The Rose and the Skull

17

Four draconians, their clawed feet bruised and bleeding, scrambled among the rocks and boulders of one of the most barren and forlorn regions any of them had ever seen. Every broken stone and pebble seemed sharper than the obsidian blades and arrowheads of Abanasinian warriors, every bush was a thorn bush, every vine a tangleroot, every stunted tree spiked with needles or prickly with splinters.

The one in the lead was the smallest of the four. A baaz draconian, his scales had a brassy golden hue, and he bore two ram-like horns curling from his sinister reptilian head. He wore a dirty green cloak thrown over his folded wings, as though he were a ranger or scout. The next two had scales of a coppery tint and wore tight-fitting outfits of blackened leather designed to allow full range of motion both to their limbs and to the batlike wings sprouting from their backs. These kapaks, as they were called, were larger than their baaz companion, and they pushed him relentlessly with their taunts and venomous comments. The fourth of the group was the largest. His reptilian scales glimmered with a silvery sheen, glaringly reflecting the light of the midday sun. He wore armor of chain and plate specifically designed to fit his draconic body. A long, heavy sword was slung across his back between his wings. He was a sivak, one of the most powerful of all draconian races.

They were following a trail that seemed little more than an ancient wash in the grim and waterless mountains surrounding them. Perhaps it was a goat path, though no goats were to be seen. They had not seen another living creature since the sun rose over this accursed land. They stumbled wearily along, stones turning under their feet, slippery shale sliding away beneath them and bringing them to their knees again and again, snarling at each other, spitting curses with each breath.

"There's nothing here!" one of the kapaks growled.

"This is the way," the sivak answered in an even tone. "Krass has been here many times in the two years since we arrived on this island. Isn't that right, Krass?"

The baaz wearily nodded his head.

"I think Krass is lost," the kapak said. "Why would his lordship live out here in this barren waste, when he has all of Mount Nevermind to do with as he pleases?"

"You have answered your own question, Dreg," the sivak said. "The gnomes of Mount Nevermind give him no peace."

"Rebels?" the kapak, Dreg, asked.

"No, tinkers. They're always poking and prodding at him, trying to find out how he works. He can't kill them all. He's tried. They're worse than gully dwarves," the sivak said.

As they topped a small, razorback ridge, the baaz scout stopped and pointed into the valley on the other side. Clambering up next to him, the other draconians saw a wide, low-roofed cave yawning blackly from the opposite hillside. A tendril of oily smoke streamed from the upper lip of the opening.

"There it is," the sivak gasped while pressing a fist into his cramping side. "Pyrothraxus's lair."

They scrambled down the side of the ridge and up the opposite hillside, finally reaching the mouth of the cave just before dark. From this point, by looking south down a long valley, they could see the summit of Mount Nevermind blushed with pink from the setting sun. The long shadows of the hills had followed them down the ridge, until now they stood in a peculiar half-light, where every boulder and stone stood out in stark relief, as though cut from paper, while the entrance to the cave was a dark and misty hole, without depth.

The gleaming yellow bones of dozens upon dozens of creatures-men, beasts, gnomes, and dwarves-lay strewn about the mouth of the cave, relics of the insatiable appetite of the dragon of Mount Nevermind. Three years ago he'd come in a storm. He'd conquered the ancient mountain city of the gnomes in a single day-much to his own chagrin. Those who should have trembled in his presence instead prodded him with questions or worse. They slipped into his lair while he was sleeping and stuck him with stovepipe-sized needles attached to steam-driven syringes. They begged him to breathe fire on them so they could test their newest flame-retardant fabrics. Where was the joy in destroying creatures who cared so little for their own destruction? They, in fact, measured and recorded the manner and level of their own destruction! Such were the circumstances which drove Pyrothraxus to seek safety in a cave unworthy of his tremendous importance, a cave barely large enough to hold his beloved bed of treasure, much less his gargantuan self.

