Finn said nothing for a moment, only looked across the river and to the foothills rising in the east. Thorbardin was nearly a hundred miles away.
“Odd place for him to be, dead or alive, isn’t it?”
Odd? Oh, yes, Tyorl thought, damned odd.
“I’ll have your report now.”
“Aye, Lord, but you may not believe it.”
Finn stepped a pace away from the dead Theiwar and dropped to his heels. “Tell me.”
Tyorl sat down beside him. He watched the wind slide across the water’s black surface, shivering through the dwarf’s brown hair and beard, and thought, as he had not since the first night in Qualinesti, that Takhisis the Dark Queen was moving in Krynn.
Dragonqueen, they called her in Istar and Ergoth. She was that. The folk of Icewall knew her as Corruptor. She was that, too. In Thorbardin, the dwarves named her Tamex, the False Metal.
She’s proved false enough to you, he told the Theiwar silently. May she prove as false to your master!
Quietly, Tyorl told his tale of Kingsword and revolution, rangers and barmaids, pursuit and escape.
In the high, star-frosted sky, the two newly risen moons, the red and the white, combined their light into a garish purple spill. Darknight was a black lance against the red moon. Ember, Verminaard riding high on the dragon’s long, powerfully muscled shoulders, cut like a huge distorted shadow across Solinari.
Its eyes hooded as much against the bitter cold of the heights as against the moons’ glare, Darknight laid its broad wings against its back, darting down and under the red. Swooping high again, the black dragon rolled and returned to Ember’s side, roaring loud laughter at the red’s disdain for its antics.
Darknight cared not at all. The dank walls of the Deep Warrens no longer confined it and it was incapable of anything but high, fierce joy. Ten miles clear of Thorbardin, at the southwestern edge of the Plains of Death, Darknight had sensed Ember gliding over the eastern forests. It’d gained speed with powerful thrusts of its wings and caught up with the Highlord and his mount over the Hills of Blood. Darknight had flipped its wings in casual salute to Ember and given the Highlord a swift mental picture of the situation at Thorbardin.
Such was the connection between Verminaard and Takhisis’ dragons, both empathic and telepathic, that the Highlord had not only the sense of Realgar’s plans, but a clear sense, too, of Darknight’s estimations for their success.
Aye, bring him his Kingsword, Darknight. Help him cut the first stroke of revolution. Verminaard’s satisfaction rippled through Darknight’s mind like shadows on black ice. Then, give me his Stormblade when you give me his head. They’ll both be fine ornaments.
Ember craned its long neck around, and, by the brilliant light of a gout of flame shot from its narrow-jawed maw, Darknight saw their shadows, small and sharp, sliding over the foothills of the Kharolis Mountains. The black cut its wings back again and dove low over the rolling dun-colored hills. A long-sighted creature of the night, it saw what Ember was looking for before the red did and sent the image of a clutch of rangers directly to the Highlord.
Several miles south of the rangers, it picked up the dark cloud that was the Gray Herald’s mind. Darknight loosed a thundering roar, wheeled, and then dove.
Down the dragon arrowed toward the thin silver line of a river west of the hills. Several hours remained before dawn and Darknight expected to be back in ancient Thorbardin before sunrise. Before the sun set again, Realgar’s shout of triumph would ring through the dwarf-realms. The moons rode low in the sky, dipping toward the forest and the western horizon. Tyorl, watching their strange purple light touch the tops of the trees, thought about Finn’s reaction to his story. Tyorl knew that the rangerlord did not think Hauk was alive. The elf had not been able to convince Finn of that.
“If the girl’s hope can keep someone alive, aye, he’s alive.”
Finn’s eyes told Tyorl that he already mourned Hauk as dead. “You want to go to Thorbardin.”
“Aye, Lord, I do.”
Finn had said nothing for a long moment, only looked from Stormblade, still scabbarded at Kelida’s hip, to the ruin of Stanach’s hand as Kem unwound the makeshift bandaging and gravely complimented the girl on her work.
Tyorl poked at the small fire. Lavim, without having to be asked, had found kindling and fuel and set the fire outside the cave and away from the entrance. The kender still hadn’t found Piper’s flute.
Lost, aye, Tyorl thought. It’s lost in your pockets, imp! Enjoy your night ranging, Lavim. By all the gods, I’ll tie you down and search every pouch and deep pocket you have when you get back.
Tyorl turned suddenly at the soft scuff of a boot on stone, the whisper of a cloak against hunting leathers. Kelida, her eyes darkly shadowed with exhaustion, stood hesitantly behind him.
“Am I disturbing you?”
Tyorl shook his head. “No. Lehr caught some fish for dinner. Are you hungry?”
“No. Just tired.” She sat beside him, her back against the cave’s outer wall.
“How is Stanach?”
“Sleeping. Really sleeping. Kem got him to drink some mixture of herbs and powders. He says it will help him find his strength again.”
“It will. Kern’s a fine warrior and a better healer. Is he sitting with him now?”
Kelida nodded. She stared out across the river, listening to its ancient travelsong. “You’ve spent a lot of time on these borders, haven’t you?”
“A few years.”
“When I was cleaning Stanach’s hand, binding it, he said something. It was in a language I didn’t understand.”
“Dwarven, likely.”
“Maybe. ‘Leet Kware,’ he said.”
“Lyt chwaer, eh? Little sister. Well, he was hurting and maybe a little out of his head. It isn’t strange that he’d call out for kin.” Tyorl shook his head. “So, Stanach has himself a younger sister, does he? He did say that Kyan Red-axe was his cousin, but, somehow, I never thought of him having kin, or being connected to anything other than his wretched Kingsword.”
The river lapped and sighed at its banks. Tyorl tossed a branch into the small fire. He smiled at Kelida and gestured to the stocky youngster pacing the watch at the riverside with long, restless strides. “That one sometimes reminds me of Hauk. Finn calls us his Nightmare Company. We call Lehr, Finn’s Nightmare.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s impulsive, restless, and too well loves a good fight.”
The wind was growing steadily colder and swept across the water with a mourner’s voice. Kelida huddled into her green cloak. “Aren’t those good traits for a ranger to have?”
Tyorl answered her question with another. “You see no difference between him and Hauk?”
“I don’t know Hauk but from that one night in Tenny’s. But then, I …”
Tyorl stared at the fire. “What?”
“I don’t know, Tyorl. I thought that he might be something—someone—I could like.”
Like, he wondered, or love?
The wind shifted, blowing from the northeast now, straight down the river’s path. Lehr stopped his restive pacing and stood still at the waterside.
“He’s a likable fellow, our Hauk.”
“But, he too well loves a fight?”
Tyorl shook his head. “No, not at all. He has a cool enough head most times. He’s a good man to have at your back, but, like Finn’s Nightmare over there, he’s young. I suppose that’s really why Lehr reminds me of him.”
Kelida remembered what seemed now a long ago night in Long Ridge, the night Hauk had given her Stormblade. She remembered Tyorl as he’d been that night, tolerantly amused by his friend’s extravagant apology. He’d watched her scrubbing at ale and wine stains on the bar, and she, as she worked, had compared the two rangers: Hauk thick and stocky as a bear, Tyorl like a silent-stepping stag. She’d thought, then, that it was difficult, if not impossible, to determine an elf’s age from the look of him.