Chapter 14

The day dawned gray, the sun reluctantly shedding its dim glow through the haze of drifting smoke. The companions rose slowly, their bodies and hearts heavy. None of them had found much solace in sleep, their dreams haunted by memories of what they had seen yesterday and thoughts of what might yet lie ahead. Little Billee Juniper whimpered softly, cradled in Brightdawn’s arms as the others broke camp.

“How far is it to Kendermore?” Riverwind asked, taking, a long pull from his water skin. When he’d finished drinking, he poured another measure over his face and tried to scrub away the soot that darkened his skin. He was haggard underneath the black smudges, hollow-eyed and ague-cheeked.

Kronn glanced around, studying the blasted forest. The Plainsfolk marveled that the kender could pick out any landmarks at all amid the ruined woodland. “A few leagues, I think,” he judged. “It’s only about three hours’ walk from the Wendle River to town.” They had crossed the river last night, shortly before darkness cloaked the Kenderwood. It had been like the rest of the woods: black and foul, choked with ash.

“We’ll be there by midday, then,” Riverwind judged. He shouldered his pack and went to unhobble the horses. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s put an end to this at last.”

An hour up the road to Kendermore, they reached another firebreak. The companions stopped, staring back and forth along its charred breadth. On the far side the forest was whole, untouched by the flames that had ravaged the land around Weavewillow. The sight of green leaves came as a shock. They had been walking through ashes for nearly a day and had seen little color in all that time. Even Kronn and Catt’s bright clothing was smudged with black and gray. The vibrancy of nature before them seemed alien.

“This one’s even wider than the one we saw yesterday,” Riverwind remarked, studying the firebreak.

“They must have made this to protect Kendermore,” Kronn surmised. “They didn’t have time to save Weavewillow, but here they managed to stop it. I recognize those trees on the far side there.” He pointed across the blackened clearing with his chapak, which he’d had in his hand since they’d set out that morning. Slender-limbed trees grew in even rows. “Erryl Locklift’s orchard—well, half of it, anyway. Looks like they made the firebreak right through the middle of it.”

They crossed the firebreak. The welcoming embrace of the forest folded around them when they reached the other side. For the first time since they’d entered the Kenderwood, the air did not reek of burning, though the smell of smoke still clung to their skin and clothes. The rustling of the leaves soothed their beleaguered spirits. Even little Billee Juniper, who rode upon Swiftraven’s shoulders, stopped trembling as they left the devastation behind.

As they made their way between the orchard’s orderly rows, Catt reached up and plucked a green apple from an overhanging branch. She eyed it critically, then took a crunching bite. An instant later, she spat it out again. “Phooey!” she blurted, her mouth puckering. “Branchala’s boots, that’s awful!”

“They’re probably not ripe yet,” Kronn told her. “It’s like the bloodberries—the apples still think it’s midsummer. This crazy weather’s messed all the crops up.”

“That isn’t it,” his sister replied, her lip curling with disgust as she regarded the rest of the apple. “I mean, yes, it’s sour, but there’s something else.”

“What is it, Catt?”

She opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again, shaking her head in frustration. “I don’t know. Here.” She tossed the apple to her brother. Kronn caught it easily, looked at it, then bit into the fruit’s hard flesh. Immediately, his face contorted into an astringent grimace, and he also spat out his mouthful.

“Ack,” he declared, wincing as he smacked his lips. “It tastes like… I don’t know. Rotten eggs.” He sniffed the half-eaten apple, wrinkled his nose, and threw it away. It disappeared into the bushes with a rattle of branches.

“Could all that smoke have poisoned the apples somehow?” Brightdawn asked, glancing warily at the fruit-laden boughs that spread above their heads.

Riverwind shook his head. “Even if it could, the wind’s blowing south. The smoke would have gone the other way. Something else is at work here.”

It wasn’t just the apples. When the party left the orchard, returning to the wilder expanses of the Kenderwood, Riverwind stepped from the path and examined an old, moss-dappled elm tree. Its bark was brittle, and flaked away at his touch like old parchment. Beneath, the living wood was gray and riddled with cracks. Drawing his knife, he carefully carved a piece out of the tree and held it to his nose. It, too, smelled of brimstone.

“This whole forest is dying,” the old Plainsman declared, crouching to look at a hawthorn bush. The plant’s leaves were curled and brown at the edges.

“I don’t believe it!” Catt exclaimed. “What could be causing this?”