Still, the entrance to the cave was large enough to sail a ship through. As the draconians entered the cathedralsized chamber, they were awed by its size and more so by the huge gouges in the solid rock of the floor, evidence of the dragon's passing. There was little among dragonkind which could impress a draconian, but the ungodly size of Pyrothraxus, as well as that of the other new dragons from across the sea, filled them with wonder and just a little fear. They walked cautiously, reverently, holding their collective breaths, drawn by the thought of what awaited them within the cave. They stepped inside.

The dim light from the twilight outside was enough to illuminate the mountain of gold and steel that rose before them. Never in all their lives had they dreamed of such wealth. The sight of it was almost a religious experience, stirring them to the very core of their draconic souls. It rose like a great ocean wave, bearing upon its crest two entire ships! Gems gleamed like stars, in color, in light, and in countless multitudes. The wealth of half a world lay before them… unguarded!

"His lordship doesn't appear to be home," Dreg whispered with a hiss.

Before anyone could answer, there was a bone-crunching thud. Droplets spattered them. A second crunch sounded hollowly from above. Staring up, they saw a reptilian head as large as a two-masted galleon gulping down the remnants of Dreg. The three remaining draconians cowered in terror.

"Lord Pyrothraxus, we come bearing tidings from Master Iulus," the sivak hurriedly explained.

The huge head turned to gaze down upon them, its red eyes glowing like two dwarven forges. A gout of flame shot from one barrel-sized nostril, illuminating their upturned faces. The sivak, glancing around, spotted a niche in the passage, which might offer some protection.

"A kapak!" the huge dragon boomed, his voice shaking stones loose from the walls. "Kapaks give me indigestion."

One massive claw splashed ringingly in the coins nearby, followed by another. The dragon pulled itself off its ledge above the entrance to the cave and slithered down to the bed of treasure. The underbelly, passing so near and hugely round, radiated heat that dried the moisture from their mouths and eyes. Last of all came the great serpentine tail, as long again as its entire body, head, and neck. It settled onto the coins and began to bubble and purr, stoking the fires in its belly and filling the chamber with a sourceless red glow.

"What have you brought?" the dragon asked, bored.

"Tidings, O most puissant lord. Gunthar uth Wistan is dead," the sivak declared.

"Brilliant, General Zen!" Pyrothraxus roared. "Most excellent news indeed." He lifted his head and shot a victorious gout of flame splashing against the roof. Gobbets of molten rock rained down. "So the plan is proceeding?"

"He knows you, my general?" the baaz asked the sivak.

"I first negotiated with his lordship for permission to build our castle in his territory," General Zen answered. "In exchange for protecting us from the prying eyes of the south, we promised to give him the Solamnics' lands when they are won." Then to the dragon, he shouted, "Everything is ready, Your Eminence."

"It is all working out exactly as you promised, General Zen," Pyrothraxus laughed. The volume of his voice set ripples flowing through the sea of coins.

"Indeed it is, my lord Pyrothraxus. In fact-" the sivak began, but his thoughts, and the attention of the dragon, were interrupted by the chiming of a small silver bell.

"What is that noise?" Pyrothraxus asked.

The sivak cursed under his breath. "A magical device, my lord, for communicating over long distances. One of our agents in the south-"

"Answer it," Pyrothraxus demanded, the fires in his eyes flaring.

After one final moment of hesitation, Zen reached into a pouch at his belt and removed a large silver hand mirror. As he did so, it rang again, more loudly this time. He waved one clawed hand over its surface three times while fingering the strange designs carved on its handle. The reflective surface of the mirror dulled, then went black. A face appeared, hazy, almost indistinguishable.

"What do you want?" Zen hissed.

"The gully dwarf hassss essscaped," came a tiny, metallic voice from the mirror.

"Very well. Continue your search. Report when you find something," Zen hurriedly ordered.

"What gully dwarf?" Pyrothraxus asked.

"The one who witnessssssed Gunthar'sssss death," answered the voice from the mirror.

"Shaeder!" Zen shouted as he ducked into the niche he'd spotted earlier.

"What!" Pyrothraxus roared. An explosion slammed Zen into the wall of the niche, and flames licked at his ankle spurs and wing tips. It continued unabated, unbearable heat scorching every inch of his flesh. The stone around him began to steam and then to flake away. He felt a scream escaping his mouth, but no sound of it reached his ears. The dragon fire consumed everything-breath, flesh, the very will to live. Only the stone of the living mountain protected him, barely.

