Chapter 24

Catt and Giffel were a league west of the city, walking through the tunnels at the end of a line of kender that stretched ahead for dozens of miles, when the call of the ogres’ war horns echoed faintly down the passage behind them. Hearing the noise, many of the kender stopped and looked back. Catt was one of them.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “It’s started.”

Giffel squeezed her hand. “You can’t go back,” he said, and nodded down the kender-filled tunnel. “We have to get them out of here.”

She looked at him, hurt, then breathed a small, helpless sigh. Swallowing tears, she turned back to the kender who had halted in their march. They were all looking at her.

“All right,” she told them. “Let’s keep moving. We’ve got a long way ahead of us.”

Reluctantly, the kender began to move again. Sliding her arm around Giffel’s waist, Catt followed. For a few minutes she was silent, but then she drew a breath and began to sing.

The song was an old one, older than Kendermore itself. It was a trailsong, a tune Catt’s people whistled to pass the time during their wanderings. Its melody was cheerful and lively, with a brisk, steady rhythm fit for walking. Every kender alive learned it as a child, and knew it by heart:

Giffel picked up the melody, singing along with her. Then the kender in front of them joined in, snapping their fingers in time with the second verse:

Swiftly, the trail song spread forward, through the tunnels. The kender whistled and hummed, clapped their hands and stomped their feet. Some whirred their hoopaks in the air; others took apart chapaks and played them as flutes. Dozens of melodies wove together in complex harmonies—and occasional cacophonies. Every voice embellished on the song in some way, making up new verses about Danilo Twill and his resilience in the face of misfortune. And there were thousands of voices.

So, surrounded with music, the kender left their homes behind, bound once more for the road.

On the barren meadow outside Kendermore, the harsh, fierce tone of a hundred war horns sounded all around the city. Howling with bloodlust, the ogres charged, a black wave dotted with foam of bronze and steel. The war bands standards flew high. The thunder of the war drums echoed the pounding of iron shod feet.

In the midst of it all, however, Tragor paused, angling his head and frowning with confusion.

Kurthak glanced at his champion, wondering. “What is it?” he asked, shouting to be heard over the din of his charging troops.

Tragor concentrated a moment longer, then shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. He raised his great sword above his head, bellowing a ferocious battle-cry, then charged onward. He didn’t tell Kurthak that, just for a moment, he would have sworn he’d heard the faint sound of kender singing.

Paxina dashed up the steps to the battlements at the city’s south wall, Moonsong and Stagheart right behind her. At the top, she peered through the crenellations and saw the dark stain spreading out of the Kenderwood.

Fear swelled within her, an unfamiliar and unwelcome sensation that choked off her voice. The sweat that trickled down her face turned cold, and her mouth went dry “So many,” she breathed.

A hand touched her shoulder, its grasp at once tender and firm. Paxina glanced up and saw Moonsong. The Plainswoman’s face was pale, but she smiled nevertheless. That smile was a balm, easing the dread in Paxina’s mind. The Lord Mayor looked back out at the field and laughed.

Then, recklessly, she leapt up on the merlons and turned to face the eerily quiet city. She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted as loud as she could. Along the walls and among the streets, other voices echoed her call, sounding it all over Kendermore.

“Be ready! Here they come!”

When the silver-haired kender jumped up on the battlements and sounded the call to arms, Kurthak laughed aloud. He and Tragor marched at the rear of the horde, thousands of raging ogres before them. Swords and hammers, axes and spears waved above the army’s heads.

“Remember!” he bellowed, his voice barely audible above the din. “Take as many of them prisoner as you can! Ten thousand steel pieces to the one who captures the most slaves!” He pointed his spiked club at the silver-haired kender. “And another thousand to whoever brings me that one’s scalp!”

“I’ll remember that,” Tragor said, leering wolfishly. “You’d best be ready to pay up when this is over, my lord.”

The Black-Gazer howled with glee, then raised his cudgel high above his head. “Charge!” he cried.

