Dragonlance Tales - The Reign Of Istar Part 17

Empty.

Empty.

Someone moved through the camp behind him. The goblin turned around, shivering but feeling no pain at all from his wounds.

"Oh, G.o.ds!" cried the elf's m.u.f.fled voice. His face was white with shock, and he held a cloth to his nose and mouth with his left hand to ward against the awful stench in the air. "You're hurt! Don't move!" The goblin dully dropped his gaze to the elf's right hand, which held a gleaming, jewel-encrusted long sword, point down, at his side.

The elf sheathed his sword in a scabbard that the goblin did not recognize.

"I found the Sword of Change with one of the guards by the horses," the elf said hastily, coming up to kneel and check the goblin's injuries. "The man must have won it in a dice game or something. The minotaur's just down the slope. The slaves ran off into the hills. Let's get you to a creek and get you washed off. If that kender's around anywhere, we'll get him to bandage you up. d.a.m.n, you're really hurt. How close were you to the fireball? Couldn't you get away from it?"

The goblin's shoulders slumped, and he seemed to melt into himself. The elf reached out and gently took the goblin by one arm, trying to help him up. The goblin flinched at the painful touch, but didn't get up. He sat on the ground and stared at the elf's feet without a trace of expression.

"Come on," said the elf. "We have what we came for, and now we must look after your wounds." He reached down again with both hands. The goblin looked up stupidly at the elf's face. Then he looked down and saw the sword.

"Come on," the elf urged.

The goblin stirred, reaching up to the elf with both hands as he sat back on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. He took a sudden deep breath and lunged forward through the elf's arms. As he hurtled past the elf's side, he s.n.a.t.c.hed at the sword hilt with both hands. The sword snagged, then pulled free of its sheath.

He had the sword. HE HAD THE SWORD!

"G.o.ds, no!" shouted the elf, starting for him.

The goblin stumbled backward, nearly falling before he caught himself. The elf almost grabbed him, but the blade came up. The elf dodged and jumped back, almost a moment too late.

"Please!" pleaded the elf. "You're crazy! You don't have any idea of what you're holding!"

The goblin stared for a moment, then laughed - a wild, mad, painful laugh that rang in the night across the hilltop.

His eyes were glistening b.a.l.l.s of blackness in his burned, filthy face, his mouth open to the black sky. His chest shook as if each breath was killing him.

"Give me the sword!" the elf shouted. "Give it to me!"

The goblin still laughed and shook his head. He felt giddy, as if his soul were leaving his body. He seemed to hurt all over. "It my sword," he managed to say, though the pain in his lungs stabbed him with every word. "It my sword! My sword!"

"You'll ruin everything, you fool!" the elf yelled. "It's a wish sword! We can fight Istar with it! We can save ourselves and our people from Istar if we use it right! We have the chance now! Give me the sword!"

The goblin shook his head slowly. He kept the sword point facing the elf, ready to thrust in case the elf did something stupid like charge. But the goblin was feeling very tired now. It seemed like a year since he'd slept last.

The sword was very heavy, and his chest was starting to hurt more than usual. He tried to swallow, but it hurt too much. The elf held his pose, his arms reaching out to the goblin from a crouched stance. Then he slowly let his arms drop, and he stood up. "Fine," said the elf in a different, flat voice. "I should have known better. I should have known.

This is the way you want it, so" - the elf raised his hands into the air - "I have no choice."

The elf's hands began to glow.

The goblin's mouth fell open. He raised his sword - and he couldn't remember his wish.

"ALIAKIADAM VITHOFO MILGREYA!" shouted the elf. "SOMALITARAK CIONDIAMAL FREETRA - "

A huge, dark shape arose from the brush behind the elf, its ma.s.sive brown bulk and long horns silhouetted against the light of the dying fire. The goblin saw the minotaur and fell back with a wild cry. He landed on his backside and knocked the wind out of his lungs. He didn't release the sword, simply held it before him.

The minotaur swung its arms in a huge, rapid arc. The black iron chain whipped around, struck the elf in the back, smacking him like a giant's hammer. The elf was thrown forward into the air, crashing in a heap on the ground. The magic on his hands flared up - and died out.

The elf writhed on the ground, gasping for air. He managed to roll onto his chest and pushed himself up to face the minotaur. The elf's chest heaved, and his face twisted in grotesque pain. The goblin could see in the firelight that the back of the elf's shirt was stained dark and wet where the thick chain had struck him. Not daring to move or think, the goblin stared at the minotaur, which was standing upright now, facing the elf. From the minotaur's large hands dangled the long black chain, readied for another strike.

The goblin tried to remember his wish, but it wouldn't come to him. He couldn't think of it at all.

