riverwind and chattered volubly. Riverwind didn't need an interpreter to understand a triumphant “I told you so!”

The soldiers' leader stood forward. He raised his short, heavy-bladed weapon.

“Well, now, bully,” Riverwind said. “You're fine with unarmed boys. Let's see how you do with me.”

He was easily two feet taller than they, and his saber twice as long as their short swords. Still, there were five of them. The leader barked an order at his men. They fanned out behind Riverwind and presented the blunt points of their swords.

“My friend,” said Riverwind to the reprieved victim. “I've saved your neck, but it may cost me my own.” The little fellow, still on his knees, regarded the warrior with a quizzical tilt of his head. “I hope you're a good person. I'd hate to die saving a scoundrel.”

The leader attacked, slashing overhand at Riverwind's chest. Riverwind parried and gave ground. The other soldiers joined in halfheartedly. Riverwind scowled and shouted at them, and they flinched, never closing to a threatening distance.

He traded cuts with the leader, at one point scraping his saber on the bizarre leering helmet. The leader staggered back, shaking his head. Riverwind pressed home, shouting a Que-Shu war cry that made the chamber ring.

Then, two quick surprises changed the odds of the battle. The small, unarmed stranger got off his knees and leaped quickly out of the way as the fighting threatened to overwhelm him. As he flung himself out of harm's way, the cowl that had heretofore covered his face fell back. Riverwind glanced at him and halted in surprise. “He” was a she! A crop of short, spiky hair ruffled out of the black cowl and stood straight up on her head. Her skin was pale ivory, and her eyes enormous and black. Her pointed ears stood out from her close-cut hair. Riverwind had never seen an elf before, but he'd heard enough about them to know he was

looking at a girl of elvish blood.

At that precise moment, Catchflea appeared, a knout of

wood in his hand. He'd heard Riverwind's war cry and was rallying to help. “I'm with you, tall man!” he shouted gamely.

Unfortunately for Catchflea, the four timid soldiers were between him and Riverwind. They obviously decided the daft-looking old man couldn't be very dangerous, so they swarmed him. The firewood was struck from his hand, and down he went.

Riverwind had stared too long at the elf girl. The soldiers' leader struck him from behind with the baton. Riverwind fell against a stack of clay pots and sent them clattering to

the stone floor. Before he could regain his feet in the pot

sherds, the leader advanced and struck the plainsman again on the head. The burning lantern flared wildly in Riverwind's eyes, then all was dark.