The Qualinesti

15 — The Fertile Seed

“Are you sure this is the way?”

Rufus Wrinklecap’s high voice split the cold night air. He, Verhanna, and Greenhands were following the steep, south-leading pathway up into the mountains. Verhanna had convinced Greenhands to let the kender take the lead to scout the narrow path for them. After some grumbling about having to walk instead of ride, Rufus complied. He quickly grew excited as he detected signs that others had passed along the trail very recently.

“Who were they?” asked Verhanna.

“Qualinesti, on shod horses,” the kender replied. He sniffed the scant hoofprints, barely indented in the stony soil. “Warriors. At least twenty of them.”

She scoffed, “How can you tell they were warriors?” Rufus stuck his small nose in the air. “I can smell their iron, my captain.”

Verhanna pondered the significance of the warriors’ presence. They surely weren’t hunting runaways from Pax Tharkas; Feldrin Feldspar had dwarven brigades to do such work. Intrigued, she moved on, following the kender.

Greenhands had barely spoken at all since they’d begun to climb. Not even the continued panorama of fiery comets overhead broke his profound silence.

At last they reached a small level patch on the upward slope, and Verhanna called a pause for rest.

Rufus dropped where he stood, worn out by his nose-to-the-ground scouting. Greenhands remained upright, his eyes fastened on the slope before them. Now he started off again. Verhanna, chewing on a piece of venison jerky, called him back.

“My father is near,” he replied, glancing back at her. “I must go.”

Wearily the warrior maiden dropped her half-eaten snack in her saddlebag. “Come on, Wart. His Majesty is going.”

“What’s the hurry?” complained the kender. Verhanna offered him a hand, and he swung onto the saddle pillion. “Where are we going? That’s all I want to know—and what’s the hurry?”

“Don’t ask me,” Verhanna said, clucking her tongue to urge the tired horse forward. “But I tell you this, Wart—If we don’t find something significant by sunrise, I’m turning back, and to Darkness with Greenhands!”

The trail made several sharp turns and climbed at an even greater rate, so that they lost sight of Greenhands, who was keeping some paces ahead of them. Verhanna and Rufus passed a deeply shadowed defile on their left, and the horse halted on its own. It danced and snorted, tossing its head and refusing to go on, no matter how Verhanna coaxed or used her spurs.

The sky went dark.

The sudden cessation of the darting stars was startling and left the landscape much blacker than before. No moons shone; only the glimmer of starlight illuminated their way.

Rufus tugged at Verhanna’s elbow. “The horse is calm now,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“No, wait. Don’t you feel it?”

Her voice was a whisper, and Verhanna sat stiff and still in the saddle.

“Feel what?” the kender asked impatiently.

“Like a storm is about to break….”

Rufus replied tartly that he felt nothing, and Verhanna touched her heels to the horse’s flanks. They went on. Around a turn, the sharp spire that was Black Stone Peak jutted into view, blotting out an area of stars.

“I feel cold,” said Rufus, wiggling closer to Verhanna’s back.

“I hear voices!” she hissed, and urged the horse to a brisker pace. Up the final stretch of trail, kender and warrior maiden rode hard. They burst onto a scene of frantic activity. A score of white faces turned to her, and she recognized them as fellow Guards of the Sun.

Kemian Ambrodel appeared out of the night. “Lady Verhanna!” he exclaimed. “This is amazing! How come you to be here?” He offered a gauntleted hand to her.

She shook his hand and said frankly, “My lord, I’m no less shocked to see you. My scout and I were led here by an extraordinary fellow, a tall, flaxen-haired elf we call Greenhands. He must’ve passed you only moments ago.”

“He is here. I put him aside, as we are too busy to deal with newcomers at present.” Kemian lifted his chin to indicate a boulder a few paces away. On it was seated the green-fingered elf. His attention was not directed at the warriors or Verhanna, but at Black Stone Peak.

Verhanna dismounted, and Rufus hopped to the ground behind her. “What’s going on here?” piped the kender.

The warriors were tying hank after hank of rope together. Most of it was in short lengths, used to tether horses on a picket line at night.

“Your father is in there,” Kemian said gravely, sweeping a hand toward the black spire of rock behind them. Quickly the young general sketched the situation.

“Will two extra pairs of hands help, my lord?” she asked.

Kemian grasped her shoulder. “More than help, lady.”

Verhanna and Rufus began tying what line they had to the end of the warriors’ supply. While thus engaged, they didn’t notice Greenhands slide off the boulder and walk straight up the ramp toward the caves in the spire. Rufus glimpsed him and shouted, “Hey!”

