Chapter 18

Tashara alone of Dragonsbane made no comment as the elves, Harfang, and Ayshe watched the swiftly expanding clouds they knew signaled the presence of their destined foe. They spoke in whispers, though they knew the White Wyrm could not possibly hear them at that distance. All of them were visited with a passing wish that they might bury themselves in the surrounding snowdrifts and, thus, elude detection.

The clouds were thick about the mountaintop, and a light mist blocked the sun’s rays. The wind picked up. Ayshe shivered and wrapped his cloak tight about his shoulders. Curiously, he was almost getting used to the cold. A wind such as that in his first day or two on the Snow Sea would have been unbearable rather than merely uncomfortable. He had some idea now of how the Ice Folk survived in the frozen waste.

At a gesture from Harfang, the company moved on. The snow grew shallower, scarcely deep enough to cover their feet. Ahead of them, the ground rose in a series of low hills, ascending in uneven steps until they met the steep slopes of the mountains, some ten miles distant. To the west, a few miles beyond that, Ayshe could see the beginnings of what looked like a pass between the mountains. He fancied he could even see the rudiments of a road or path leading up into it, but perhaps his eyes, aching from the snow glare, were seeing things. They reached the summit of the first of the hills, halted, and looked back the way they had come.

Before them stretched the Snow Sea, vast and featureless. Its drifts appeared as waves and ripples, and Ayshe imagined he could almost hear the surf booming against the rocks scattered across the lower slopes of the hill on which they stood.

To the south, the mountains marched onward, east and west, until they were lost to sight. Harfang and Jeannara consulted with Tashara.

“If yonder is the Pass of Tarmock’s Fangs,” the mate observed, we should make for it along the top of this ridge. We can reach it in another two days’ march.”

Tashara nodded assent. She sniffed the air, much as a hound might do if it had caught an elusive scent. “Yes. We can camp in the valley to be out of the way of the wind,” she observed. “How is our fuel?”

“Running low. After tonight we’ll not have any more.” The mate rubbed a hand across his face, almost hidden behind wrappings of cloth. “Fortunately, we seem to be coming close to our goal.”

They set out again, and the feeling of oppression and dread was strong on all of them. Somewhere ahead, hidden in the jagged peaks, were the Mountains of the Moons and the lair of the White Wyrm. And somewhere there, some of them suspected, were their own deaths.

Ignoring the cold clouds that covered the sky, the captain led the way with confidence along the slope. She climbed along assertively, needing no guidance of her eyes. The others struggled to keep up with her.

She halted at the top of the next hill. A kind of path had appeared, worn and marked every twenty or thirty feet by a stone. Many of the stones were cracked; some were missing. The path wandered off to the west in the direction they were going. Dwarf work, Ayshe guessed. He walked forward to the nearest stone and knelt by it. Sure enough, a shaky Dwarvish rune was graven in it, worn almost flat by the passage of time and weather. It was the rune signifying mine.

Ayshe communicated that to the others.

“Do you think, Master Dwarf that any of your kin dwell in these mountains?” Tashara asked.

Privately, Ayshe thought no dwarf was likely to be foolish enough to live anywhere near that godsforsaken place, but he answered evenly. “I never heard tell of any, ma’am, but the dwarves have wandered far, and it’s possible, I suppose, that some might be found here. But these marks are so old they may have been placed here centuries ago.”

Tashara nodded. “It seems well placed for our purposes,” she remarked and strode off along the path. Harfang hoisted his pack with a grunt and followed after.

The party traveled along the path, down one hill, up another, and down again. More rocks appeared about them. The wind was sharper, shaped by the defiles and crannies of the mountains. As evening fell they stepped off the path and went down onto the southern slopes of the hill to find a place to camp. They were silent as they moved about their tasks, each one afraid, each one fearing to say so.

