The Dark Queen

Chapter 5

Every morning, despite several floors of stone under his room, Vaananen awoke to the sound of rending rock beneath the city. Sometimes it infiltrated his dawn dreams and he thought he, too, labored in the dank, musty tunnels to blast and hammer and drag forth the glain opals for the Kingpriest. This morning, the dreams had become especially vivid, and the con shy;stant pounding of the city's secret heart lingered in his ears even now as he strode rapidly down a higher passage to keep a regular appointment with his sparring partner.

Down the spiral staircase he ran, his high-necked practice shirt already damp from the rising heat of the day, his arms covered past the wrists in padded sleeves to turn the blows of long sword and dagger. When he reached the ground floor, he drew forth a bronze key, wrought in the shape of a sidewinding serpent, inserted it into the elaborate lock on the heavy oaken door, and took the last easy breath he would get for the next two hours.

"You are almost late," said the Kingpriest, tossing a rough-hewn pole at the druid.

Vaananen deftly caught both the weapon and the malice. He bowed in silent reply, his eyes never leav shy;ing the sea-blue stare of his opponent. This is the last time, he thought, stepping inside the walled garden.

For eight years, Vaananen had fought the King-priest in these small battles, never winning, never telling, and always leaving the sovereign with the suspicion that Vaananen used magic rather than martial skill to survive.

It was all for Vincus, these weekly combats and humiliations. The lad could not help that his father had been an unfaithful weapons-master to an unfaithful ruler, that instead of teaching the King-priest the form of the broadsword prohibited to cler shy;ical orders, old Hannakus had tried to skip town, taking with him a hundred of the Kingpriest's trea shy;sured glain opals.

The Istarian Guard had caught Vincus's father before he reached the walls. They had arrested old Hannakus, tried him, and executed him. But they had never found the opals. The Kingpriest had maintained that the son, at the time a mere boy of twelve, should work off the father's debt in the opal mines beneath the city.

It was a death sentence. Vaananen intervened, promising his services in Hannakus's old role. And promising his silence as the Kingpriest, in a sacrilege older than the faith, took up the edged blade that was forbidden to all who served the gods in holy orders.

Now, that service, that silence, was almost over.

The Kingpriest turned his head at last and paced to the farthest point in the practice circle, examined the blade of his sword, and placed a booted foot against one of the smooth white shells that marked fair ground for the fight.

Vaananen dropped to a crouch and balanced in his right hand the light pole, which was actually a living tree, its roots bundled tightly and its branches pruned away. The Kingpriest never played by the rules; there would be no salutation. Vaananen drew a long breath, loosened his legs, and waited.

The Kingpriest pretended to adjust his grip for a moment, then charged the druid on the right. Vaana shy;nen stood his ground until his attacker's blade whistled through the air in a long, deadly down-stroke, then pivoted exactly six inches aside to catch the Kingpriest lightly in the back of the head with the pole and knock him to his knees.

Before the Kingpriest could regain sight, breath, and footing, Vaananen threw himself to the ground and lay still. Long ago, he had learned that never a blow was dealt to this sovereign that was not repaid tenfold outside the arena; it was best to ungracefully sprawl in the appearance of one cut down by the mighty swipe of the monarch's blade.

The Kingpriest rose, furious and wild, only to find his fighting partner in seemingly worse condition after the clash. He laughed smugly and kicked the druid until he "regained consciousness."

And so it went for an hour and more, Vaananen spinning, dodging, rolling, and feinting, always adjusting cooly to the attack, and only occasionally dealing the Kingpriest a gentle tap with the length of the bound tree. Vaananen kept it interesting, but never, to the Kingpriest's utter frustration, did he seem to become angry or lose control.

"You willow-heart!" the Kingpriest taunted. "It is our last round-have you no more spirit left than this? Did you leave your manhood in a grove of rot shy;ten oak?"

It is not my fight, Vaananen would say to himself. This is for Vincus's freedom, so that he will never inhabit the darkness of the mines. Then Vaananen would smile and think of another way to turn the Kingpriest's forbidden blade, never allowing it to touch him.

At last, just before the round was meant to be over, the Kingpriest, seething with anger, stopped the exchange.

"Come over here," he panted. "Stand exactly here." He pointed to the outside of the ring of shells. The sea-blue eyes shone with rage and cunning.

Vaananen knew if he left the sparring ground before the round was over that it would be a foul, and would give the Kingpriest an opportunity to deliver an undefended blow. The blade glistened in the noonday sun, its edge razor-sharp and lethal. The Kingpriest did not care for blunted weapons.

Vaananen moved to the center of the ring and stood his ground. It was a show of truce-the most vulnerable place in the arena.

"Do you decline my order, noble Vaananen?" the Kingpriest said smoothly. "I think there is a penalty for that. … I think you will do five more years of this game, this time with no padded shirt, eh?"