“Stop!” Kemian commanded. Greenhands was almost at the mouth of one of the cave openings. At any second, the awful wind would rise and sweep him back. It might also scatter their hard-won loops of rope. “Stop at once, I say!” bellowed Lord Ambrodel.

Greenhands spared a brief look at the elves and kender, then stepped into the opening. Kemian Ambrodel clenched his jaw, his body tensing in anticipation.

No wind boiled forth. The night was quiet and cold, and not a breath of breeze stirred.

Kemian gaped. “Who is this elf? A sorcerer?”

“A very strange fellow,” Rufus said. He struggled with the rope he was tying. It was thick and stiff. “He’s got all kinds of power, but he never works a spell.”

Lord Ambrodel looked to Verhanna. “Wart’s right,” she agreed. “If anybody can reach my father, this Greenhands can.”

“We can’t risk the Speaker’s life on some vagabond’s tricks. Get the rope ready!” barked Kemian.

The warriors gathered up the rope and hastened to the main tunnel mouth. Rufus had wrapped the tough rope around his small hands, the better to wrestle with a last knot, and he was dragged all the way to the base of the peak.

Kith-Kanan tapped the flat of his sword blade against the palm of his hand. Dru had made no sound or appearance in an hour or more, and the torches around the great circular room were burning out one by one. Half were gone when he heard the distant ring of shouting outside. He called up the tunnel in reply, but all was silence once more. The Speaker didn’t want to make too much noise for fear of encouraging Dru to think he despaired of his situation.

Ulvian lay completely immobile at Kith-Kanan’s feet. Father regarded son with mixed feelings. It was Ulvian’s willfulness and pride that had brought them here. He had not only dealt in slaves, but also had fled the Speaker’s justice and helped an evil sorcerer to escape. Yet Kith-Kanan’s expression softened as he watched him sleep, curled up on the floor like a harmless child. This was his son, the baby boy he and Suzine had rejoiced in. He might be fully grown, but his heart was as a child’s—a boy who adored his mother and seldom saw his father.

Tiredly Kith-Kanan rubbed his temples and tried not to dwell on what might have been.

“You are not alone.”

Kith-Kanan whirled. A quarter of the way around the room, a solitary elf stood. It wasn’t Dru. This elf was tall, fair-haired, young. He wore a rough horsehair poncho and leather trews. His gaze on Kith-Kanan was intense.

“Who are you?” demanded the Speaker, stepping over Ulvian. “Is this another of your guises, Drulethen?”

The stranger didn’t respond. Instead, he continued to regard Kith-Kanan with an unsettling stare. His face bore such a look of rapt joy that the Speaker was momentarily distracted from his own worry. With a shake, as if coming to himself suddenly, Kith-Kanan lifted his sword point a bit higher and demanded, “Answer me!”

“Who are you?”

“I am Greenhands. At least, that’s what my captain calls me.”

“Green—” Kith-Kanan’s eyes traveled downward, noticing the colored fingers for the first time. The room was growing dimmer as more of the torches flickered and died, but the grassy hue of the elf’s hands was plainly visible.

“How did you get in here? Why didn’t the wind blow you out?” asked the Speaker sharply.

“I simply walked in. I have been looking for you for a long time.” The stranger moved a few paces closer, and a smile lightened his face. “You are my father.”

Kith-Kanan was taken aback. His first reaction to this astonishing statement was puzzlement. If this was some trick of the sorcerer’s, what was its purpose? Perhaps this elf was some feeble-minded innocent, a dupe of Drulethen’s.

Again Greenhands moved nearer to the one for whom he had searched. Kith-Kanan’s shifting thoughts were stilled as he looked into the strange elf’s eyes. They were brilliantly, shiningly green, brighter than the clearest emeralds. His face seemed familiar somehow—the fulllipped mouth, the high forehead, the shape of his nose. It reminded the Speaker of…Kith-Kanan rocked back on his heels, stunned by the thought that had exploded across his mind. Anaya! The tall elf reminded him of Anaya. The features, the eyes, were identical, even his green-tinged skin. Anaya’s skin had changed just so when she had begun her transformation into a mighty oak. Lowering his sword, he moved forward to meet Greenhands halfway, near the now cold firepit. Their height was identical.

“Hello, Father,” Greenhands said happily.

Kith-Kanan couldn’t believe what he saw. It seemed impossible, yet he only had to look at this young elf to see his amazing resemblance to Anaya, to know that he spoke the truth. Somehow, by some miracle, his and Anaya’s son had come here, to Black Stone Peak.