Tragor winded his horn again. Other trumpeters echoed the call. The army stopped marching and broke into a run, bellowing and shrieking as though their very voices would topple Kendermore’s walls. The ogres closed around the city like a noose. Their pounding feet churned the blasted ground, sending great clouds of dust billowing high into the sky.

Atop the battlements, archers and slingers began to fire. As before, when Baloth’s war band had assailed the city many ogres fell to the barrage—but many, many more held their shields high and kept running, eagerly striving to be the first to reach the walls. They struck on all sides at once, hammering against the flagstones with weapons and fists. The stones did not yield. More and more ogres caught up with their fellows, adding their weight to the onslaught. From atop the walls, the kender on the walls met the attack with more arrows and rocks. Looking up, Kurthak saw the silver-haired kender flinging stones with her hoopak; beside her, one of the Plainsmen peppered the field with arrows.

“Where are the cauldrons?” Tragor wondered suspiciously, scanning the battlements. An arrow glanced off his plumed helmet, knocking it momentarily askew; he straightened it with an irritated grunt. “They poured buckets of pitch on Baloth’s band.”

Kurthak squinted at the walls, his brow furrowing. Then he shook his head stubbornly. “What does it matter?” he snapped. “Fewer dead on our side this way!”

The blasted ground ran red with the blood of dead and wounded ogres, but the living far outnumbered the slain. Some of his troops heaved javelins up at the battlements; pierced by those spears, kender began to topple from the walls. The horde crushed them into the ground where they landed.

“Ladders!” Kurthak cried.

Tragor sounded a third call on his horn. Ogres picked up scaling ladders—more than a hundred of them—and started forward, into the melee. Some didn’t make it, brought down by the bombardment from above, but most pressed on, until at last they were in place. They planted the bases of the ladders in the blood-dampened earth and raised them toward the battlements.

Then something curious happened. Atop the wall, the silver-haired kender who had stood on the merlons at the start of the battle called out again. “Retreat!” she shouted.

At once, the kender vanished from the battlements, yelling and screaming as they climbed down the insides of the walls. In mere moments, none remained. The ogres whooped with malevolent joy, clashing their weapons against their shields.

“What’s happening?” Kurthak wondered aloud.

“They’re retreating!” Tragor cried jubilantly, waving his great sword in circles above his head. “The walls are ours!”

The ladders rose upright. Ogres started to clamber up toward the abandoned battlements. They spread along the catwalk, tossing aside the bodies of kender who had died on top of the walls.

The new sound was low at first, scarcely audible above the yowling of the horde. It grew quickly louder, though, and Kurthak and Tragor glanced at each other in confusion as the ground trembled beneath their feet. Then their eyes widened when they recognized the noise. It was the grinding and cracking of stone.

“Fall back!” Kurthak shouted to his troops. “Get away from the wall!”

Too late. With a rumble that shook the earth, the city’s walls groaned and gave way. The ogres on the battlements screamed as the catwalks fell from beneath their feet, then they plummeted to their deaths in the middle of the avalanche. The walls did not simply collapse, however; the kender had spent weeks preparing them, chipping away the stones at their bases so they would do the most damage to their enemies. They fell outward, on top of other attackers.

Stones pounded down on top of ogres, crushing them by the score. Scaling ladders, pushed back from the crumbling battlements, crashed to the ground. Within seconds, a large part of Kurthak’s horde disappeared beneath countless tons of rock.

Dust exploded outward from Kendermore in a billowing, gray wave. Kurthak and Tragor choked and wheezed as it broke over them, stinging their eyes and filling their throats. When it cleared, they stared in shock at the ruins. The clattering of stone mixed with the cries of injured and dying ogres. Besides the hundreds who lay buried beneath the rubble, hundreds more lay on the ground, their legs crushed, or staggered aimlessly along the edges of the wreckage, clutching broken arms and bloodied bodies. Those who had escaped stood about the periphery, staring dumbly at the heaps of shifting flagstones.