The following day they resumed the westward journey. The pathway bent down and climbed several more hills before turning south and heading for what was plainly the pass. The mountains rose in steep cliffs on either side, their stones crumbling. The path itself was strewn with rocks, some big, some smaller, but it made for slow going as the company picked their way cautiously between them. Ayshe, used to such conditions, stumbled less than the elves, but even he knew his hands and legs would be bruised the Following day.’Now and again they heard a dull rumble as a boulder crashed down the slopes from a height.

Harfang looked again and again at the slopes, his brow drawn in a dark line. He spoke to Jeannara now and then, always in a low tone.

A sharp cry came from one side. Lindholme had tripped and caught his ankle between two of the stones. He cursed, trying to pull it free.

“Go help him,” Harfang ordered Thasalana as he strode on.

The tall elf stepped to Lindholme’s side and bent, tugging at the imprisoning rock. The company passed the two elves and continued along the path. Thasalana joked good-naturedly with her friend. “Clumsy idiot! Can’t take you for a walk!”

Another rumble sounded from above, louder than any they had heard before.

“Look out!” The cry came from Samustalen. He stood stock still in the pathway, his face turned upward, an expression of horror filling his visage. Ayshe followed his gaze.

A cloud of white was racing down the mountain, faster than the fastest horses could run. It was headed straight for them.

“Avalanche.” Harfang shouted. “Run!”

The companions raced along the trail. They leaped over rocks, smashing knees and fingers, their cries drowned by the roar of the approaching avalanche. Ayshe, sprinting ahead of them despite his short legs, turned and looked back. Framed against the white snow were the figures of Thasalana and Lindholme. The elf woman was still struggling to free the male. For a single heartbeat, they were outlined; then the snow cloud overwhelmed them.

The avalanche roared past, filling the place with snow. Slowly Dragonsbane rose, nursing bruised and aching bodies, and looked behind. Samustalen began to run back to where Thasalana and Lindholme had been buried, but Harfang called him back.

“It’s no good,” he said. “We could never find them in time, and we’d waste time and energy looking. The mountain has taken them. Let them rest in peace.”

“We can’t just leave them there!” Samustalen shouted angrily. He sank to the ground, white with surrounding snow. He stared up at Harfang, Jeannara, and the gaunt, remote figure of Tashara. Slamming his palms against a rock, he bent, weeping.

Harfang walked over to stand beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Man and elf stood in silent communion as the wind and snow hissed around them. From above came the sound of more falling rocks.

“Come,” said Harfang. “We must go on.”

They marched until the sky darkened—early afternoon by Ayshe’s reckoning. He knew that as far south as they were and at that time of year there would be few daylight hours during which they might journey. Several times rocks rolled down the slopes near them, dislodged by the violent gusts of wind that swept through the mountains. Fortunately, none came near the party. They had no fire, and they were cold and depressed by more death.

The wind itself proved their greatest obstacle the following day. Its force was so great that sometimes they could walk only bent over double, their hands groping before them as if to shield a blow. The wind would ease for a few minutes, then return with renewed force, bringing with it clouds of fine snow and slivers of ice that ground against exposed skin. Ayshe suffered less than the elves because he Stood closer to the ground, but even he felt the violent rage of nature against those who dared penetrate the sanctum.

As daylight dimmed once again, they emerged from the area of sharp rocks and jagged cliffs to find themselves at the bottom of the pass. To their relief, the march ahead appeared far easier. The path slanted smoothly upward along a gentle slope, while the mountains on either side fell away. Their spirits rose slightly.

Harfang gave a shout and moved to one side. At the bottom of the pass, next to one of the cliffs they had just left, a dark opening loomed. A large boulder stood just to one side, as if it were a door welcoming them. Grateful, the party staggered inside the cavern and collapsed.

Harfang alone remained standing, squinting into the darkness. He called to Ayshe, and the dwarf reluctantly roused himself.

“Here.”

From his backpack, Harfang pulled a torch—a piece of wood with a rag wrapped about the end. He poured oil from a flask over the rag and handed it to the dwarf. Ayshe took out his tinderbox and succeeded in striking a spark. The oil-soaked rag lit and illuminated their surroundings.