The Speaker’s voice was uncertain, so strong were the emotions that gripped him. “Your coming was foretold to me centuries ago,” he whispered. “Only I did not understand then….” He lifted a shaking hand to touch Greenhands’ face. The elf smiled broadly, and Kith-Kanan enveloped him in a warm embrace. “My son!”

The happy moment was brief. Danger remained all around them. Kith-Kanan wiped away the tears that dampened his cheek and held Greenhands out at arm’s length.

There was a rush of air overhead, a beating of unseen wings. Alarmed, Kith-Kanan stood back and raised his sword. Only a quarter of the torches in the room still burned, and in the half-light he saw a winged thing circle and dip in and out of the fitful light.

“Son, do you carry a weapon?” he asked, swiftly donning his helmet.

Greenhands held out empty arms. “No, Father.”

The Speaker kicked among the debris on the floor. The winged creature swooped near him, and he slashed hard at it, missing. The beast soared away, and Kith-Kanan squatted long enough to pick up a stout piece of wood, a leg broken from a dining table.

“Take this,” he said, tossing it to Greenhands. “If anything comes at you, hit it!”

An eerie laugh floated through the chamber. Kith-Kanan glanced at Ulvian. The prince was still unconscious. Overhead, the laugh sounded again.

“A fine weapon for a fine-looking warrior,” said Drulethen. His voice caromed off the stone walls, making it difficult to determine where he was. “A worthy addition to the House of Silvanos!”

“Indeed he is,” Kith-Kanan retorted. “He got in past your spells, didn’t he?”

“How do you know I didn’t let him in intentionally? I’m collecting royal Qualinesti!” he snarled nastily.

With hand gestures, Kith-Kanan indicated that Greenhands should go around the other side of the chamber, away from him. The elf complied with commendable stealth. Kith-Kanan edged away from the unconscious Ulvian and talked to distract Drulethen.

“Well, great sorcerer, what do you intend to do with us?” he called out.

“My amulet. One of you is going to give me the other half of my amulet if I have to torture each of you in turn to convince you to do so.” The sorcerer’s voice had fixed in one place. Kith-Kanan peered at an upright, though broken, chair. A tall shadow had appeared there. He lowered his sword so the blade wouldn’t gleam in the remaining torchlight.

“You cannot win, Drulethen. Ulvian might have helped you, but I will see to it you never have the amulet,” he vowed. He stepped gingerly over some smashed crates, moving as silently as possible.

“Ulvian! That idle, untrustworthy wretch? He’ll be the first to go, mark my words. I shall enjoy his torment.”

Kith-Kanan’s left shoulder bumped the wall. He was under one of the burned-out torches, and he slipped it from its bracket and sidled over to the next one, which still barely burned. He lit the stump and rushed toward the broken chair. As he did, the light from his brand fell upon Dru.

The Speaker froze in midstride, horrified. The thing perched on the chair was not an elf, nor was it a bird. It had golden-brown wings with red-tipped feathers, but instead of falcon’s claws, two white elven hands gripped the back of the chair. Instead of a falcon’s noble head, the thing was topped by a horrid mix, part elven, part bird. Dru’s face and head bore feathers where hair had been. His eyes were large and black, like a falcon’s, but set in elven eye sockets surmounted by feathery brows. Most hideous of all, instead of a nose, a large horny beak protruded from Dru’s face.

“You see,” hissed the sorcerer, “how much I need the rest of my amulet. The ring is the more powerful half, but it lacks refinement and control.” He shuddered and hunched his head down between his shoulders. The awful face seemed to reflect a spasm of pain. “I find I can’t control my transformations without the cylinder.” The bizarre white fingers flexed over the broken chair’s thick arm. “This is the last time I shall ask—give it to me!”

In reply, Kith-Kanan hurled the torch at the monster and lunged with his sword. Dru launched himself into the air, overturning the chair. He avoided Kith-Kanan’s attack, but he didn’t see Greenhands standing close by in the shadows, motionless. As he passed by, Greenhands swung his crude club. His strength was considerable, but his skill was not, and the blow was only a glancing one.

Nevertheless, Dru was sent spinning, to land in a flurry of loose feathers on the other side of the chamber, near Ulvian. “Get him! Don’t let him get up!” the Speaker cried.

He outran Greenhands to the fallen sorcerer, and he prodded the strange creature with his sword tip, ordering him to stand and surrender. The pile of feathers writhed and shifted, and a piercing shriek rose up from them. Greenhands arrived, and before their astonished eyes, the sorcerer changed shape once more.

