Stormblade

19

Tyrol walked along the frozen mud by the river’s edge. The wind off the water blew cold out of the mountains from the east. The elf thought it smelled of snow. Instinct told him that though many hours remained to the night and they should put some distance between themselves and this wretched place, what was needed was a fire, some food, and a chance for Stanach to gain whatever strength he could before dawn.

Inclination told him to get Stanach on his feet somehow. The one-eyed Theiwar might still be about somewhere. Though he was alone, he was what the dwarves called derro. Tyorl had spent enough time on Thorbardin’s border to pick up a good store of dwarven words. He knew what derro meant: half-mad and seemingly able to thrive on nothing but hate. He was magi and dangerous as well.

Tyorl kicked a small stone into the water and regretted it the moment he heard it splash. Childish behavior like that will get us all killed before dawn, he thought. Childish behavior like that, and the unlooked for change in his feelings toward Kelida. He’d held himself back in the tunnel because of her, because he was concerned for her. Lavim could have used his help, and, if he’d been there to give it, the Theiwar would be no problem now; he’d be dead.

Damn! The woman isn’t tracking through the forest, putting her life at risk, because Hauk is important to you! She does it because he’s important to her. Hauk left Tenny’s without his sword and with the barmaid’s heart. Did he know that?

Tyorl shook his head. He didn’t think Hauk was alive at this moment to know. For his friend’s sake, he hoped that he wasn’t.

The elf ground a curse between clenched teeth and broke into a run. The dead Theiwar lay just before the river’s bend.

An arrow protruded from the dwarf’s chest. Four thin blue bands marked the shaft a thumb’s length above the fletching notch. He knew the mark well and the gray fletching and black cock feather even better. Finn!

He looked around quickly. The river, never silent, ran whispering on his left. Black shadows and blacker trees, the forest crowned the rise on his right. Tyorl drew the arrow from the dwarf’s chest and rose, sending the red-shouldered hawk’s shrill keee-yeeer! echoing against the forest’s wall of trees. There was only one answer to that cry, a thrush’s reedy, upward spiraling song. Tyorl heard it almost at once and laughed aloud for sheer relief.

Finn, tall and thin as fence rails, stood on the rise between two trees. Tyorl didn’t see his smile, but he heard it in his question.

“Where’ve you been, elf?”

“Looking for you, Lord, and hoping you’d find me.” He kicked at the body lying near his feet. “Have you seen another one of these around?”

“Only this one. He raised that crossbow too fast when he saw me. Gave me no time to ask after others.”

Finn left the rise, jogging down the slope. Two shadows, dark as night, left the forest and followed. Lehr cut ahead of the rangerlord and Kembal, his brother, drifted behind.

Lehr, dark eyes shining with the light of his grin, shaggy black hair ruffling in the cold wind, slapped Tyorl’s shoulder in greeting. “Where’s Hauk? That one’s owed me three gold or twelve steel for a week and more. I figured you two’ve been dragging your heels getting back because he didn’t come by it in town.”

Tyorl shook his head, the brightness flown from the reunion. “He’s not here, Lehr. “He gestured toward the river cave. “Kem, you’re needed back there. Go with your hands on your pack. There’s a kender in there who claims to have killed four dwarves.”

Tyorl glanced at the arrow still in his hand. “I know he killed three of them. Three or four. He’s likely grown bored of being proud of himself and will be looking around for trouble to get into.”

Lehr laughed, but his brother only nodded and loped toward the cave.

“Go with him, Lehr,” Finn said quietly. When they were alone, the rangerlord accepted his arrow from Tyorl and checked the fletching. He found it still good and returned it to his quiver. “Good to see you, Tyorl.”

The elf looked back to the forest. “And you, Lord. Are the others with you?”

“No. I left them six miles north of here. Lehr crossed your trail yesterday. We’d have come looking sooner, but it seems that Verminaard is quick-pacing his war on the borders. We’ve been busy these three days.” Finn smiled coldly. “Raiding supply trains.”