Finally, the fire and deafening noise ended. His hoarse scream echoed in the suddenly silent chamber. Collecting himself, Zen grew quiet. The voice from the mirror whined, "I'm getting some interference on my end."

He listened, but dared not leave the protective niche.

"You can come out now, Zen," the dragon purred. "I promise not to kill you, for now."

Warily, Zen stepped out. Pyrothraxus eyed him sleepily, but the fires glinting behind his lowered lids showed that his anger remained. On the floor where the baaz and the other kapak had stood, not an ash, not a mote of dust remained to show that they'd even been there. Steam rose from the rocks. As the mountain began to cool, it cracked and groaned as though in pain.

"Find this gully dwarf," Pyrothraxus said. The calmness of his voice only made it seem all the more sinister. "If your plans are discovered, I won't protect you or the Knights who recruited you to do their dirty work. If you fail, rest assured, someone will pay!"

Uhoh and his companions did indeed stay with Nalvarre two days. They stayed two and two and two, until it seemed the food might run out after all.

After the first day, he learned not to leave the gully dwarves unsupervised in the house while he was gone in search of food. They would attack nearly everything that was even marginally chewable, even the leather hinges on the cupboard doors. They were worse than goats. Nalvarre had never approved of locks, but for the time being, he rigged a simple bolt to the door to keep everyone out. Uhoh, Lumpo, and Glabella were free to wander where they liked (Nalvarre pointed out more than once the nearness of the stream and its usefulness as a bathing facility) and to eat anything they found, just so long as they stayed out of the house and the root cellar.

Millisant hunted rabbits and rollicked in the meadows like a filly in clover, while Glabella became quite adept at snatching trout from the stream without net or hook. She sat on the bank as still as a cat and scooped them out when they swam by, flinging them onto the bank where Uhoh and Lumpo waited. Most were eaten long before they found their way to a skillet.

Meanwhile, no shadowy figures lurked in the trees, no stealthy footsteps haunted their dreams. Uhoh was content and happy in a way he had not been since before Gunthar's death. At night, they slept as only happy gully dwarves can sleep-like stones. Millisant chased rabbits in her dreams.

At night, they sat by the fire and Nalvarre told them tales of the gods of long ago and of the ways of the forest creatures, and for the most part Lumpo slept through his stories and Glabella half-listened while she nibbled and snacked almost without stop. Only Uhoh seemed truly interested.

The gully dwarves also told tales, but these were quickly unfolded and quickly resolved in the usual gully dwarf fashion, without point or purpose. The standard model sounded something like this: "You remember that time when… " followed by much laughter, and a few lingering comments along the lines of "That funny story. Tell it again." Sometimes the story was told wrong, which led to rip-roaring fights on the floor, which didn't do the furniture much good. Nalvarre's carpentry skills improved.

When things got quiet, someone was sure to break into "Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer." That usually lasted them until they dropped with exhaustion, hoarse and croaking, as they never had got the idea that you were supposed to count backward in the song. Every verse told of the endless supply of ninety-nine bottles of beer.

A disquiet crept over the wood as autumn deepened into winter. Nalvarre felt it, though he was at a loss to name its source. The gully dwarves, it seemed, felt it as well, for Lumpo's dreams had turned and he often woke screaming, and Uhoh spent more and more time standing in the door after supper watching the quiet woods. Glabella's appetite increased; she seemed like a bear putting on fat for the lean times ahead.

More than once, as he returned home through the darkling woods, Nalvarre turned at some half-glimpsed shadow, only to find nothing there. He found himself listening for stealthy footsteps on the path or wondering at the sudden quiet and whispering of the trees. It left him feeling unsettled. He took to carrying an axe everywhere he went. Images of red dragons hovering in the sky came unbidden to his mind. He began to wonder if Pyrothraxus were not extending his influence from his northern lair at Mount Nevermind.