The body of the bird lengthened, and the wings shriveled into feather-covered arms. Dru pushed himself onto his back and cried out again in agony. The beak on his white face and his black falcon’s eyes remained the same. Feathers covered the rest of his body.

“Stand up!” Kith-Kanan ordered again.

“I—I cannot,” the sorcerer wheezed. Sweat ran down his grotesque face in rivulets, and his body shook as if palsied. “I am—undone.”

Just then Ulvian groaned and shifted on the stone floor. He moved to push himself up, inadvertently distracting Kith-Kanan. In a flash, the supposedly exhausted sorcerer had tripped Kith-Kanan. The Speaker went down hard. Before anyone could draw another breath, Drulethen’s fingers locked around the Speaker’s throat.

The sorcerer stood, dragging Kith-Kanan to his feet.

Blood roared in the Speaker’s ears. The fantastic figure of the sorcerer was lost as Kith-Kanan’s vision was suffused with a red haze. He tore at the hands that were throttling him, but Dru’s grip was like iron.

“I know you have it!” he shrieked, shaking the Speaker violently. “Give me my amulet!”

Just as Kith-Kanan was losing consciousness, there was a crash and a scream. He felt himself falling, falling, until the hard floor met his back. He rolled aside, gasping, and let his vision clear. When he tried to grab for his sword, just out of easy reach, a wave of dizziness brought him down.

Greenhands was grappling with Dru. The sorcerer wasn’t as strong as the Speaker’s son, but he was infinitely more cunning. Twisting his body and breaking Greenhands’ grip, Drulethen managed to wrest the table leg club from him. The thick pine flashed down and snapped across Greenhands’ shoulders. He went reeling. Shouting with triumph, Dru picked up the Speaker’s sword, put its tip to Kith-Kanan’s throat, and felt in his clothing until he located the other half of the amulet. Kith-Kanan had secreted it beneath the breastplate of his armor.

“Ah!” Dru said, taking the black cylinder in his hand. “At last!”

“What’s happening?” Ulvian asked, pulling himself up to a sitting position. His short sleep had left him confused.

Dru had moved away. Kith-Kanan crept on hands and knees to his son. “Drulethen,” he managed to gasp.

“Father,” said Greenhands, moving stiffly to join them, “the evil one is changing again.”

Kith-Kanan staggered to his feet, retrieved his sword, and turned to face Drulethen. The sorcerer was across the room. He’d fitted the cylinder into the onyx ring he wore around his neck, and now the complete amulet dangled against his chest. His face was slowly swelling and turning purple; his feather-covered limbs were growing longer and more muscular. A slow laugh escaped his twisted lips.

“What a bargain,” he rumbled from deep in his throat. “A thousand years of power for a thousand years of servitude. That’s the deal I made with Hiddukel.” A loud snapping and cracking sounded. Dru clapped his hands to his head and howled with pain. “Now that I have my amulet whole again, the world shall tremble at my name!”

Hard, pointed plates erupted through the skin of Dru’s back. The feathers on his body dropped away as a thick tail, covered with scales, grew visibly before the elves’ astonished eyes. The sorcerer’s elven form grew and grew, hardening and thickening, until a winged, scaly monster filled the cavern deep inside Black Stone Peak.

Ulvian dragged himself close to his father. “By the gods,” he gasped, “he’s become a dragon!”

“No…a wyvern,” Kith-Kanan said. “Just like the one he rode before, terrorizing the countryside.”

The wyvern reared up twenty feet tall, green-black and glistening. Its catlike eyes were a poisonous yellow, and from its fanged jaws flicked a blood-red tongue. Horns sprouted from its head. For a moment, it looked wonderingly at its own ivory-clawed forepaws, then its wicked gaze returned to the three grouped beyond the center firepit.

“We must get out of here,” Ulvian wheezed.

“If we can. The wind spell may not let us,” answered his father. Kith-Kanan flexed both hands around the handle of his sword. He had little hope of getting close enough to kill the wyvern before it mauled him to death. He glanced at his newest son. “Greenhands can get out, though,” he said.

Ulvian looked at the unknown, white-haired elf before him. There was no time for questions or answers, as the wyvern opened its hooked, leathery beak and hissed a challenge.

“Spread out and try the tunnels!” Kith-Kanan ordered.

The prince started for the nearest passage. His limbs felt strangely leaden. To his surprise, no blast of air came out of the passage to bar his way. He ducked his head and disappeared into the tunnel.