Soon, however, the stupor wore off. The ogres had toppled the walls. The city lay naked before them, inviting and defenseless. What was more, hundreds of kender stood, in the courtyards just beyond the ruined battlements, leaning on their hoopaks and grinning mockingly. It was too much for the dull-witted ogres. Howling furiously, they surged over the shattered walls, trampling their own dying comrades as they boiled into the city.

They poured into the courtyards like water through a broken dam, weapons held high. As they ran, though, the ground gave way beneath their feet. Their bloodthirsty roars became a chorus of screams as they vanished into the earth.

The kender had dug over a thousand pits in the courtyards. Most swallowed at least one ogre, and many claimed two or more. Kendermore’s attackers died by the hundreds, their massive weight breaking the fragile rope-and-wood lattices that held up the cobblestones. They fell, landing hard on the sharpened stakes that lined the bottoms of the pits. Gored, they writhed and choked as they died.

Kurthak seethed with fury at what was happening. Rage filled his mind, clouding his vision with red mist. The kender were grouped on the other side of the pits, in the shadows of the courtyards, laughing. Laughing at him.

His temper snapping, he threw his massive arms up over his head and howled. “Kill them!” he cried. “Take no prisoners! Kill them all!”

The surviving ogres—no more than five thousand of his original mass of ten—began to pick their way past the deadfalls. Hooting derisively, the kender turned and ran down the streets into the heart of the city Kurthak drove his ogres furiously after them.

Riverwind and his companions had walked for hours, following the snaking passage deep into Malystryx’s mountain. As they went, the reddish glow before them grew slowly stronger, flickering and gleaming as it reflected off the obsidian walls. The ground beneath them shuddered frequently, sending shards of glossy, black stone showering down from the ceiling. One piece nicked Kronn’s forehead, and the cut stubbornly refused to stop bleeding. Other than that, though, their march went undisturbed. They never noticed the shadowy form that trailed silently behind them.

“I should be making a map of this,” Kronn whispered. His voice sounded loud and strange.

Riverwind chuckled softly. “Next time.”

At last, the light ahead grew bright enough that they could douse their torches. The air, already oppressively warm, grew steadily hotter. The three travelers wiped stinging sweat from their eyes. In the distance, they could hear the crackle of flames. Wispy smoke curled around them. Kronn reached behind his back and touched his chapak warily; beside him, Brightdawn and Riverwind rested their hands on their own weapons.

The tunnel wound around a corner. The three companions rounded it, then stopped in their tracks, staring in wonder. Brightdawn gasped softly.

The passage opened into a vast chamber, a hole in the mountain’s heart. The light here was shockingly bright, the heat like a dwarven foundry. A glowing pool of magma roiled and bubbled far below, choking the air with smoke and ash. Flames danced across its surface and burst forth in violent gouts. Stones, shaken loose by faint tremors, rattled down the walls to vanish with hisses of steam into the molten rock.

On the far side of the cavern, across the soot-choked chasm, yawned a dark tunnel mouth, twin to the one where Riverwind and his companions stood. Stretching across the gulf, joining the two passages, was a crude bridge. It was made mostly of thick rope, tied fast to stone outcroppings on either end. A series of wooden planks were lashed to the span, but the companions could tell the purchase they provided was precarious at best: scorched by the baking heat from below, they looked fragile as eggshells, and there were several ominous gaps where boards had fallen away. As Riverwind watched, a glowing cinder landed on the bridge, burned brightly for a moment, then went out, leaving behind a charred, black spot where it had been.

“Whoa,” Kronn said, and meant it.

Suddenly, Brightdawn made a small choking sound. Riverwind glanced at her sharply, but she said nothing, only raised a trembling finger and pointed up the cavern’s far wall. The others followed her gesture, squinting against the stinging smoke. When they spied what she had seen, they caught their breaths, paling with horror.

“Sweet Mishakal,” Riverwind gasped.