“I don’t know,” Riverwind answered helplessly. “The signs point to drought, but that doesn’t explain the smell.”

“It’s magic,” Brightdawn interrupted.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her, astonished. “Brightdawn,” Swiftraven said, “there’s no such thing as magic any more—not since the moons disappeared. You know that.”

“Even so,” she answered, “there’s some kind of magic at work here. It’s in the air, all around us. It’s what’s making the weather so warm. Something’s cast a spell over this whole land. Can’t any of you feel it?”

They stood still, concentrating, and each of them sensed it too. It was faint, but there was no mistaking the feeling that hung about them: pain, as if the earth itself were in torment They shuddered.

“It’s horrible,” said Kronn. “I’ve never felt anything like it before.”

“I have,” Riverwind said. He shut his eyes against a sudden rush of memory. “Once, many years ago, in Silvanesti. It was stronger there than it is here, but…”

“Silvanesti,” Brightdawn echoed dully. “Oh, no.”

“What happened in Silvanesti?” Swiftraven asked.

The old Plainsman heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. He opened his eyes again. They were like open wounds. “I died,” he answered. “In Lorac’s nightmare.”

No one spoke. There was no need—all of them had heard the tales. During the War of the Lance, Lorac, the elven Speaker of the Stars, had tried to use a dragon orb to drive the dragonarmies from his realm. Instead, it had ensnared him, trapping him in an unbreakable dream. Drawn by the orb’s power, the green dragon Cyan Bloodbane had come and whispered nightmares into Lorac’s ear. The elven king’s dark dreams, given form by the orb’s magic, had broken the land and driven his people into exile. Riverwind and his companions had entered the nightmare, winning their way to the Speaker’s throne room so that Lorac’s daughter Alhana could end his torment, but the wounds inflicted upon the land had remained. It had taken the elves more than three decades to heal those wounds and reclaim the forest.

“Malystryx is doing this, isn’t she?” Kronn asked. “It’s her magic that’s killing the trees. That’s why everything smells of brimstone.”

“Yes,” Riverwind answered grimly. “And from what you’ve told me of her, I don’t know if we can stop her. If she keeps doing this to the land here, soon there won’t be anything left to save.”

The forest’s pain stayed with them as they walked, a dull, aching throb that stubbornly refused to go away. Billee Juniper began to cry again, and nothing Brightdawn or any of the others said or did would calm her. The horses, too, grew agitated. Every few hundred yards, one of the animals would freeze where it stood, refusing to move on. Each time, Riverwind and Swiftraven managed to coax it back into motion, but the interruptions slowed their progress. The sun passed its apex and was sliding down into afternoon before they made it a league from the orchard.

Then, at last, the woods ended in a vast clearing, a meadow several miles across. In the middle of the clearing stood Kendermore.

It was much larger than the Plainsfolk had imagined. Looking upon it, Riverwind realized that only a few of Ansalon’s grandest cities—Palanthas, Tarsis, Sanction, Qualinost, Silvanost, and the dwarves’ underground city of Thorbardin—could be said to be larger. He was heartened to see the town was surrounded by a tall wall of pale stone, surmounted by crenelated battlements and punctuated by stout, circular towers. Scores of gaily colored pennants—red and gold, sky blue and sea green, orange and purple, and many other hues—stood atop the wall, waving listlessly in the meager breeze.

The battlements hid much of the city from view, but the buildings that rose above the wall were more than enough to give the Plainsfolk some idea of what lay within. There didn’t seem to be any plan or order to anything, and there certainly didn’t seem to be a single “style” particular to the kender. True to their nature, they borrowed whatever ideas they wanted from Krynn’s other cities. Here a strong, square tower in the old Ergothic style loomed at least four storeys above the city walls. There a domed minaret that resembled the temples they had seen in Khur stood beside a crude wooden structure that would have seemed quite at home in a hobgoblin village. Elsewhere the kender had erected several slender, silvery spires that might have been plucked from the elfhome in Qualinesti, and Riverwind even saw what looked like a miniature version of the fortress of Pax Tharkas. The old Plainsman covered a sudden smile with his hand, wondering what visiting dwarves thought of that—especially since it seemed to be slightly askew, leaning a little to one side like a drunken man.