“Go!” Kith-Kanan urged Greenhands. “Save yourself!”

“I will stay and help you, ” he resolved. “I am strong.”

The wyvern rushed the Speaker. Kith-Kanan backpedaled, slashing his sword back and forth to ward off the monster. From the side, Greenhands pried loose a paving stone in the floor and hurled it with all his might. The monster roared and hissed like a hundred boiling kettles as its left wing went limp. Its tail lashed out and swept Greenhands off his feet. The spearlike tail tip thrust at him, but the elf caught it in his hands and flung it back.

Kith-Kanan’s sword scored a bloody line down the monster’s torso. The wyvern returned its attention to the Speaker of the Sun. An iron-hard claw caught him in the chest driving all the wind from him. Had he not been wearing armor, every bone in his chest would have been crushed. Kith-Kanan hurtled back. The wyvern’s claw came down, but the Speaker drove his sword straight through the monster’s paw, pushing and pushing until black blood flooded down the blade. The wyvern bellowed in pain and snatched its claw back, taking the Speaker’s sword with it.

Kith-Kanan shouted at Greenhands that now was the time to flee. Then he himself backed into one of the tunnels. The monster was shaking its injured claw, finally dislodging the sword from it. As the Speaker disappeared into the tunnel, the wyvern snaked its neck down and thrust it into the opening. Kith-Kanan retreated out of reach.

The wyvern turned on Greenhands, the only remaining target. The green-fingered elf was markedly unafraid, and he dodged nimbly about the chamber, throwing enormous pieces of stone at the monster. From the tunnel, Kith-Kanan shouted over and over for him to abandon the room, to make his escape.

Greenhands fought on. The power that had made him and given him great strength had also bestowed upon him lightning-fast reflexes and an instinctive knowledge of how to hurt the beast. After one near miss by the wyvern’s snapping beak, Greenhands found himself flat against the curving wall. A torch bracket was by his ear, and he reached up and snapped the black iron holder off the wall. The holder was ringed with iron spikes. With sufficient force, the points could pierce the wyvern’s skull.

Kith-Kanan saw his newfound son leap at the monster. The wyvern’s tail slashed around, destroying the last few burning torches in the room. Darkness seized the scene, though Kith-Kanan could still hear the sounds of the struggle. Now and then the iron bracket held by Greenhands would scrape on stone, and a fount of red sparks flared.

The wyvern howled—in pain or victory? Kith-Kanan couldn’t tell. He had taken a step back toward the room when the smell and sound of the monster filled the end of the passage. It hissed at him and began to force its way in. Only its yellow eyes, each as big as the Speaker’s head, shone in the darkness.

“Try it again! Come on, put your backs into it!”

Verhanna, Rufus, and the warriors braced themselves against the back of a giant boulder, which they had managed to lever out of the mountainside. The scavenged rope was webbed about the rock, and now they were trying to roll it into the cave opening through which Kemian had heard the Speaker’s voice. The boulder refused to budge more than an inch at a time.

“Weaklings!” Verhanna stormed, fear for her father manifesting itself in fury. And fear for Greenhands, to whom she owed her life. “You aren’t true Guards of the Sun! The Speaker is in danger!”

Kemian snapped, “We know that! Do you think—?”

“Shh! Hear that?” Rufus said, interrupting Lord Ambrodel.

Strange sounds filtered out from the tunnel opening into the early morning air. They sounded like footsteps. Someone was coming out. The sun was a sliver on the eastern horizon, brightening the scene. Verhanna pushed forward to peer inside.

A slim figure staggered into view.

“Ulvian!” she exclaimed.

“Help!” he gasped. Two elves rushed forward to aid him. They supported him to the boulder and gently let him down. “Dru—he’s become a wyvern! He’s got both parts of the amulet!”

“Where’s the Speaker?” demanded Kemian.

Ulvian closed his eyes and let his head sag against the rock. “Isn’t he here?”

“No.” Verhanna spat. “Neither is Greenhands!”

Kemian prodded the prince. “You left the Speaker to face a full-grown wyvern?”

“He told me to leave!”

The warriors and kender stared down at him. His face was still bruised from his beatings at the hands of the grunt gang, but his limbs were whole. Somewhere in the rear of the band, the word “coward” found voice.

Verhanna turned to Kemian. “The wind spell must be broken. We don’t need the boulder and rope anymore. Let’s go!”

“Wait. We can’t just rush in. We must plan our attack!”