“Have we lost anyone?”

“No, though Kem almost heaved himself inside out from the stink of this place a few minutes ago. Where did that come from? If you tell me the Abyss, I’ll likely believe you.”

Tyorl sighed, suddenly realizing how tired he was and how strange a tale he had to tell. “It’s a very long story.”

“No doubt.” Finn looked at him sharply. His eyes softened a little.

“Tyorl, we saw no sign that Hauk’s with you. Is he dead?”

“I don’t know. I think he’s in Thorbardin.”

Finn said nothing for a moment, only looked across the river and to the foothills rising in the east. Thorbardin was nearly a hundred miles away.

“Odd place for him to be, dead or alive, isn’t it?”

Odd? Oh, yes, Tyorl thought, damned odd.

“I’ll have your report now.”

“Aye, Lord, but you may not believe it.”

Finn stepped a pace away from the dead Theiwar and dropped to his heels. “Tell me.”

Tyorl sat down beside him. He watched the wind slide across the water’s black surface, shivering through the dwarf’s brown hair and beard, and thought, as he had not since the first night in Qualinesti, that Takhisis the Dark Queen was moving in Krynn.

Dragonqueen, they called her in Istar and Ergoth. She was that. The folk of Icewall knew her as Corruptor. She was that, too. In Thorbardin, the dwarves named her Tamex, the False Metal.

She’s proved false enough to you, he told the Theiwar silently. May she prove as false to your master!

Quietly, Tyorl told his tale of Kingsword and revolution, rangers and barmaids, pursuit and escape.

In the high, star-frosted sky, the two newly risen moons, the red and the white, combined their light into a garish purple spill. Darknight was a black lance against the red moon. Ember, Verminaard riding high on the dragon’s long, powerfully muscled shoulders, cut like a huge distorted shadow across Solinari.

Its eyes hooded as much against the bitter cold of the heights as against the moons’ glare, Darknight laid its broad wings against its back, darting down and under the red. Swooping high again, the black dragon rolled and returned to Ember’s side, roaring loud laughter at the red’s disdain for its antics.

Darknight cared not at all. The dank walls of the Deep Warrens no longer confined it and it was incapable of anything but high, fierce joy. Ten miles clear of Thorbardin, at the southwestern edge of the Plains of Death, Darknight had sensed Ember gliding over the eastern forests. It’d gained speed with powerful thrusts of its wings and caught up with the Highlord and his mount over the Hills of Blood. Darknight had flipped its wings in casual salute to Ember and given the Highlord a swift mental picture of the situation at Thorbardin.

Such was the connection between Verminaard and Takhisis’ dragons, both empathic and telepathic, that the Highlord had not only the sense of Realgar’s plans, but a clear sense, too, of Darknight’s estimations for their success.

Aye, bring him his Kingsword, Darknight. Help him cut the first stroke of revolution. Verminaard’s satisfaction rippled through Darknight’s mind like shadows on black ice. Then, give me his Stormblade when you give me his head. They’ll both be fine ornaments.

Ember craned its long neck around, and, by the brilliant light of a gout of flame shot from its narrow-jawed maw, Darknight saw their shadows, small and sharp, sliding over the foothills of the Kharolis Mountains. The black cut its wings back again and dove low over the rolling dun-colored hills. A long-sighted creature of the night, it saw what Ember was looking for before the red did and sent the image of a clutch of rangers directly to the Highlord.

Several miles south of the rangers, it picked up the dark cloud that was the Gray Herald’s mind. Darknight loosed a thundering roar, wheeled, and then dove.

Down the dragon arrowed toward the thin silver line of a river west of the hills. Several hours remained before dawn and Darknight expected to be back in ancient Thorbardin before sunrise. Before the sun set again, Realgar’s shout of triumph would ring through the dwarf-realms. The moons rode low in the sky, dipping toward the forest and the western horizon. Tyorl, watching their strange purple light touch the tops of the trees, thought about Finn’s reaction to his story. Tyorl knew that the rangerlord did not think Hauk was alive. The elf had not been able to convince Finn of that.