One morning, as Nalvarre was preparing breakfast, he said to the gully dwarves, "If I don't lock the door today, will you promise not to mess things up here? I may not be home by nightfall, in which case you three may need to stay here alone. Can you do that, and can I trust you not to wreck the place?"

"You trust us," Glabella assured him as she patted his leg. "We good."

"I'll leave plenty of food out, so you won't need to go rooting around for more. You'll have to trust me that I'll be back tomorrow," Nalvarre continued.

"We trust you," Uhoh said. "We promise. I watch these gulpfungers. Uhoh boss!"

So it was that after breakfast, and with many grave misgivings, Nalvarre left the three waving good-bye in the doorway of his house. He took his staff and started down the mountainside. He planned to travel to the valley floor, to an ancient well hidden deep in the forest there. It was the meeting place for rangers and druids, a place to leave trade goods and to find useful items in the unique barter system used by the denizens of the forest. Only rarely did two traders meet face to face. One might leave a basket of apples. The next person might take the apples but leave an elven knife. The third might take the knife but leave a sack of flour. Then the first might return and take the sack of flour.

This time Nalvarre wasn't going there to trade. He felt the need for news of what was passing in the outside world, and he hoped to run into someone at the well who might shed light on his recent forebodings.

It took him most of the day to make his way to the valley forest. He followed the stream that ran by his door, traveling a path he knew well, for he had made it himself. Wherever the path crossed the stream, he'd built simple bridges-of logs on the heights and of rushes nearer to the valley. As it meandered down the mountainside, the stream gathered to itself other smaller streams, rivulets, and trickles, until as it neared the valley floor, it became a torrent, rolling and tumbling over many a noisy fall and rapid. Finally, it reached the lower meadows and slowed to a cold crawl, wandering through bogs and fens until it reached the lake, where it spread its waters beneath the sun to warm. Reeds grew there in abundance in the shallows, providing shelter for multitudes of small water birds, while trout thrived in its cold depths.

The air was considerably warmer in the valley. While on the heights winter was fast approaching, in the valley autumn lingered in a profusion of harvest golds and brilliant scarlets. The forest rustled with a soft breeze, and sunlight dappled the path in a shifting dancing pattern of golden patches of light. It seemed so pleasant here that it was hard to believe anything was wrong, and Nalvarre began to doubt himself. He stopped and through a gap in the trees gazed back up at the mountain. He wondered what the gully dwarves were doing, and visions of them devouring every stick of furniture in the house brought a chuckle.

As the day waned and Nalvarre penetrated the heart of the forest, the sun found fewer and fewer holes in the canopy through which to shine. A deep and abiding gloom embraced the very center of the forest, for here the trees were ancient beyond reckoning, mighty and tall. Like pillars in a dark and silent temple, their gray trunks marched in serried ranks in every direction, blending in a dark haze at the very edge of vision. Only the path, barely visible in the gloom, marked the way. No water flowed here, no stream crossed the path, for the rain that fell here rarely found its way through the thick canopy to the ground below. It was intolerably dusty and dry, almost like a desert.

The gloom only deepened as night fell, but Nalvarre did not stop for the evening, and neither did he light a torch. He knew the path by heart, so he continued well into the night. Soon, a cool wet breeze rose before him, freshening his pace with its promise of water, and before long he stepped out of the wood as though passing through a door in a wall. A wide ring of oaks towered above a forest meadow fully a hundred paces across. In the center of the clearing stood a ruin of wide marble columns, glowing like a vision from an enchanted dream. High above, the unfamiliar stars of Krynn, newly formed after the Chaos War when the Greystone of Gargath shattered, wheeled in a crystalline black sky. Dew glimmered on the thigh-high grasses, wetting Nalvarre's robes as he passed through on his way to the well beside the ruin. A small fire burned there, promising warmth as well as news and company.

Still, Nalvarre approached warily. It was best not to appear unexpectedly from the darkness, for the forest people were wary. He might find an arrow in his throat before given a chance to explain himself. As he drew nearer, he slowed his pace. A heavily robed figure huddled beside the fire, warming his hands. "Hello in camp," Nalvarre called out. The figure looked up, but made no other move.