"Well," said the minotaur in the trade tongue, as it looked at the elf, "aren't you going to throw a spell at me?"

The elf wheezed, seeming to find it hard to breathe.

The goblin stared at the huge brown monster and forgot about breathing entirely.

"You ... can talk," the elf gasped at last.

"Very good," the minotaur said. It spoke lazily, but with a perfectly precise grasp of the trade tongue. "You have learned something about your world that you did not know before. I've heard that elves value knowledge, so this information will serve you well in the afterlife."

"Wait," said the elf, trying to catch his breath. "Just wait. We set out ... to get the sword ... so that we could ...

use it against ... our common foe ... Istar. We have to - "

"No," said the minotaur. "We each set out to gain the sword for our own purposes." The minotaur flicked a glance in the goblin's direction. "I would guess that our friend the goblin merely wants power. Maybe he wants to be a G.o.d. But my need of the sword is far simpler."

The goblin wondered if he was dreaming. The elf pulled himself up a bit, but couldn't seem to sit upright now; he grimaced as he settled down, chest against the earth again, his breath coming shallow and quickly.

"You don't appear to have heard me," said the minotaur. The chain in its fists swung slightly.

"No! I heard!" said the elf quickly. "Why? Why?" "Because this is the way of the world: Only the strong deserve to rule, and the strong should use any means at their disposal to accomplish this. Because true strength is revealed in chaos, in the destruction of all borders and laws and boundaries, so that each being may challenge every other for the right to rule. Once I take that sword, I will ensure my chance to rule the world, from sea to sea and beyond, for all time, by wishing for the doom of the civilized world. My brethren and I will have our freedom at last, and we will command what's left of this sad, tortured land."

The elf stared at the minotaur. "Madness," he whispered.

"No more mad than your hope to destroy a part of Istar's power with this sword. You'd open the gates to chaos in your own way, but you'd leave justice and order in the world intact. Those who make the laws and govern the armies would probably find minotaurs to be as inconvenient as do the Istarians - and they might not be as willing to save our race for enslavement."

The goblin figured that the elf's back was broken, and indeed it might be, but the elf seemed to gather some strength as he spoke next. "If we use ... the sword together, we ... can break the hold ... Istar has on us!" he pleaded softly. "We can start to ... throw down slavery ... and killing and prejudice everywhere, and be free! We can ... have a new world!"

"Did you not attempt to enslave me with one of your spells before we left on this quest?" asked the minotaur, raising a thick eyebrow. "If that's a sample of how your new world is going to be, I confess I find it lacking. I threw off that spell, thanks only to my willpower - the same willpower that allowed me to survive long enough in this mad wilderness to be found by that pathetic kender.

Besides, I really have no quarrel with slavery or killing - as long as it is the minotaurs who are doing the enslaving and murdering. It is the way of the world. You elves should really come out of your forests once in a while and see what the world's all about."

Sweat dripped from the minotaur's broad snout. "This has gone on long enough. You have had your fun tonight.

And now I'd like some fun myself." It stepped forward, arms and chain swinging back and around.

The elf raised a hand. "ELEKONIA XANES," he said, pointing his index finger in the minotaur's direction.

A pulsing stream of white light burst from the elf's finger, flashed into the minotaur's chest. The beast flinched and threw back its head, roaring in agony. Then it came on, maddened, the long chain lashing down to strike at the elf's head. The goblin came to his senses and rolled to get out of the way.

The elf gave a strangled cry when the chain struck him. The goblin heard the chain lash down again, and again, and he kept rolling to get away.

Then he remembered his wish.

He remembered it perfectly.

He stopped rolling and held onto the sword's hilt as he lay on his chest, facing away from the smashing and rattling sounds as the minotaur flailed at the fallen elf.

"I wish," began the goblin in a choking voice, his chestburning and his hands shaking, "that I would be - "

He heard the minotaur's earth-shattering roar directly behind him. Panicked, he brought the sword up as the minotaur leaped at him.

It was cold, but the goblin didn't feel the cold very much. The chill from the ground seeped into his body and through his bones, but it seemed very distant and not very real. It was odd that he felt no pain. For some reason, he thought that he should.

Someone was calling, someone close by. The goblin opened his eyes and saw dark gray clouds rolling overhead, heard the wind tossing the tree branches. Something cold and wet struck him on the forehead. Rain, maybe.

A new sound began. It was the stupid kender. He was crying. The goblin stirred, trying to look in the kender's direction, but he couldn't move very well. He found it hard to breathe.

Footsteps thumped over to his side. Small, cold hands touched his cheeks, wiping away dirt and blood. Turning his head, he saw a thin face with tangled brown hair and brown eyes.