The cave was large but not very deep. Toward the back it slanted down until not even the dwarf could stand upright. The floor was firm dirt and rock. Fortunately for them, the entrance seemed to be slanted away from the direction of the wind, so little snow drifted in.

Most curiously, branches lay in the back, piled in an untidy heap. Some were sticks, some sizable logs. Mixed in the woodpile were the bones of small animals; some still had fur clinging to them.

Harfang examined all of that with a worried look. Ayshe watched impatiently. “Come, sir,” he remarked finally. “This’ll make a lovely fire. Bring some color back into our cheeks.”

A Harfang grunted. “Aye,” he said after a silence. “Aye, fire will be no bad thing. See to it.”

Ayshe and several of the elves swiftly gathered wood and started a merry blaze near the front of the cavern. The rest of the elves except Tashara busied themselves in laying out blankets and cloaks near the fire and eating from their meager supplies. Harfang, after completing his examination of the cave, sat down near the flames and pulled out his whetstone. Ignoring the others, he drew his sword and passed the stone along the blade again and again.

Tashara, as usual isolated from her crew, drew up her knees beneath her cloak and sat against the rocky wall, blind eyes turned to the fire’s light.

The blaze threw leaping shadows on the cave walls, and the elves and dwarf of Dragonsbane felt better than on the previous fireless night. Some elves brought out their pipes, while others conversed in low voices. Samustalen sat silently staring into the fire, his eyes sad. Ayshe knew he was thinking of Lindholme and Thasalana.

Harfang’s raised voice drew their attention. “Jeannara, you and Noortheleen have first watch. Shamura and Omarro the second. Stay sharp. The rest of you, get some sleep. You’ll need it on the morrow.”

Ayshe wrapped himself in his blanket. The fire was bigger than any that they’d made with the draconians’ fuel, and the walls of the cave kept the warmth in. He was almost comfortable. How long, he wondered drowsily, since he had slept a night of unbroken slumber? Zeriak, perhaps. Or before that, in his hammock aboard the Starfinder? His thoughts turned to the gentle sway of the ship’s decks beneath his feet, to the mewling cries of the gulls, and the hum of the sea breeze through the rigging.

Suddenly the gulls’ cries grew louder and more insistent. They seemed to be shouting words. There was motion all around them, shadows in the air.

He rolled over and came to his feet, reaching for his axe. The fire had burned down, but beyond it against the blackness of the cave mouth, he saw a great dark shape and two small, pale figures.

The scene resolved itself in his sleep-befuddled eyes. At the cave entrance was a huge, fur-covered beast, at least eight feet tall. Long, savage incisors hung down over its jaws, and wickedly sharp claws gleamed at the ends of its paws. Its mouth was open in fury, revealing a row of gleaming teeth.

Elves surrounded it, slashing at it with swords and daggers, leaping nimbly to avoid the sweep of its huge claws. Stains of red on the beast’s white fur showed where its opponents’ blades had penetrated, but its wounds did not seem to diminish its energy.

The creature swung a paw, missing an elf and slamming into the wall. It slashed again. Jeannara came down in front of it, blade in either hand, and struck quickly. The beast roared, shaking the entire cave, and Jeannara went flying backward to crash on the ground. Ayshe could see the results of her blows: two long cuts across the yeti’s chest. Blood poured from them.

Malshaunt’s hands were busy with a spell, but before he could release his magic, the creature turned toward him with a growl and backhanded him. The mage smashed against the wall of the cave, blood gushing from his forehead.

Ayshe had his axe in hand, creeping around the outside of the fight, looking for an opening. The yeti roared again and struck at Amanthor, who barely evaded the blow.

The dwarf swung his axe, putting every ounce of his strength behind it. The yeti’s roar turned to a shriek of rage and pain as one of its clawed paws fell to the ground. It waved the bloody stump at the dwarf as if it couldn’t understand how the paw came to be missing.

Amanthor struck from the side, thrusting his sword into the creature’s flank. The yeti turned, tearing the weapon from his hand. Its other paw raised for a blow and stopped in mid-attack. Six inches of steel protruded from its breast.