"May I approach?" Nalvarre asked, first in the common tongue, then in Solamnic. The figure nodded and waved, and Nalvarre stepped into the light of the fire. "Greetings," he said.

The robed stranger answered him in Solamnic, "Hail, brother of the wood. Please sit and enjoy the warmth of my fire."

Nalvarre gladly accepted the invitation, for although the forest had been stuffy, the meadow of the well was cool with the breath of autumn. As he settled himself near the fire, he caught a glimpse of the stranger's face beneath his hood.

"Laif? Laif Lorbaird?" he asked.

The stranger started, as though surprised by the sound of his name, then smiled and pushed back his hood, revealing a tangle of oil-black hair. He nodded in acknowledgment.

"I thought that was you, Laif," Nalvarre said. "By the gods, it's been a long time."

"Hasn't it, though, my friend," Laif answered. "What brings you here?"

"I was troubled by a strange feeling of uneasiness you might say, which has descended on the wood where I live," Nalvarre said. "What passes in the world?"

"Many things, many changes," Laif said in thick Solamnic. "The Knights of Solamnia and the Knights of Takhisis have joined to form one order."

"No!" Nalvarre gasped.

"It is true. Knights of Takhisis are even now garrisoning Sancrist castles long abandoned," Laif said.

Nalvarre shook his head in disbelief.

"Lord Gunthar is dead," Laif continued.

Nalvarre nodded sadly. "Well, that at least is not unexpected. He was very old. How did he die?"

"He was killed during a boar hunt," Laif said.

"A boar?" said Nalvarre in some surprise.

"He was old," Laif said. "They say the excitement probably killed him, not the boar."

"I see," Nalvarre said, unsettled by the coincidence between this news and the story of the death of Uhoh's Papa.

"What brings you here, my friend?"

Laif leaned forward as though to relate a great secret. The firelight set his dark eyes smoldering. "I hunt a great evil. It has come from the south and passed through all the woods, spreading discord and fear. Probably that is what you felt. I have tracked it this far, but I lost its trail."

"You, a ranger of the wild wood, lost the trail?" Nalvarre laughed. "I find that very hard to believe."

Laif's eyes burned all the more fiercely. "This evil is very clever," he said. "It travels in the shape of a gully dwarf and in the company of other gully dwarves. I don't suppose you have seen any of these creatures?"

Nalvarre suddenly felt very cold inside. Perhaps it was the way Laif's eyes glimmered in the firelight, like glowing coals, when he asked about the gully dwarves. Some instinct warned Nalvarre to say nothing of his guests.

"Not for many a season," he lied.

"Ah!" Laif sighed as he pulled his hood back over his head. "That is unfortunate."

"I must be going now," Nalvarre said rather suddenly.

"Are you sure you won't stay?" Laif asked pleasantly.

"Quite," Nalvarre said. "I really must go. Thank you. Good luck to you."

"Fare thee well," said Laif in formal Solamnic. He leaned back and rolled himself in his robe, as though settling in for the night.

Nalvarre hurried away without seeming to hurry. He was glad to be away from the fire and into the concealing darkness of the meadow. This meeting, which he had hoped might relieve his disquiet, only alarmed him all the more. He hurriedly crossed the meadow, glancing often over his shoulder.

Just at the edge of the meadow, as he glanced yet another time to check for dark pursuers, he tripped and fell flat on his face. He lay in the tall grass for a few moments, listening, before crawling back to pick up his staff. He found it lying across the carcass of some dead animal. Obviously, this was what he had stumbled over. He picked up his staff and prepared to leave, but at that moment the moon raised its ghastly white face above the tops of the trees, flooding the meadow with a pale glow. The white columns of the ruin stood out like cardboard cutouts illumined with faerie fire against the dark of the forest. At Nalvarre's feet lay the body of man. With a growing sense of horror, he rolled the corpse onto its back. He gasped and stepped back, then glanced in alarm at the fire. It burned merrily alone, with no one in sight. Nalvarre turned and fled into the forest.

Laif Lorbaird lay in the grass and stared with milky eyes at the wheeling stars, a dagger protruding from his heart.