"Are you alive?" the kender asked, his voice almost breaking. "I saw you move. Please say you're alive."

The goblin licked his lips. His mouth felt very dry, and it tasted awful. "Yes," he said. It hurt to speak; the wind almost carried his voice away.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here," the kender said, choking back his sobs. His hands continued to clean the goblin's face. "I got lost last night because of the explosion and the wind, and I crashed in some bushes. I came down far away and kept falling over things and getting stuck in briars and almost twisted my ankle. What happened?"

"Fight," the goblin managed to say. Was the kender going to talk him to death? He suspected that he was dying anyway. Then he remembered. "Minotaur," he whispered fearfully, trying to look around.

"The minotaur's over there." The kender waved an arm blindly to his right. "I'm sorry. He ... he's dead." The kender started to cry again but fought it down. "The humans killed him with the gem sword. The elf's dead, too.

The humans beat him up. I don't want you to die, too."

With a sudden effort, the goblin forced himself to sit up a few inches and looked in the direction the kender had indicated. The minotaur lay collapsed in a dirty brown heap, the sword's silver blade protruding from its back.

The goblin remembered now the minotaur's roar as it had leapt upon the blade, its full weight smashing into the goblin's face and chest. Then the awful gurgling howl as it arose and tried to breathe with a shaft of steel through its lung and heart.

The goblin eased himself back down, fighting the dull pain that came from his chest. I should be happy, he thought. I killed a minotaur. But I feel so tired. It isn't worth it to move. I just want to ... Oh. The - "Sword," whispered the goblin. He tried to reach toward the dead minotaur. "Sword."

The kender wiped his eyes and leaned closer. "What?" "Sword," said the goblin. He tried to reach for it.

Things seemed to get dark and that frightened him, but his hand caught the kender's hand, and he felt less afraid.

Stupid kender, he thought, and the world slowly drifted away.

One of the wagons carried shovels. It took the rest of the day, with intermittent droplets of rain falling all around, for the kender to dig a pit large enough to bury his three friends. The goblin had asked for the sword, so the kender carefully cleaned it after removing it from the minotaur's chest, never touching the blade. He held it by its hilt as he prepared to lay it at the dead goblin's side.

"I wish ..." the kender whispered, then closed his eyes to better remember the words that his parents had taught him. He could remember only the end of the good-bye prayers, so he said that. "I wish you peace on your journey, and hope you will be waiting for me at the end of your travels."

Because his eyes were closed, he did not see the sword glow briefly as he spoke. The light faded away when he set the sword into the goblin's hand.

The kender filled the pit halfway with dirt, then covered it with rocks to keep out wolves and other creatures. It was dawn the next day before he was finished.

He left the Istarian soldiers where they lay. Then he went home.

Raindrops began falling all across the hilltop. Within minutes, the land was awash in a cold, blinding torrent.

The Three Lives of Horgan Oxthrall Douglas Niles Research of Foryth Teel, scribe serving Astinus Lorekeeper My Most Honored Master: Regretfully, information detailing the history of the Khalkist dwarves during the century preceding the Cataclysm is spa.r.s.e and, for the most part, of questionable veracity. Nevertheless, I shall endeavor to collect the sc.r.a.ps that yield themselves to me and present them to you in as sensible a manner as possible.

The tale begins with the Istarian invasion of the Khalkist Mountains in 117 PC, following the dwarven reaction to the Proclamation of Manifest Virtue (118 PC).

The Khalkist dwarves' refusal to renounce Reorx and swear obeisance to only the G.o.ds of good was viewed as a direct challenge to the authority of the Kingpriest. The resulting disastrous campaign is, naturally enough, given scant treatment in the surviving human histories.

The few traversable routes through the crest of the high Khalkists - most notably, Stone Pillar and White Bear pa.s.ses - were the only overland roads connecting the eastern and western portions of the empire of Istar.

Angered by the effrontery of the human proclamation, thedwarves turned their backs on a lucrative income (from tolls on the pa.s.ses) and closed their realm to Istar.

The emperor invaded late the following summer (117 PC), delaying the a.s.sault until then in order to minimize the difficulties presented by the deep snow in the heights.

He sent two of his legions against each of the two major pa.s.ses - a total army of some forty thousand men. The rugged terrain confined each force to a single deep valley, and though each marched but a score of leagues from the other, neither was in a position to support its counterpart in the event of difficulty.

The dwarves capitalized on this disadvantage quickly, meeting the two southern legions with some eight thousand doughty warriors. Meanwhile, the northern wing of the Istarian army advanced over rougher ground, pushing toward the lofty divide at a snail's pace.