Kendermore was alive with activity, too: guards lined the battlements, peering out across the grassy meadow and gripping bows and hoopaks in their hands. Shouting, laughter, and music rose from within the walls, mingling with the sounds of hammering, digging, and other work. Somewhere, a large bell was tolling the hour—glancing across the city’s mismatched skyline, Riverwind picked out the source of the sound: a building resembling an old Istarian church but painted a garish mix of violet and turquoise. It stood near the gatehouse, where the road the companions stood upon wound toward a pair of stout oaken doors. Smoke rose lazily from a multitude of chimneys, curling on the warm, dry wind. It carried the tempting scents of cooking food, making the companions’ mouths water.

Kronn’s face, which had set into a tense scowl as they walked, relaxed into a glad smile. He reached for his sister and grasped her arm. “We made it,” he said. “We’re home.”

Catt returned her brother’s smile, and both Brightdawn and Swiftraven breathed sighs of relief. Riverwind, however, looked upon Kendermore and frowned.

The old Plainsman’s brows knitted as he studied the town. “Something isn’t right,” he said quietly.

Everyone looked at him.

“Father?” Brightdawn inquired. “What is it?”

At first, Riverwind didn’t seem to have heard. He continued to stare at Kendermore, lost in thought. At length, he shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I don’t think we should go on.”

“What are you talking about?” Catt asked. She laughed, spreading her hands. “We’ve only got another mile to go.”

“She’s right, my chief,” Swiftraven agreed. “We’ve come so far. We can’t stop now, with our goal in sight.” As he spoke, however, he pulled his bow from his saddle and slid an arrow out of his quiver.

They stood at the edge of the dying forest for several long minutes. The companions stared at Riverwind, who stared at the city. The horses whickered, stamping the ground nervously.

“Father,” Brightdawn said finally, “we can’t stay here forever. Do we turn back or go on?”

Riverwind swore under his breath, cursing his inability to find a source for his misgivings. “We go on.”

They set out across the meadow, moving briskly but warily toward Kendermore. The golden grass whispered about their boots as they walked. Then, suddenly, when they had gone five hundred paces, Riverwind stopped again, his brow furrowing fiercely. After a moment, the others realized he wasn’t with them and glanced over their shoulders.

“Father?” Brightdawn asked. Seeing the disquiet on his face, her eyes were filled with worry.

“Come on, Riverwind,” Kronn urged.

Suddenly, the old Plainsman stiffened, sucking ma sharp breath. “By the gods,” he swore. “The gates…”

“What?” Brightdawn asked.

“Closed!” Riverwind shouted. “The gates are closed!”

Everyone looked down the trail. Sure enough, Kendermore’s tall, wooden gates were tightly shut. No guardsmen stood outside. No one rode out to meet them. When the figures atop the battlements saw them at last, they began to wave their arms and shout.

Brightdawn glanced at Kronn and Catt. “What’s going on?” she demanded, her voice brittle with tension. “What are they saying?”

“Shhh!” Kronn interrupted, holding up a warning hand. His eyes pinched shut, his face creasing with concentration. The kender’s eyes flew open. “They’re telling us to go back,” he hissed, the words coming out in a rush.

“Father?” Brightdawn cried, looking back toward Riverwind. “What do we—” Then her breath caught in her throat, and she could only gape in shock.

“Brightdawn?” Swiftraven asked as the others turned to follow her horrified gaze. “What’s the—merciful goddess!”

They came out of the woods behind Riverwind, boiling across the meadow toward the companions—hundreds of ogres, running at full speed and howling with battle rage. Swords and axes, spears and clubs waved in the air as the war band charged toward the companions, a great wave of iron, muscle, and hate.

The sight of the onrushing horde paralyzed the companions, momentarily stunning them into inaction. All they could do was stand still, mouths agape, as their doom bore down upon them.

Then Riverwind was moving, running to his horse’s side. “Go!” he roared, planting a foot in the stirrup and hoisting himself up. The horse was already galloping toward Kendermore as he swung onto its back. “Ride, damn it! Ride!”

The sound of his frantic voice woke the others from their trance. They dashed for their mounts, vaulting into their saddles and spurring the beasts on, away from the thundering mass of ogres. Swiftraven twisted about, firing an arrow back at the monsters. It dropped uselessly into their midst, a raindrop in an angry sea. He turned back around, not even bothering to mark where it fell. “Head for the gates!” he cried. “We can beat them there yet!”

“No!” Riverwind bellowed in return. “The kender would never get the gates open fast enough to let us in—and they’d never get them closed again in time.”