The yeti stared at the blade for a moment in puzzlement. A low rumbling came from its throat. Its legs collapsed, and it fell forward.

Otha-nyar stepped on top of the body and, with a powerful jerk of her arm, tore her wyrmbarb free of its back. The weapon brought a chunk of flesh, fur, and blood with it. The cavern seemed very quiet; then there was the sound of elves—and a dwarf—breathing heavily. The Kagonesti bent and ran a hand over the yeti’s fur as if satisfying herself that it was, indeed, dead. Then she wiped her blade on it and sat down again by the edge of the fire.

Shamura and Samustalen bent over the mage, who pushed their hands away from his bloodied forehead impatiently. He rose, tore a strip from the bottom of his robe, and bound it about his head. Then he came forward to examine the yeti.

Harfang knelt at Jeannara’s side. Her chest and stomach were covered in blood, and the mate could see at a glance that both her arms were broken. Harfang tore away her shirt and caught his breath. The yeti’s claws had torn enormous gashes, their edges ragged. Swiftly the mate tore her shirt into strips.

“Get some hot water,” he snapped at the others.

The elves boiled water from melted snow. As Harfang watched, Alyssaran soaked the makeshift bandages in it and bound them around the injured elf woman. Despite the heat of the bandages, she shivered violently.

Alyssaran set Jeannara’s arms in splints fashioned from some of the branches they had found in the yeti’s cave. Harfang covered her with his cloak and sat by her side, his hand resting on her hair. Alyssaran, meanwhile, drew dried herbs from Omanda’s pack and brewed a drink by the fire.

“Give her this,” she told the mate. “I saw Omanda make this once before. I’m not quite sure of the proportions, but it may do her good.”

Gently, Harfang managed to get some of the healing brew between Jeannara’s lips. She soon stopped shivering, and some of the color returned to her face, but her eyes stayed closed, and her injuries remained. Harfang nodded his satisfaction for her help to Alyssaran.

“Is there more you can do for her?” he asked her.

The elf shook her head sadly. “If Omanda were still alive,” she said, “she would know what to do—she could even call upon the gods’ magic. I can ease her pain somewhat, but only time and care will make her well.” She shook her head. “But the yeti’s claws, like many such beasts, are often infected. She’ll be lucky if she doesn’t worsen.”

The others watched, but no one spoke the obvious: With her injuries, it would be impossible for the elf woman to continue on their journey. Even if she could walk, the strain of the cold and the ardors of the extreme landscape would make her survival unlikely. And with both arms disabled, she would be useless in the final battle.

Harfang turned to Malshaunt. “Mage!”

He had to call twice more before Malshaunt slowly turned from the yeti and approached.

“Can you do anything?”

Malshaunt examined Jeannara perfunctorily and stood. “No. Her injuries are too severe. And I have no healing magic, as you know.” He turned away.

“Damn you, I’m not asking you to heal her!” Harfang snarled. “But isn’t there anything you can do to at least help us take her with us?”

Malshaunt’s face was hidden in shadow. He looked at “Harfang in silence for some times then walked to the front of the cave. He spoke to Tashara in a low voice then turned his back on the others, sitting against the cave wall, wrapping himself in his cloak.

The elves gloomily settled themselves down again near the fire. Alyssaran remained with Harfang and Jeannara for a time, then rose and joined the rest of the company. They were too exhausted to move the yeti’s body, so they let it lie where it had fallen. Harfang sat with the second mate for a while, stroking her head and speaking to her in a low voice. At last he, too, came to the fire and lay down.

The dim glow of daylight filtered into the cave, waking them. Shamura and Omarro, the two sentries, stirred and woke with a start, rubbing sleep from their eyes, looking at one another sheepishly. The body of the yeti lay where it had fallen.

Harfang rose, massaged the stiffness from his limbs, and turned toward the back of the cave. Malshaunt stood by Jeannara.

“How is—?” the mate started to ask.

“Dead,” the mage said shortly.

“What?”

Harfang sprang to the second mate’s side. He knelt for a moment, staring at her still body and face, peaceful in repose. Then he glared up at Malshaunt.