On a broad ledge, high above the bridge, stood a pile of dragon skulls. There were dozens of them, bleached bones and teeth glowing hideous orange in the firelight. They had been carefully arranged, one on top of the other, into a pyramid fifty feet high. Looking at it, they could count the different types: the long-fanged maw of a black dragon, the ram’s horns of a brass. White and green, blue and bronze, copper, silver and gold, even a lone sea dragon skull—every breed of wyrm was represented in the gruesome shrine. At the top of the pile, staring down at them with sightless eyes, was the massive skull of a red.

“That’s her mate,” Kronn whispered. “Isn’t it?”

Riverwind had come to the same conclusion. He nodded.

“Can you feel it?” Brightdawn asked faintly. “The power…”

The others closed their eyes, their faces pinching. Riverwind slumped against the wall of the cavern, sweat streaming down his face. “Magic,” he said. “It’s coming from that totem. It must be what she uses to fuel her sorcery—to shape the land.”

“That thing killed the Kenderwood?” Kronn asked, his eyes glinting angrily. He studied the far wall. “Maybe I can climb up to it and knock the skulls off the ledge…

Riverwind, however, shook his head. “No, Kronn.”

The kender regarded him in disbelief. “No?” he exclaimed. “She laid waste to my home with that thing, Riverwind! It needs to be destroyed!”

“I said no,” the Plainsman replied firmly. “We can’t afford to waste time here. We have to get to Malystryx’s nest.”

Kronn shook his head stubbornly, his cheek braids swaying. Brightdawn laid a hand on his shoulder. “Father’s right, Kronn,” she said. “Destroying that totem won’t bring the Kenderwood back or make you forget your fear. Your people are counting on us to destroy the egg.”

In the shadows behind them, a black-swathed figure stiffened, then slowly relaxed and began to creep forward. The soft scuff of its boots against the obsidian floor, the whisper of its dark cloak, and the faint hiss of its breath were all lost in the rumbling of lava and crackle of flames that filled the cavern. If any of them had turned, they might have caught a glimpse of movement, but their eyes were all fixed on the skull totem, and so they did not notice Yovanna’s approach.

“I’ll go first,” Kronn said, forcing his gaze back to the smoldering bridge. “Don’t follow me right away.”

Swallowing, he stepped off the ledge, onto the first blackened plank. Gripping the hand ropes to either side, he eased his weight onto the board. Behind him, Riverwind and Brightdawn held their breaths. The plank creaked and groaned, but it held. Kronn lowered his other foot onto it, then walked forward, stepping carefully, never too hard. When he was twenty feet out—less than a quarter of the way across the span—he glanced back at the Plainsfolk, flashing a smile full of clenched teeth. “It’s not that bad,” he lied. “Just don’t look down.”

“Thanks,” Brightdawn said dryly, as she started across after him. “I’ll try to remember that.”

Riverwind watched, his stomach a leaden knot, as his daughter crept along behind Kronn. He wanted to follow right behind her but knew that would only put her in more jeopardy. It would be dangerous to strain the bridge with too much weight in any one place. Far below, a bubble of magma burst, sending flames blossoming upward and spattering the cavern walls with globules of molten rock that quickly dimmed from golden yellow to black-crusted red.

Swallowing repeatedly in a vain effort to moisten his parched throat, the old Plainsman finally stepped onto the bridge. By far the heaviest of the three, he winced when he heard the soft sound of splintering beneath his feet. Somehow, though, the board did not break. Gripping the hand ropes with sweaty fingers, he inched along behind Kronn and Brightdawn, toward the impossibly far tunnel at the span’s other end. Waves of broiling heat washed up from below.

When they were halfway across, the bridge began to shake. The companions didn’t notice at first—the movement was slight—but with each passing heartbeat the ropes swayed more and more violently until the entire span was swinging. Brightdawn cried out in alarm, and the companions stopped, grasping the ropes tightly as a massive tremor rocked the whole cavern. More planks fell from the bridge, knocked loose by the quake, and burst into flames before they vanished into the seething, churning magma.