Making his attack in the south from ambush, at the fording of a rapid stream, the dwarven commander timed the onslaught perfectly. (Incidentally, reports indicate, but do not confirm, that the dwarven field army was led by High Thane Rankil himself.) Waiting until half of the Istarians had crossed, the Khalkist army annihilated an entire legion and harried the second all the way back to the lowlands. There the remnant of the human legion remained, its fighting spirit shattered on the granite foothills. The heights loomed like jagged daggers to the west, casting shadows of an early sunset over Istar. (I beg Your Excellency's forgiveness of my metaphorical excess!) By this time, the northern legions had penetrated to Stone Pillar Pa.s.s, without seeing a single dwarf. Then, abruptly, the attacks began - sudden strikes from concealment. There seems to have been a simple sameness to the tactic: A wedge of stocky, bearded dwarves bearing keen battle- axes or steel-headed hammers charged from a ridge line or ravine, slashing into the human column, then disappearing before the Istarian army could concentrate its forces. The attacks were repeated; the position of the legions became untenable. The human troops endured short rations, harsh weather, and constant hara.s.sing combat, but their generals ordered them to stand firm.

After several weeks of this treatment, during which every grown, able-bodied male dwarf was drawn into the Khalkist army, the centurions commanding the two trapped legions gradually came to grips with the precariousness of their situation. Food had begun to run low, and the icy menace of winter was a constant reminder behind the harsh autumn winds. Desperate, the commanders ordered a march back to Istar.

The humans surrounded their heavy, ox-drawn supply wagons with many ranks of guards and rumbled down the high valleys. The oxen led the charge against the dense dwarven formations when the Khalkist forces strategically chose to block the Istarian army's retreat.

Reports from Istarian sources, Excellency, confirm the truth of this last tactic, claiming that the oxen presence was often effective against dwarves. It seems that the wagon handlers fed the beasts a gruel laced with rum before the battle - a goodly dose reputed to have made the normally equable oxen most disagreeable. They are great creatures,of course, and must have loomed over the dwarves in elephantine proportion!

Nevertheless, the stocky mountain dwellers tried to stop the Istarian army, even as roadblock after roadblock crumbled before the lumbering beasts of burden as the oxen scattered the dwarves. Still, High Thane Rankil remained stubbornly determined to obliterate the two legions.

The humans finally were cornered before the last river crossing - a historical site called Thoradin Bridge, which I have located on a pre-Cataclysm map - leading to the safety of the Istarian Plains. Here a company of young dwarves stood, and once again the oxen were drawn to the fore.

At this point, Excellency, it becomes difficult to sort the legend from fact. We know that the human force was lost in total - the greatest military defeat suffered by Istar to that date. As for the course of the battle, little is known.

However, I have uncovered a somewhat implausible tale. Dwarven legend has it that a young dwarf, one Horgan of Squire, employed some great magic - often referred to as the power of Reorx - to lure the oxen away from the bridge, diverting the fateful charge that would have ensured the human escape. It is said that this Horgan wore a tunic embroidered with silver thread, portraying as its symbol the Great Forge of Reorx. It seems, indeed, Excellency, that the youth was host to a miracle! Many accounts have been cited - dwarves who saw the blessing of Reorx ignite in young Horgan, leading the enemy army to disaster!

Reports of specifics vary here, Your Grace, but I am a.s.sured that witnesses attested to beams of silvery light emanating, sometimes from the ground, at other times from the clouds. Others heard choruses of heavenly voices - songs that tore the hearts of even stalwart dwarves with their pure beauty! O Exalted One, it makes me tremble to think of it!

But, excuse my rambling. In any event, with the failure of the oxen's charge, the defense of the bridge held and the human army met its grim fate. Legend has it that the river was tainted blood red all the way to Istar itself. (A precursor, if you will, of the great bloodletting that the G.o.ds would send against that unholy city! Indeed, Excellency - a sign of the coming, the making of the very Bloodsea itself! How splendid is the will of the G.o.ds - shown to us through the window of history!) The tale concludes with the young hero dubbed, by the high thane himself, as Horgan Oxthrall.

It seems that, technically, Horgan Squire was too young to serve in the army. But, as the war gradually had developed into an epic victory, every young dwarf who could break free from his hearth and home hastened to bear arms. Apparently, Horgan wove a beard of goat hair over his own spa.r.s.e whiskers to give the appearance of maturity.

The ruse worked - he was accepted into one of the last companies mustered for the war.

It was this company of young dwarves, formed with virtually no training, that was sent to the valley of Stone Pillar. This untried, inexperienced unit found itself standing astride the final link in the human escape route. Then, the miracle occurred - the oxen followed the youth into the ditch, and the human charge was stopped. At the ceremony, Horgan seems to have been given some official post, perhaps honorary. I'm not certain.