“Well, we can’t go back!” Brightdawn shouted. “What do we do?”

“Go right!” Riverwind shouted at last. “Around the city! We’ll try and escape to the north!”

They turned away from the unyielding gates, the ogres running behind, cuffing narrow swaths through the grass of the meadow. The tall curtain wall streaked by on their left, little more than a gray blur. Atop the battlements, the town’s guards continued to yell, but the rushing of the wind in the riders’ ears made it impossible to hear what they were saying. As the ogres approached, the kender on the wall stopped yelling and started to rain arrows and stones down upon them. The war band’s front ranks fell, pierced and crushed by the bombardment; the next rank, however, was not so blinded by bloodlust. They made a wider circuit around Kendermore, outside the range of the kender’s weapons. This bought time for the riders, letting them put more ground between them and their pursuers.

After long minutes of hard riding, the companions cleared the far side of Kendermore and broke out across the open meadow toward the welcoming green line of the northern Kenderwood.

Then more ogres swarmed out of that green line, lumbering straight toward the riders. “No!” Brightdawn cried, her voice raw with despair. She leaned over, little Billee Juniper clinging to her neck, and called out to her father. “What now?”

Riverwind, who had been asking himself that very question, glanced back at the horde some distance behind them, then forward at the onrushing numbers that barred their way. “We go through!” he answered, his sabre ringing in challenge as he drew it from its scabbard.

“Through?” Swiftraven repeated, astonished. “Are you sure, my chief?”

“Do you see a choice?” Riverwind shot back angrily. He flipped his reins, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks. The animal tossed its head, galloping even faster toward the oncoming horde. “Would you rather go back?”

There was no further argument. As one, the riders guided their mounts straight toward their onrushing foes. Swiftraven drew his sword, and together he and Riverwind brandished their blades in the air. Kronn raised his chapak, and Brightdawn her mace. Unable to wield her hoopak from astride her pony, Catt drew a long dagger from her belt and held it ready.

The distance to the ogres dwindled with astonishing speed as the horses’ pounding hooves devoured the land. Seeing that their quarry didn’t mean to turn aside, the ogres raised their weapons. The companions gritted their teeth and spurred their mounts. The terrified horses ran on, flecks of lather flying from their bodies. As the last yards of open ground disappeared between the companions and their foes, Swiftraven raised his voice in a loud, ululating Qué-Teh war cry. Riverwind echoed the young warrior’s shout, and Brightdawn and the kender hollered as the riders struck the horde.

If it wasn’t for their momentum, the wall of sinew and steel would have stopped them dead. As it was, the front line of ogres scattered to avoid being trampled. Horses’ hooves and flashing weapons felled nearly a dozen of the monsters, darkening the grass with blood. Riverwind moved at the fore, guiding his horse on little more than instinct. He sought the weak points in the ogres’ ranks, striking all around him with his sabre, his blade flashing in the sunlight.

Swiftraven’s blade also ran red as he laid about, and to his right Brightdawn fought ferociously, her mace waving wildly as Billee clung to her. Kronn swung his chapak high, cleaving an ogre’s snarling head from its shoulders; swiftly he reversed the blow, and the axe struck a second beast in the gut. The ogre slumped to the ground, clutching at its riven belly.

“Yippee!” Kronn cried.

The ogres tried to fight back, lashing out with their pole-cleavers and massive war hammers, but they were slow, and the Plainsfolk and the kender evaded their blows.

The old Plainsman was the first to make it to the edge of the forest, the others close behind, when one ogre got a clear shot at Catt, thrusting his spear at her. The kender ducked nimbly aside, but the point impaled her pony through the neck. The animal fell with a scream of agony. Catt clutched the horn of her saddle and went down. She regained her wits an instant before the horse crashed to the ground, however, and leapt off its back, throwing herself clear. She fell some twenty feet away and heard a snap as her right arm struck the ground. Then her head struck a tree and her world crashed into darkness.

When Kronn saw his sister fall, he hauled on his reins with all his might. His mount stopped so suddenly, he nearly pitched out of the saddle himself.

“Catt!” he shouted, then wheeled about and rode back toward her senseless, crumpled form.

The ogres stumbled about him in confusion, caught flat-footed by his reversal. He slammed his blade into one monster’s chest, cleaving through its ribs. The ogre stumbled back, blood welling from the deep wound. In an eyeblink Kronn was at his sister’s side. Without hesitation, he leaned sideways in the saddle, gripping his pony with his knees, and snagged the collar of Catt’s shirt. Her head lolled limply against his shoulder as, muscles straining, he hoisted them both astride the pony’s back. Then he started to turn back toward the forest.

