Slanter hesitated a moment longer, thinking it through once more. He wouldn’t find out anything about the magic, of course — that was too bad. The magic intrigued him, the way the boy’s voice could… No, his mind was made up. A Gnome in the Eastland had no business being anywhere near Dwarves. He was best off sticking to his own people. And now he could no longer do even that. Best thing for it was to slip back to the camp, pick up his gear, cross the river, and head north into the borderlands.
He frowned. Maybe it was just that the Valeman seemed like a boy…
Slanter, get on with it!
Quickly he turned about and disappeared into the night.
Dreams flooded Jair Ohmsford’s sleep. He rode on horseback over hills, across grasslands, and through deep and shadowed forests, with the wind screaming in his ears. Brin rode at his side, her midnight hair impossibly long and flying. They spoke no words as they rode, yet each knew the other’s thoughts and lived within the other’s mind. On and on they raced, passing through lands they had never seen, vibrant and sprawling and wild. Danger lurked all about them: a Log Dweller, massive and reeking of the swamp; Gnomes, their twisted yellow faces leering their evil intentions; Mord Wraiths, no more than ghostly forms, featureless and eerie as they stretched from the dark. There were others, too — shapeless, monstrous things that could not be seen, but only felt, the sense of their presence somehow more terrible than any face could ever be. These beings of evil reached for them, claws and teeth ripping the air, eyes gleaming like coals in blackest night. The beings sought to pull Jair and his sister from their mounts and to tear the life from them. Yet always the things were too slow, an instant too late to achieve their purpose, as the swift horses carried Jair and Brin beyond their reach.
Yet the chase wore on. It did not end as a chase should end. It simply went on, an endless run through countryside that swept to the horizon. Though the creature’s hunting them never quite managed to catch up to them, still there were always others lying in wait ahead. Exhilaration filled the pair at first. They were wild and free and nothing could touch them, brother and sister a match for all that sought to drag them down. But after a time, something changed. The change crept over them gradually, an insidious thing, until at last it lodged itself fully within them and they knew it for what it was. It had no name. It whispered to them of what must be: the race they ran could not be won for the things they ran from were a part of themselves; no horse, however swift, could carry them to safety. Look at what they were, the voice whispered, and they would see the truth.
Fly! Jair howled in fury, and urged his horse to run faster. But the voice whispered on, and about them the sky went steadily darker, the color faded from the land, and everything turned gray and dead. Fly! he screamed. He turned then to find Brin, sensing somehow that all was not well with her. The horror sprang to life before him and Brin was no longer there; she had been overtaken and consumed, swallowed by the dark monster that reached… that reached…
Jair’s eyes snapped open. Sweat bathed his face, and his clothing was damp beneath the cloak in which he lay wrapped. Stars twinkled softly overhead, and the night was still and at peace. Yet the dream lingered in his mind, a vivid, living thing.
Then he realized that the fire was burning brightly once more, its flames crackling on new wood in the dark. Someone had rebuilt it.
Slanter… ?
Hurriedly he threw off the cloak and sat up, his eyes searching. Slanter was nowhere to be seen. A dozen feet away, Garet Jax slept undisturbed. Nothing had changed — nothing save the fire.
Then a figure stepped from the night, a thin and frail old man, his bent and aged frame clothed in white robes. Silver white hair and beard framed a weathered, gentle face, and a walking stick guided his way. Smiling warmly, he came into the light and stopped.
«Hello, Jair,” he greeted.
The Valeman stared. «Hello.»
«Dreams can be visions of what is to come, you know. And dreams can be warnings of what we must beware.»
Jair was speechless. The old man turned and came about the fire, picking his way with care until at last he stood before the Valeman. Then he lowered himself gingerly to the ground, a wisp of life that a strong wind might blow from the earth.
«Do you know me, Jair?» the old man asked, his voice a soft murmur in the silence. «Let your memory tell you.»
«I don’t…» Jair started to say and then stopped. As if the suggestion had triggered something deep within him, Jair knew at once who it was that sat across from him.
«Speak my name.» The other smiled.
Jair swallowed. «You are the King of the Silver River.»
The old man nodded. «I am what you name me. I am also your friend, just as I once was friend to your father and to your great–grandfather before him — men with lives intertwined in purpose, given over to the land and her needs.»
Jair stared at him wordlessly, then suddenly remembered the sleeping Garet Jax. Would not the Weapons Master waken… ?
«He will sleep while we talk,” his unspoken question was answered. «No one comes to disturb us this night, child of life.»
Child? Jair stiffened. But in the next instant his anger was gone, melted by what he saw in the other’s face — the warmth, the gentleness, the love. With this old man there could be no anger or harsh feelings. There could be only respect.
«Hear me now,” the aged voice whispered. «I have need of you, Jair. Let your thoughts have ears and eyes that you may understand.»
Then everything about the Valeman seemed to dissolve away, and within his mind images began to form. He could hear the old man’s voice speaking to him, the words strangely hushed and sad, giving life to what he saw.
The forests of the Anar lay before him and there was the Ravenshorn, a vast and sprawling mountain range that rose black and stark against a crimson sun. The Silver River wound through its peaks; a thin, bright ribbon of light against the dark rock. He followed its course upriver far into the mountains until at last he had traced it to its source, high within a single, towering peak. There stood a well, its waters spring–fed from deep within the earth, rising through the rock to spill over and begin the long journey west.
But there was something more — something beyond the well and its keep. Below the peak, lost in mist and darkness was a great pit hemmed all about by jagged rock walls. From pit to peak a long and winding stairway rose, a slender thread of stone spiraling upward. Mord Wraiths walked that causeway, dark and furtive in their purpose. One by one they came, at last gaining the peak. There they stood in a row and looked down upon the waters of the. well. Then they advanced as one upon it and touched the waters with their hands. Instantly the water went foul, poisoned and turned from clearest crystal to an ugly black. It ran down out of the mountains, filtering west through the great forests of the Anar where the Dwarves dwelt, then on to the land of the King of the Silver River and to Jair…
Poisoned! The word screamed suddenly in the Valeman’s mind. The Silver River had been poisoned, and the land was dying…
The images were gone in a rush. Jair blinked. The old man was before him again, his weathered face smiling gently.
«From the bowels of the Maelmord the Mord Wraiths climbed the walk they call the Croagh to Heaven’s Well, the life–source of the Silver River,” he whispered. «Bit by bit, the poison has grown worse. Now the waters threaten to go bad altogether. When that happens, Jair Ohmsford, all of the life they serve and sustain, from the deep Anar west to the Rainbow Lake, will begin to die.»