Kemian paused, then added more calmly, “Half will go in, the other half will stay and watch for the Speaker or Greenhands to emerge.”

All except Ulvian volunteered to be in the contingent that went inside. In the end, Kemian made the choices. The attacking party included himself and Verhanna, who made it plain she was going in whether or not he chose her. She ordered Rufus to remain outside.

“But why? I haven’t ever seen a wyvern before,” he complained.

“Because I said so, that’s why. And I pay you.” She glanced at Ulvian, who sat leaning against the boulder, eyes closed. “You can guard Prince Ulvian,” she said contemptuously. “He’s an escaped prisoner, after all.”

Chagrined, the kender watched half the warriors file into the yawning cave. He shifted from one foot to the other, looking from the tunnel mouth to the remaining elves. They were as anxious as he to be part of the fight, but they stayed where they were, tense and expectant.

When the last elf entered the tunnel, Rufus could stand it no longer. He sprinted to an adjacent opening and promptly collided with Kith-Kanan. “Your Mightiness!” burst out the kender. “We thought you were monster food!”

“Not yet, my friend. The beast is about twenty paces behind me.”

“Yow!”

The kender darted around the Speaker to get a better look. The morning sun sent a roseate beam down the shaft, lighting the crawling monster’s head and serpentine neck. Its mouth opened and a shrieking hiss reverberated down the passage.

“So that’s a wyvern,” Rufus said matter-of-factly.

“You’ll get a much closer view if you don’t get out of the way,” Kith-Kanan stated. Kender and elf moved quickly away.

Kith-Kanan saw Ulvian scrambling to his feet by the rope-bound boulder. He also spied the unhappy warriors Kemian had left behind.

“Warriors! Get your weapons! The wyvern is coming!”

The ten elves ran to their horses and mounted, taking their lances from the conical pile they’d been arranged in. The wyvern’s head snaked out of the cavern opening. It saw Kith-Kanan and hissed in outrage.

“Go in and fetch Lord Ambrodel,” Kith-Kanan ordered the kender. Rufus saluted and dashed inside a tunnel.

A warrior brought Kith-Kanan a horse and lance. The tired, battered Speaker climbed into the saddle and couched his lance. The monster’s forelegs were free of the passage and it was wriggling the rest of its body out. The disk of the sun cleared the eastern mountains. The sky was bright blue.

The lancers charged the monster in ragged formation before it could get its wings, legs, and tail free. The first warriors scored hits on the wyvern’s exposed chest, but it snapped its beak over their lance shafts and tossed the elves aside like dolls. One was thrown over the edge of the plateau, to vanish in the deep gorge below. A second was hurled against Black Stone Peak and slid to the ground dead, his neck broken.

“For Qualinesti!” Kith-Kanan shouted, charging forward.

Pushing with its powerful hind legs, the, monster freed its wings. One of the leathery flying limbs hung limp, injured by Greenhands in the chamber; the other swept to and fro, upsetting horses and blinding riders. Kith-Kanan buried his lance in the wyvern’s neck but was knocked from his horse. Two warriors shielded him from the enraged beast. The wyvern snatched the closest in both foreclaws and shook him as a terrier worries a rat, then hurled his lifeless body to the ground. The other warrior succeeded in driving his lance through the monster’s uninjured wing. The elf let go of the weapon, turned his horse in a fast circle, and offered a hand to the fallen Speaker. Sore but spry, Kith-Kanan mounted behind the warrior.

The wyvern bled from half a dozen wounds and both its wings were damaged, but its strength hardly seemed diminished by the time it worked its legs free. The warriors drew off a short way on the lower plateau in order to form ranks and charge again. Kith-Kanan took the horse of a fallen fighter.

“Try to get behind it,” he told the elves. “I’ll try to distract it.” The warriors settled into tight ranks. “Now!”

They galloped at the beast, then split into two columns and surrounded the wyvern. It lashed out from side to side with its barbed tail, slaying elf and horse alike. The great beast suffered more wounds, but no one came close to piercing its heart. Kith-Kanan dueled furiously with its beaked head, slashing with his sword at the ugly, snapping mouth. At one point, the wyvern caught the crest of his helmet. Kith-Kanan frantically tore at the strap buckle, releasing it before the wyvern could tear his head off.

“Fall back!” he shouted. “Fall back!”

Four warriors were able to comply. The other six were either dead or seriously wounded.

The monster let out a howl and stamped its feet. It flung the bodies of fallen warriors at Kith-Kanan and the survivors, a hideous gesture of contempt. Panting, sweating in the chill mountain air, the warriors clustered around their Speaker.