For the first time, Vaananen spoke. "I have paid the debt of Vincus's blood. He will go free. And you cannot coerce me. You violate your Order by using this broadsword. The game is over."

The Kingpriest smiled, his sea-blue eyes flickering coldly. "You will stay in my service," he said. "You are bound to me by oath. Many others who are unworthy serve me-from the thief's son to peas shy;ants …"

He eyed Vaananen cagily.

"Perhaps even druids. Cast out from their own Order for the gods know. . what crimes?"

Vaananen's face betrayed no emotion.

"Now, willow-heart, we will arrange to pay your debt," the Kingpriest said with a low chuckle.

Slowly, he stirred the border of shells with his booted foot, walking around the ring, narrowing the circle around the silent druid.

Lazily the goddess walked through the Tears of Mishakal, the crystal structures rising in bizarre angles, catching the red moonlight until they seemed like blades dripping with blood.

The crystals that housed her changed as well. No longer was she Tamex, the menacing, mysterious warrior that would trouble Larken's dreams for yet a dozen nights.

She was Tanila now-a lithe and lovely woman, a creature of darkness to be feared and desired by man and elf alike. Casting her black eyes toward the heavens, the goddess breathed a summoning word.

And in the far sky, somewhere over Istar on the northern horizon, a star winked out and the long line of dune and mountain darkened ever so slightly.

Good. Her powers were growing. She could again subvert the deep heavens with an old spell or a quiet incantation. Somewhere in the far void of space, as dark and lifeless as her prison in the abyss, a black star cooled and died, collapsing on itself, and ten plan shy;ets-ten worlds-felt the first glazing of a final ice.

Who knew what civilizations now lay chilled and silent, abandoned by warmth and light and life?

Indeed, who cared? What was important was that she could do it-could leave the world desolate with a breath, a thought. Oh, her powers were mighty, and though Krynn was held against her, safe for now in the shelter of a bright wing, she would gov shy;ern it soon. She knew it.

It was a matter of months-of a few years at the most-and this was the place to begin.

Takhisis knew how the salt flats had received their name. Profane ground, where healing failed and revelation faded.

No wonder Mishakal wept.

But the goddess who now passed through the lat shy;ticework of crystal thought little of healing, less of revelation. On her mind were the rebel leaders, the close-knit triad of bard, elf, and …

She had no word for Fordus. Not yet. She knew him only through repute and legend, through his victories and through the song of his bard.

The bard was easy. Larken did not know her own power-the hidden magic of the lyre she resented and discarded, the awesome potential of her voice if she could free it of her own fear and anger.

Takhisis smiled. Fear and anger were her favorite lieutenants.

Fear and anger followed the elf as well.

Neither of them knew themselves, much less their commander.

The sand stirred, marking the wake of the goddess, a sinuous, twisting path like the trail left by a snake.

The next time she would come to them as Tanila, and the elf would be probed and sounded. He was Lucanesti, friend to the opals.

And oh, the opals would be important soon.

But first, there was small business to attend to at the edge of the grasslands.

The grasslands rose out of sleep to embrace him, the long grain swaying in the windless fields.

Fordus knew he was dreaming because what he saw did not match what he felt.

He did not like unexpected dreams. But so be it.

Would the battle come, or the light? One or the other always appeared in his dreams, and he learned from them both, from what the battle showed him or the light told him to say.

A purple rise, dotted with fir trees and blasted vallenwoods, rushed to meet him. Above them, a dozen birds wheeled slowly.

Hawks? Was Larken's hawk Lucas among them? He called to the birds in his mind; they approached, descended.

Not hawks. Scavengers.

Then it is a battle dream, he thought. I shall feel my dreaming in the morning run, in new soreness and stretching. But I shall win this battle as I win them all. Larken will finally sing of how I defeated Istar in desert, in grasslands …

Even in dreams.

He had no time to savor the prospects. Suddenly the rise fell away, as though the earth itself had col shy;lapsed beneath him. Fordus leapt over a spinning, white-hot void and landed stiffly and unsteadily at the crumbling edge of a bluff. A solitary Istarian

warrior instantly appeared before him-a golden man, hooded and helmed, his shield adorned with seven alabaster spires, his broad shoulders draped with a black tunic.

Well, then, Fordus thought. He reached for the axe at his belt.

It was not there.

For a moment, fear surged through him, dream shy;like and obscure, then he brushed it aside with a laugh.

After all, it is a dream. What is the worst that can happen?

Across the arid, level ground, in the wail of a hot wind, the warrior beckoned slowly, trumpeting a challenge in an inhuman tongue. His seven-spired shield glittered ever more brightly until the dream was swallowed by its light. Then shadow returned, and the man stood closer, alone and unarmed, as though he had cast aside his weaponry out of con shy;tempt. Now he assumed a wrestler's stance: a low, feline crouch, fingers spread like claws.