Ogres blocked his way, driving back his fear-maddened steed with great, sweeping swings of their weapons. One came too close, and he hacked off its arm with his chapak, but Kronn quickly realized that he was trapped. Glaring at the ogres as they closed in around him, he did what any self-respecting kender would do. He began to taunt them.

“Look out!” he shouted at one. “There’s a great, big leech sucking on your face… oh, wait. That’s your nose.”

“What’s the matter?” he asked another. “Did someone spill a jug of ugly on you when you were a baby?”

“Is that how your breath normally smells, or did a gully dwarf crawl down your throat and die?”

His taunts were too much for the ogres to bear. Howling with rage, they charged. He spun his chapak, laughing as he cut down one after another. They were many, though, and at last one of their reaching hands latched around his elbow. The fingers’ viselike grip numbed his arm, and his chapak fell from nerveless fingers to dangle from a leather thong looped around his wrist. He fumbled at his belt for his knife.

Then the sound of galloping hooves filled the air. The ogres turned to look behind them, then let out a cry of alarm, raising their weapons. They were too late. Swiftraven fell upon them from behind, sabre rising and falling, slashing and stabbing. In moments, the Plainsman cut a path through the mob; the ogre who had grabbed Kronn’s arm died with Swiftraven’s blade in its throat.

Even as Swiftraven urged him to hurry, the kender spurred his horse once more, charging along the path the young warrior had carved through the ogres’ midst. Swiftraven followed, his sword still dancing..

Then they were on the other side of the ogres, riding north through the sparse, light forest. The enemy gave chase, but the kender and Plainsman quickly outpaced them, and by the time they were two leagues north of Kendermore, there was no longer any sign of pursuit. Kronn and Swiftraven reined in.

Immediately, the kender examined his sister. He pressed his fingers against her throat, holding his breath as he felt for a life beat, then closed his eyes and sighed with clear relief.

“How is she?” Swiftraven asked. He wiped streaming sweat from his face. “Is she badly hurt?”

“Judge for yourself,” Kronn returned, gesturing at Catt’s broken arm. Her hair was also sticky with blood from a gash where she’d struck her head. “What happened to Riverwind and Brightdawn?”

Swiftraven glanced around. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “They were ahead of me when I turned around and went back for you. They must be around here somewhere.” He hooked his fingers in his mouth and shrilled a call in whistle-speak.

The woods were silent a moment; then another whistle trilled in reply, echoing among the trees. Swiftraven and Kronn craned their necks, looking around for its source.

“There they are,” Swiftraven said, pointing to the east. Riverwind and Brightdawn were trotting toward them, still on horseback. Bringing their own mounts about, Kronn and Swiftraven rode to meet them.

“Thanks, by the way,” Kronn said, “for coming back for us.” He glanced down at Catt, whose face tightened with pain as the pony jounced up and down.

Swiftraven smiled warmly. “You already did the same for me. I honor my debts.”

The companions rode onward without any clear destination. They continued north, watching behind for signs of pursuit, until they reached a small creek whose clear water carried only the faintest whiff of brimstone. They drank thirstily, washed the blood and grime from their bodies, then set about tending their wounds. Riverwind, who had been struck a glancing blow on his shoulder by an ogre’s axe, winced as Brightdawn rinsed and bound the cut. When she was done, he rose and hobbled over to where Kronn and Swiftraven were splinting Catt’s arm.

“How is she?” he asked.

Swiftraven shrugged. “It’s hard to say. We’ve set her arm, but she took quite a bump on her head, and there isn’t much we can do about it now.”

“She needs a healer,” Kronn declared. “We’ve got to get her to Kendermore.”

“We could take her west, back to Balifor,” Riverwind mused, stroking his chin. “Maybe we can find help for her there.”

Kronn said. “I’m telling you, Kendermore’s her best chance.”

“Kronn,” said Swiftraven sympathetically, “we could never get through the gates.”

The kender’s eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t saying we should go that way.”

“What are you talking about?” Riverwind asked.

“Just because the gate’s blocked, that doesn’t mean we’re stuck out here. There are other ways.”

“Other ways?” Brightdawn echoed.

“Of course,” Kronn said. “Kender always leave a back way in.”