“If the girl’s hope can keep someone alive, aye, he’s alive.”

Finn’s eyes told Tyorl that he already mourned Hauk as dead. “You want to go to Thorbardin.”

“Aye, Lord, I do.”

Finn had said nothing for a long moment, only looked from Stormblade, still scabbarded at Kelida’s hip, to the ruin of Stanach’s hand as Kem unwound the makeshift bandaging and gravely complimented the girl on her work.

Tyorl poked at the small fire. Lavim, without having to be asked, had found kindling and fuel and set the fire outside the cave and away from the entrance. The kender still hadn’t found Piper’s flute.

Lost, aye, Tyorl thought. It’s lost in your pockets, imp! Enjoy your night ranging, Lavim. By all the gods, I’ll tie you down and search every pouch and deep pocket you have when you get back.

Tyorl turned suddenly at the soft scuff of a boot on stone, the whisper of a cloak against hunting leathers. Kelida, her eyes darkly shadowed with exhaustion, stood hesitantly behind him.

“Am I disturbing you?”

Tyorl shook his head. “No. Lehr caught some fish for dinner. Are you hungry?”

“No. Just tired.” She sat beside him, her back against the cave’s outer wall.

“How is Stanach?”

“Sleeping. Really sleeping. Kem got him to drink some mixture of herbs and powders. He says it will help him find his strength again.”

“It will. Kern’s a fine warrior and a better healer. Is he sitting with him now?”

Kelida nodded. She stared out across the river, listening to its ancient travelsong. “You’ve spent a lot of time on these borders, haven’t you?”

“A few years.”

“When I was cleaning Stanach’s hand, binding it, he said something. It was in a language I didn’t understand.”

“Dwarven, likely.”

“Maybe. ‘Leet Kware,’ he said.”

“Lyt chwaer, eh? Little sister. Well, he was hurting and maybe a little out of his head. It isn’t strange that he’d call out for kin.” Tyorl shook his head. “So, Stanach has himself a younger sister, does he? He did say that Kyan Red-axe was his cousin, but, somehow, I never thought of him having kin, or being connected to anything other than his wretched Kingsword.”

The river lapped and sighed at its banks. Tyorl tossed a branch into the small fire. He smiled at Kelida and gestured to the stocky youngster pacing the watch at the riverside with long, restless strides. “That one sometimes reminds me of Hauk. Finn calls us his Nightmare Company. We call Lehr, Finn’s Nightmare.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s impulsive, restless, and too well loves a good fight.”

The wind was growing steadily colder and swept across the water with a mourner’s voice. Kelida huddled into her green cloak. “Aren’t those good traits for a ranger to have?”

Tyorl answered her question with another. “You see no difference between him and Hauk?”

“I don’t know Hauk but from that one night in Tenny’s. But then, I …”

Tyorl stared at the fire. “What?”

“I don’t know, Tyorl. I thought that he might be something—someone—I could like.”

Like, he wondered, or love?

The wind shifted, blowing from the northeast now, straight down the river’s path. Lehr stopped his restive pacing and stood still at the waterside.

“He’s a likable fellow, our Hauk.”

“But, he too well loves a fight?”

Tyorl shook his head. “No, not at all. He has a cool enough head most times. He’s a good man to have at your back, but, like Finn’s Nightmare over there, he’s young. I suppose that’s really why Lehr reminds me of him.”

Kelida remembered what seemed now a long ago night in Long Ridge, the night Hauk had given her Stormblade. She remembered Tyorl as he’d been that night, tolerantly amused by his friend’s extravagant apology. He’d watched her scrubbing at ale and wine stains on the bar, and she, as she worked, had compared the two rangers: Hauk thick and stocky as a bear, Tyorl like a silent-stepping stag. She’d thought, then, that it was difficult, if not impossible, to determine an elf’s age from the look of him.