“You! What have you done?”

He was on his feet in a moment, sword out and stepping forward for a blow. Malshaunt raised his hands in a gesture of magic. His eyes glittered, his lips beginning to form a spell.

Samustalen thrust himself between the two. “No!” he shouted.

From the front of the cave, Tashara walked back and stood before her two followers. “Enough!” she said harshly. She bent and touched Jeannara’s cold face with her fingers and rose. “Enough. What is done is done.”

Harfang’s voice shook. “No! This man murdered one of our comrades!”

Malshaunt’s voice was full of scorn. “I am not a man! I am an elf. I know what needs to be done. I do what needs to be done.” He turned to Tashara. “She could not have accompanied us. Nothing remained for her but to die in pain and sickness. If we had taken her, she would have held us back.” He turned his face back to Harfang. “Do you understand? I did what needed to be done!”

Tashara was silent for a long time. Finally she turned her face to Harfang. “The mage speaks the truth. It’s a mercy so. We could not take her with us, and she would have lingered in this cave, cold and alone, until death claimed her. It’s better for her this way.” She leaned forward, said something else in a low voice, then turned away. Malshaunt followed her, casting a backward look of malevolence at the mate.

Harfang’s eyes were hard and dry. He stared after the captain and her mage, his mouth working. At last, with an angry ring, he resheathed his sword and turned to the others, who stood, watching.

“Come!” he said. “We need to travel lighter from here. We’ll leave some of our supplies and lighten our packs.”

Under his command, the party began to sort through what they had brought, separating the essential from the unnecessary. They could not keep from looking at the still body of Jeannara. Harfang cast a blanket over her but did not linger near the elf woman’s body again. Hour after hour, he worked in silence, but many noticed he did not come near either Malshaunt or the captain and did not speak to either of them.

They decided to remain one more day in the yeti’s cave to husband their strength for the last push in their mission. As well, it was still snowing heavily outside, and they hoped the weather might ease with the passage of another day.

They carried Jeannara’s body to the back of the cave and built a cairn of stones over it to keep wild animals—if any existed in the mountains—from disturbing her eternal rest. When Harfang returned to the fire, Ayshe joined him.

“A word, sir?”

“Well?”

The human had taken out his pipe and sat on the floor by the cairn, spreading his cloak around him. In the mate’s face, Ayshe saw Only dead eyes, an expression devoid of all human feeling. He cleared his throat and spoke.

“I’ve been looking over our supplies, sir. Even if we retrieve what we’re caching here, I’m afraid we’ll be short-run on the return journey. There’ll be little hunting until we reach the other side of the Snow Sea, and—”

Harfang held up a hand. “I shouldn’t worry about it, Master Dwarf.”

Cold, weary, and heartsick, Ayshe felt bolder than usual. “Why not?”

Harfang twisted around to glare at him. “Because, Master Ayshe, I doubt that any of us will be making that return journey. Think of what awaits us within these mountains. You have glimpsed the White Wyrm. You’ve experienced its power. Do you think we will survive? And in a condition to make the return journey?”

Ayshe made no answer, but some part of him knew the mate was right. Even if they survived the fight with the wyrm, his spirit quailed at the thought of the trek back through that endless sea of white.

“If I may ask,” he said, “if you believe this to be a hopeless battle, why have you come this far? Why?”

Harfang drew deeply on his pipe, and the interior of the bowl glowed cherry red in the darkness. He expelled a mouthful of smoke and, keeping his voice low, said, “Because of a debt.”

The dwarf waited in silence.

“I daresay you’ve heard that Tashara found me on the streets of Palanthas. That was thirty years ago, just after the Chaos War ended.” Harfang laughed bitterly. “Chaos War. Apt name, for it brought chaos in its wake. Even on the streets, we heard many mighty rulers were gone—killed or vanished. The gods had deserted us. We heard that too. But to me, it felt as if the gods had abandoned me from birth.