The tremor lasted nearly a full minute, but it seemed an eternity At last, however, the swaying grew less violent, the planks’ creaking less strained. The companions relaxed, sucking in deep breaths of scalding, smoky air and leaning weakly against the hand ropes.

With a loud snap, the rope on their right gave way.

All three somehow managed to keep from falling. Kronn stumbled, and Riverwind dropped to his knees; one of the boards beneath him snapped in half, and his left leg dropped through the opening.

Brightdawn, however, remembered the lesson Catt had taught her aboard Brinestrider. She found her sea legs immediately, then turned around. “Father!” she shouted as Riverwind struggled to pull himself back onto the bridge. She started toward him, gripping the remaining rope with both hands. “I’m coming,” she said. “Hold on—”

Then her eyes focused on something behind him, and she screamed. Kronn looked up, and Riverwind craned, trying to see what she had spotted.

A black-cloaked figure stood upon the ledge they had come from, naked steel in its gloved hand. It stood by the frayed remnants of the severed hand rope, then began to move to the other side. As they watched, Yovanna touched the edge of her dagger to the remaining hand rope and began to saw the blade back and forth.

Acting on instinct, Brightdawn dashed back across the bridge, heedless of the planks’ protesting groans. Riverwind stared in mute astonishment as she charged toward him; she was past him before he knew what she was doing.

“Brightdawn!” he shouted as she ran away from him.

Yovanna continued to cut through the rope for a moment, then glanced at the onrushing Plainswoman and stepped back, her dagger poised. Brightdawn didn’t slow, however; she leapt onto the ledge, at the black-cloaked figure. She grunted with pain as the knife plunged into her side, but her momentum knocked Yovanna into the wall, driving the air from both women’s lungs.

Riverwind watched in horror as his daughter and Malys’s thrall grappled on the ledge. Straining mightily, he pulled his leg back up through the hole in the bridge, then started back after Brightdawn.

Then another tremor struck, nearly pitching him off the bridge. The cavern lurched wildly, sending showers of scree plunging into the molten pool. Brightdawn and Yovanna stumbled sideways, toward the edge of the ledge. They teetered on the brink for a moment, then overbalanced and toppled into the void.

“No!” Riverwind bellowed.

For a moment Brightdawn was free, falling toward the hungry, waiting magma. Then she caught the lip of the ledge with her hands and held on with an iron grip. Yovanna grabbed her about the knees, arresting her own fall, and Brightdawn groaned as their combined weight began to loosen her grip on the stone. The muscles in her arms strained, and she ground her teeth with effort and agony.

Regaining his balance as the tremor subsided, Riverwind heaved himself toward the ledge, trying to reach her. “Child,” he gasped helplessly, “I’m coming…”

Brightdawn kicked and thrashed, trying to knock Yovanna loose, but the black-cloaked figure held her tight. Yovanna’s hood fell back from her head, revealing the tortured ruins of her face. Her lipless mouth twisting into a snarl, she grabbed the back of Brightdawn’s tunic and began to climb.

“Please,” Brightdawn sobbed. The sharp obsidian dug into her palms, drawing bright blood. “Father…”

Riverwind moved as quickly as he could, but he could see his daughter’s grip faltering and knew he wouldn’t be fast enough. Another board gave way beneath him, and he nearly fell, clutching the weakened hand rope. Tears of frustration crawled down his cheeks.

Yovanna continued to pull herself up Brightdawn’s body, growling like a wild animal. Her hand clawed up, reaching for the Plainswoman’s collar.

Then a tiny dart hissed through the air, striking the back of her neck. Reflexively, Yovanna swatted at it…

And lost her grip on Brightdawn.

As she fell, the glittering cruelty faded from Yovanna’s eyes. A look of relief took its place. Then the heat of the magma ignited her robes, and she plunged, burning like a torch, into the molten rock.