“We must kill it!” Kith-Kanan said grimly. “Otherwise its wings will heal, and it will be able to fly away.”

A sharp whistle caught the Speaker’s ear. He looked up at the peak, toward the source of the sound, and saw Rufus Wrinklecap, Verhanna, and some of the warriors who had entered the cave. They were standing in several higher tunnel mouths, forty feet above the Speaker.

Verhanna raised a hand, and the warriors in the caves began to shower the beast with stones and debris from inside the peak. The wyvern hissed loudly and leapt at them. Even with numerous lance wounds, it was able to jump three-quarters of the distance to the caves. On the third such leap, the monster dug its four clawed feet into the rocks and clung there. With its injured wings tightly furled against its body, the wyvern started to climb.

Kith-Kanan’s heart leapt when he spied Greenhands at one of the cave openings. His son lived, praise the gods! In his hands, he held a loop of rope. All the others in the high caves had weapons of some kind, but not Greenhands. What was he up to?

The Speaker and the remaining elves on horseback sat ready, lances couched. Slowly the beast clawed its way up the peak, its talons leaving gray streaks on the black rock. Loose stones and pieces of Drulethen’s furniture thudded off its head and body from above. Thick, horny eyelids blinked shut every time an object hurtled at the wyvern’s eyes. Sword in hand, Kemian appeared in the tunnel mouth next to Greenhands.

“The monster will cut them to pieces in those tunnels,” said one of the mounted warriors. “Shouldn’t we go in and help them?”

“Stand your ground,” Kith-Kanan said sternly. “Lord Ambrodel knows what he’s doing.” In fact, the Speaker was extremely worried, but he had to trust his general’s judgment.

Greenhands leaned far out of the cave opening, the loop of rope in his hand. The wyvern was only a few feet below, its attention on those hurling debris at it. The others suddenly ceased their attacks and withdrew deeper into their caves. Hissing and howling, the wyvern raised its head to see what they were doing and Greenhands dropped the loop of rope over its head, like a herder roping a wild bull. He and Kemian leaned hard on the rope, and it pulled taut around the monster’s neck. The wyvern flung its head from side to side, trying to break the line. When that failed, it snapped its jaws in a vain attempt to catch the rope in them.

The beast decided to continue on in the direction it was being pulled. Greenhands and Kemian disappeared inside the tunnel just as the wyvern reached their level. The long, green-black neck snaked into the cave. All at once, the wyvern’s four legs were scrabbling furiously on the peak and at the tunnel mouth, trying to find purchase. Its hideous shrieking cry echoed through the mountains. The massive muscles in its back arched as it tried to pull its head out of the tunnel. Kith-Kanan’s breath caught when he saw blood washing out of the cave.

The violent scratching of the monster’s limbs continued for a moment, and then it fell. The enormous beast hit the ground, and the impact shook the earth all around. Its legs continued to thrash and claw at nothing, and Kith-Kanan saw why. The wyvern had left its head inside Black Stone Peak.

They kept away from the raging, headless corpse until its dark blood had all leaked out. Its legs continued to twitch slightly. Kith-Kanan rode forward and drove his lance through the monster’s heart. That put an end once and for all to the wyvern, and it lay unmoving.

Verhanna emerged with Rufus and the other warriors. Kith-Kanan asked, “Where’s Greenhands? And Lord Ambrodel?”

“Here!” came the shout from above. Kith-Kanan looked up. Greenhands stood at the high cave entrance. He was covered with blood and held the head of the wyvern in both hands. As everyone watched, he hurled the head to the ground.

When Greenhands came out of Black Stone Peak, he moved slowly, carrying Lord Ambrodel in his arms. Two warriors came and relieved him of his burden.

“What happened?” asked Kith-Kanan, rushing to his son’s side.

“The creature smashed him against the wall,” Greenhands replied softly. “He has something broken….” The green-fingered elf’s legs folded beneath him, and he would have dropped to the ground but for his father’s quick arms.

Verhanna ran to them. “He breathes,” she reported anxiously. “I think he just passed out.”

“No wonder,” observed Rufus. “After seeing Lord Kemian cut that monster’s head off!”

The young general coughed and lifted a feeble hand, “No,” he said in a scratchy voice. “I didn’t kill the monster. He did.”

The wounded were cared for, and the dead were placed on a funeral pyre. Six young elf warriors had died in the fight, and Lord Ambrodel’s life was hanging in the balance. Rufus bathed Greenhands with a bucket of water and found that, for all the black blood on him, he hadn’t any wounds at all.