“I never knew my parents. My earliest memory is of an old woman, wrinkled and hideous. She told me to call her Aunt, but whether she was, in fact, my true aunt, I never knew or cared.

“When I was old enough to walk, Aunt taught me to steal. I was an accomplished pickpocket and thief before I was five. Gangs love to recruit small children, of course, because they can enter houses in ways older men and women can’t. And they can gain the trust of a mark more easily. Aunt had other boys who stole for her, though I was the only one who lived in her household.

“I walked every street, every square, every alley in Palanthas. Have you ever been there?”

Ayshe shook his head.

“Aye, well, it’s a great city—but in the high towers and the marbled homes they never see the filth that runs in the gutters. The street rats that claw each other to survive.

“I was about ten, sharp as a whistle. I knew the city like I know the back of my hand. I was king of the streets, and if things had gone differently, I probably would have gathered my own band of thieves—if I wasn’t caught and hanged by the City Watch first.

“One day I spied an elf walking. She was near the Great Library, and I realized at once she was blind.”

“Tashara!” Ayshe exclaimed.

“None other. Oho, I thought. Here’s an easy one. I followed her for a street or two, then made my move. I ran behind her and pushed a stick between her legs. With her on the ground, I could pick her clean and be half a street away before she was back on her feet.”

Harfang paused to relight his pipe, which had gone out. His tone was distant and held a note of amusement at his own folly.

“She fell, just as I expected, then rolled and was standing with a hand on my collar before I could blink. I twisted and turned, kicked and bit, but she held on to me and kept walking as if nothing had happened.

“Then something queer happened. Queerer, I mean, than the fact a blind elf had been able to best the quickest thief in Palanthas. She said to me, ‘Harfang, come with me and leave off struggling. It will be easier for both of us if you do.’ ”

“Wait a minute,” Ayshe said. “How did she know your name?”

There was a pause, and Harfang shrugged. “How does she know anything? I never found out. Whatever the case, she took me along with her to the wharves and hauled me aboard the Starfinder.

“I don’t mind telling you it was a revelation. Here I’d been running on the streets, covered with muck, only seeing the sky framed by bricks and mortar. Now I was aboard a ship where the air was clean and fresh, and where the blue waters sparkled in the Bay of Branchala. It didn’t take much persuasion for me to agree to sail along on the ship. Besides, I imagined that if I didn’t like life at sea, I could jump ship at the next port.”

He chuckled mirthlessly. “I was a rare little brat. Fought with everyone, refused to take orders. But Tashara stuck by me. And when we’d been at sea for a time, she opened the door to Dragonsbane for me.

“I’d heard of dragons, of course—how they’d been gone for centuries then returned during the War of the Lance. But I’d never seen one, even in the aftermath of the Chaos War. Tashara taught me their lore, told me all Dragonsbane had learned in centuries of stalking and fighting the beasts. She taught me to handle a weapon and to fight with others in my party, and not by myself.

“The first one I helped track was a small green. It was in the time of the overlords, in the first years of the Dragonpurge, when the overlords were killing smaller dragons and adding their skulls to their totems. Dragonsbane found the green on the coast of Southlund. We trapped it and killed it, taking its head. I dare say Beryllinthranox herself paid no attention to its death. Then there were others, great as well as trivial.”

Ayshe had listened quietly to the tale before he ventured another question. “When did you first hear of the White Wyrm?”

The mate’s voice grew heavier, as if he were reluctant to discuss the subject, but he responded. “Tashara told me herself when she initially told me the story of Dragonsbane. She told me our great task was to chase a white dragon that was like no other, that could come from the clouds on a bright summer’s day. She told me it was her destiny to find and kill this dragon.” He paused. “And she told me it was my destiny as well.”

He paused again. Ayshe sat watching him. He saw in his eyes the mate’s love for his leader, for the woman who had drawn him from a life of poverty and squalor and had given him a cause to live and die for. He saw as well the mate’s anguish as he watched Tashara’s pursuit of the White Wyrm slowly turn to zealotry and madness. And he understood the mate could do no more than what he had promised: follow her to the end.