Brightdawn sobbed, her fingers slipping. Recklessly, Riverwind charged the last dozen paces back along the bridge, threw himself flat on the ledge, then reached back and caught her wrists. Groaning mightily, he pulled her up, out of the abyss. They lay sprawled together on the stone for a moment, shuddering, then Riverwind pushed himself weakly to his knees. His face was ashen as he beheld his daughter’s body. Yovanna’s dagger was still buried to its cross-guard in her side.

The Plainsman glanced back across the bridge, seeking Kronn. The kender stood still, holding the haft of his chapak in his hands. Pieces of the weapon protruded from his pouches and pockets: while Riverwind had striven to reach his daughter, Kronn had dismantled it, turned it into a blowgun, and fired the dart that had felled Yovanna. Now he slid the haft into his belt and dashed back along the bridge to help Riverwind and Brightdawn.

She rolled onto her side, the dagger’s hilt sticking up into the air, and looked at them both with bleary eyes. Her tunic was dark with blood. “I don’t think I can make it… on my own,” she hissed.

Riverwind’s jaw tightened; his face might have been carved of granite. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m here, child. I’ll help you.”

Somehow, using the remaining hand rope to guide them, he and Kronn carried her across the bridge. When they finally reached the far side, the kender and the Plainsman sank down on the stone, exhausted. For a long time, none of them could do anything but gasp for breath. Then Brightdawn stirred. “Father?” she asked in a small voice. “Why is it so cold?”

A spike of horror drove itself through Riverwind’s gut, paralyzing him. Wearily, Kronn crawled over to Brightdawn and inspected the dagger lodged in her side. He dabbed at the wound, and his fingers came away with blood—and something else. Something black and oily.

He looked at Riverwind, shaking his head.

His face constricted with anguish, Riverwind lifted his daughter and rolled her over, resting her head in his lap. She was shivering, and her lips were blue. Her eyes gleamed feverishly in the fireglow.

“Oh, child,” he said. “My sunrise.”

“She would have killed us all, Father,” Brightdawn hissed. “She would have cut the rope, and we would have fallen. I had to stop her. I had … to save you.”

“Oh, gods.” Riverwind’s voice was ragged with tears. “Child, you cannot save me. You cannot.” He hesitated, summoning strength from within. “I’m dying, Brightdawn.”

Kronn choked suddenly and turned away.

Brightdawn smiled, however. “Then,” she breathed, “you’ll see me again soon…”

Helplessly, Riverwind bowed his head.

“Father?”

“Yes, child?”

“Do you remember, when Moonsong and I were young, how sometimes we’d cry until you came to kiss us good-night?”

He nodded. “I remember.”

“You used to sing to us…” A shudder ran through her body, and she groaned.

“Shall I sing it for you, child?”

She nodded, smiling weakly. Her eyes fluttered dosed.

Riverwind took several long, slow breaths to calm himself. Then, with grieving effort, his baritone voice rose softly, singing an old Plainsman lullaby.

Sometime, while he was singing, Riverwind’s daughter died.

He held Brightdawn tight, stroking her golden hair. Kronn walked a short distance down the dark tunnel, partly to leave the Plainsman in peace, partly so he could cry alone. When he returned, Riverwind was still holding her. The Plainsman seemed very old and frail.

“Riverwind,” Kronn said.

“It should have been me,” Riverwind whispered. “First Swiftraven, now…” He bowed his head, shuddering.

The Plainsman removed Brightdawn’s mace from her belt and tied it to his own. Then he dug in his pack and took out a woven blanket. His hands trembling, he folded it about his daughter’s motionless form, then rose and lifted her in his arms. He walked to rim of the ledge and paused there.

“When you return to your people, Kronn,” he said, “tell them how she died. Tell Moonsong.”

The kender nodded sadly. “I will.”

Riverwind kissed Brightdawn’s forehead, then dropped her from the ledge. Her body spun slowly through the air, then vanished into the magma.

They turned and walked away, deeper into the mountain.