The wyvern’s body was too heavy to move, so they piled what tinder they could find against it where it lay. The broken furniture from inside the peak proved useful, as did the lamp oil. Soon the beast was in the center of a roaring bonfire. As the sun passed its zenith, coils of oily black smoke darkened the sky, spreading an evil smell over the high mountains.

That deed done, the warriors dropped into an exhausted slumber. Kith-Kanan drew Ulvian and Verhanna a little away from the group.

“I have some news for you,” he began, feeling a little uncertain how to go on.

Ulvian tensed. Verhanna glanced at him and then back at the Speaker. “What is it, Father?” she asked, her face serious.

Kith-Kanan looked toward Greenhands, who’d been sleeping since his battle with the wyvern. A feeling of tenderness warmed the Speaker’s heart. Anaya’s son. This elf was his and Anaya’s son.

“I suppose there’s no other way to say it than simply to say it,” he said briskly. “Ullie, Hanna…Greenhands is my son.”

Verhanna’s jaw dropped in shock, but Ulvian’s face remained as still as stone. Only the brightness of his hazel eyes betrayed his surprise.

“He’s your what?” Verhanna exploded. Kith-Kanan passed a weary hand across his brow. “You deserve the whole story. I know you do. Just now, though, I am weary to the bone,” their father sighed. “Greenhands is the son of my first wife, a Kagonesti. I think the marvels of these last days were signs of his coming.” He put a gentle hand on Verhanna’s arm and was surprised to feel her trembling. “I know it’s a shock, Hanna. It was to me, too. I’ll explain everything later, I promise. It’s been an eventful day.”

With a fond pat on her cheek, the Speaker moved back among the sleeping warriors. He lay down near Greenhands, and in no time he was gently snoring.

Verhanna was astonished. Her brother! Greenhands was her brother! All at once, the absurdity of the situation struck her. After not thinking of marriage for centuries, now she chose a mate who turned out to be her own brother! The warrior maiden vented her spleen on a handy boulder, kicking the rock with all her might. All she succeeded in doing was making her foot sore. She simply couldn’t think about this right now. She was worn out from battle and from all the worrying she’d done on behalf of her father and Green—her half-brother. Gods, it was too unbelievable!

The warrior woman stalked back to camp. At the edge of the sleeping mob, near the unconscious Kemian Ambrodel, she dropped down and slept.

Ulvian had also been surprised by his father’s announcement. This unknown bumpkin, a son of Kith-Kanan? It was a startling bit of news. But the prince had too many worries of his own to waste much effort wondering how he had come to acquire a half-brother. He, too, lay down to sleep, but sleep was longer in coming. His mind was filled with thoughts of what his immediate future might hold. Some hours later, Prince Ulvian awoke with a start.

“Who is it?” he said. “Who’s calling?”

He glanced around. The sun was low in the western sky, and its orange rays showed him the kender nearby. Rufus was curled into a ball, fast asleep, giving vent to his unique, high-pitched snores. The rest of the group also slumbered on. Just above them floated smoke from the funeral pyres, like a cloud of remembered evil. Ulvian grimaced at the smell and wondered how they had all managed to sleep in such a vile place.

Once more the prince heard the voice. It was soft and low, a feminine voice, he thought. It seemed to be coming from the direction of the largest fire, at the base of the peak. Ulvian rose and walked in that direction. Heat shimmered off the bed of coals. The voice, a faint whisper barely louder than the hiss of the dying flames spoke to him.

A stack of charred wood collapsed, sending sparks up into the cold, twilight sky. Ulvian listened to the voice and answered, “How can I reach you? The fire is still hot.”

The voice told him. The words entered his head like smoke wafting into his nose. The words were caressing, the tone melodic and resonant. His tired, aching limbs seemed imbued with strength. Belief flooded his mind. He could do it. The voice said so, and it was true.

Looking into the charred remains ahead, from where the voice seemed to emanate, Ulvian strode into the cinders. His bare feet pressed down on glowing coals, yet he did not cry out. So great was his desire to find the source of the silver-toned voice that he no longer took notice of where he walked. In the center of the pyre, he found it. Thrusting his hand into the ashes and charred bones of the wyvern, the prince found the onyx amulet. Heat had fused the two pieces together. Now they could never be taken apart.

The voice spoke again, and Ulvian nodded. Though the amulet was still hot, he put it into his pocket and walked out of the fire. In minutes, he had fallen asleep once more. Though smeared with soot, neither his hand nor his feet were burned.