With long strides, moving so slowly it seemed that he waded through waist-high sand, Fordus closed with the warrior.

They collided to the sound of distant thunder. The arms of the enemy were cold and metallic, hard and heavy as bronze. The Istarian warrior spun about with a roar, hurling Fordus over his head. Whooping in delight, Fordus released his grip at the height of the violent arc, and somersaulting through the air, landed lightly on the sun-scorched ledge some dis shy;tance away. Behind him, rocks and dust toppled into a bottomless crevasse.

It is my dream. I can master it.

The warrior now bristled with six waving arms like an angry burnished insect, like a living statue of some barbarian harvest god. The sunlight danced like flame on his helmet.

It is my dream …

Fordus hurtled toward the warrior, who cried out and braced himself for the impact.

This collision was totally silent, as though all sound had fled at the force of the impact. The golden warrior rocked on his heels but kept his balance, lift shy;ing the struggling Fordus off the ground, four of the arms drawing him closer..

Fordus heard the hissing, smelled the fetid breath of his adversary. Fascinated, distracted, he gazed into the warrior's eyes.

Lidless and lifeless. Reptilian, the vertical slits in the heart of the eyes opening like a parted curtain, to reveal a dark nothingness, a deep and abiding void …

Fordus shook his head, wrestled the enemy's mul shy;tiple grasp, his own sudden drowsiness and lack of resistance, the growing trust that it Would not be so bad, this defeat, that it would all go for the better if he gave up the struggling … if he gave in … and looked into the curtained eyes that opened to per shy;petual blackness.

Fordus bolted upright, stifling a cry. His head rang with pain, and his skin felt raw and tender. His arms ached, the muscles cramping like they'd been gripped in the jaws of some monstrous, relentless creature.

But he was safe atop the Red Plateau. Not twenty yards away, the young sentry still snored at his post. Fordus leapt to his feet, intent on throttling the lad, but his legs shook with the dream's exertion, and a cold sweat rushed over him like a desert downpour.

Leave the lad alone. No sentry could protect him from his dreams.

Angrily, he looked up into the spacious desert sky, where the starry horns of Kiri-Jolith menaced the Dark Queen's constellation.

"Where were you in all of this, old bison? Old grandfather?" Fordus asked sullenly. He stood up slowly. The heavy gold tore at his neck felt tight. With a last look at the sleeping sentry, Fordus began to run.

Since his early childhood, running had carried him away from deceptions, from confinement and com shy;plexities. When he sprinted over desert or plain, when the wind took him up and carried him over dune and moon-dappled rise, when in the power of his stride he seemed to become the wind-only then could Fordus think clearly. He could cleanse his mind of the mys shy;tery of glyph and sand, of the prophecies that passed through him. When he ran, his blood pounding in his ears, he was purely, completely free.

Tonight Fordus outran the wind itself. Suddenly, with a dreamlike swiftness, he found himself cross shy;ing the dunes. The Red Plateau appeared on the far horizon, and from the rebel camp arose a faint array of lights.

He crowed with delight and ran even harder toward the widest expanse of the desert. The red moonlight bathed the landscape ahead, and soon he passed altogether from sight of the plateau, to a point in the desert where the hard red ground stretched in all directions, uninterrupted to the edge of the horizon.

All the while, Fordus had the strangest sense that something was running beside him. From the corner of his eye, he saw it, a black spot coursing over the moonlit desert floor. It stayed at the margins of his vision like a specter, like the dark moon rumored by astronomers and mages.

No matter how quickly he moved, the darkness kept precise pace.

Something in Fordus's fears told him that it was his, dream in pursuit, that somehow the golden warrior on the sunbaked ledge had ridden his thoughts into the waking world to follow him, to run him down.

He would not have that. His strides lengthened.

Across the desert they ranged, runner and shadow, their swift path turning toward the sunrise. Suddenly, as the full sun breasted the horizon, the shadow lurched toward Fordus. With a cry, he wheeled to meet it, throwing axe ready in his hand. The shadow loomed above him, transparent and faintly faceted, no more visible than heat wavering over the cooling sands. He saw, in its swirling depths, a pair of amber eyes.

Lidless and lifeless. Reptilian.

Never breaking stride, Fordus charged at the enemy. The shadow closed around him, blinding him, then suddenly it was sunlight and sand again, he was sailing in midair over a dune, the shadow was gone, and the ground had fallen away beneath him, just like in his dream.

Softer sand cushioned his fall, but it began to swirl beneath him as he tried to scramble to his feet. Clumsily, helplessly, he spiraled lower and lower into a funnel of slick sand, a whirlpool delivering him into a dark hole, a central pit.

In the heart of that pit, the morning sunlight glinted on a bulbous green eye, several sets of click shy;ing antennae, and a huge set of widely opened mandibles.

Springjaw! Fordus thought frantically, groping for another axe as the creature scuttled toward him hun shy;grily.