She looked at him now, sun-colored hair stirred by the cold wind, blue eyes soft with his thoughts, long legs crossed tailor-fashion as he leaned toward the fire. Lean and fit, a border ranger’s air of danger and, aye, romance hung about him. It was impossible to think that he was anything but a few years older than Hauk.

“I think,” she said hesitantly, “that we all seem young to you.”

“Well, sometimes you do. I’ve seen one hundred summers, Kelida. That makes you and Hauk seem young to me. I’m a young man by the standards of my own kin.” He smiled and shrugged. “It only gets confusing when I’m not with elves. There’s all the years lived.” He tapped his chest, suddenly tight and aching. “Then there’s this, this heart, which reminds me how young I truly am.”

Lehr abandoned his watch path and trotted north up-river, head low like a hound scenting trouble. Tyorl, who knew the look, got to his feet.

“Kelida, go get Finn.”

She felt the sudden tension in his voice and scrambled to her feet. Before she could ask a question, he was gone, running down to the water. Lavim smelled the smoke just as the wind shifted. Stretched at full length on his stomach by the riverside, he thought of campfires and warmth. He’d certainly appreciate some warmth now. His old black coat lay nearby on the bank and he was wet to the shoulders from trying to catch fish with his hands as he’d seen Lehr doing earlier. You’d think, he told himself, that it would be as easy as it looks!

Nothing is as easy as it looks, Lavim.

Lavim said nothing, only plunged his hands into the icy water again. Too late! The bass flew through his fingers, tickling his palm as it darted out of the shallows under the bank and into the center of the river. Lavim jerked his hands out of the water and, shaking off the icy water, tucked them under his arms.

It’s all a matter of perspective, Lavim. When you look into the water you don’t see what you think you see. Neither does the fish, for that matter, when he looks up.

“Uh-huh,” Lavim muttered. “You’d know that, having been a fish most of your life, eh?”

All in all, Piper growled, I think the wrong one of us is being testy. After all, I’m the one who’s dead. If anyone has a right to be testy, it’s me.

“I’m not being testy. I’m trying to catch breakfast. Piper,” he said suddenly, “I’m sorry that you’re dead. I didn’t know you when you were alive, but—I’m sorry. What does it feel like, being dead?”

Piper was silent for a moment. It doesn’t really feel like anything.

“Where are you?”

I’m inside your head, and in the netherworld.

“What does it look like?”

Piper laughed. It’s foggy—in both places. Lavim, you’ve got another chance at a fish.

A brown trout, nearly as long and plump as the bass, glided into the still water of the shallows. A lazy shrug of its tail put the fish into the thick grasses waving just below the water’s surface. Lavim grinned and raised his hands to strike again.

Aim a little ahead and to the side.

“Why?”

Because you want a trout for breakfast.

Judging this to be a good enough reason, Lavim did as Piper suggested.

“Hah!” he crowed as his fingers curled around the trout. He yanked the fish from the water, dripping and glistening in the moonlight. “Gotcha!”

But the trout wriggled, squirming against his palms, and Lavim, fascinated by the feel of scales against his skin, loosened his grip slightly. As though winged, the fish leaped from his hands and flopped back into the water.

“Damn!” Lavim flipped over onto his back, disgusted and too cold to plunge his blue-knuckled hands into the water again. The smell of wood smoke thickened on the wind. “What are they doing with that fire, anyway? They’re going to—”

Lavim!

“Gods, Piper, don’t bellow like that! It makes my ears pop! What?”

Dragons!

“Where?” Lavim snatched up his coat and hoopak and scrambled to his feet, his eyes on the sky. “Where?”

North! Get back to the camp, Lavim! There’s one over the forest and heading for the river!

Grinning, Lavim ran for the river camp. Everyone was always talking about dragons: red ones, black ones, blue, and green, a whole rainbow of them. Lavim had only ever seen one—the one red that’d flown high, daily passes over Long Ridge.

The kender laughed aloud as he dashed toward the cave, trying to watch the sky and the ground at the same time. His luck was about to change!