Dragonlance 08 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies (35 page)

Ariakas’s imperial suite was the most luxurious in the Temple, second only to that of the Nightlord. Ariakas rarely spent much time there. He did not trust the Nightlord, nor did the Nightlord trust him. The bozak, Targ, knew his way around the temple, but he was glad to have one of the dark priests serve as escort. They marched Kitiara through the distorted halls. But even those who worked in the Temple often found the hallways confusing. Their escort was forced to halt at one point to wait for another dark pilgrim to provide direction.

As Kitiara trudged along in between the two baaz, who wouldn’t even look at her, much less speak to her, she tried to devise some plan of escape. Ariakas was smart. The Temple made an excellent prison. Even if she managed to free herself from her confinement, she might wander these halls forever and never find the way out. The dark priests would not help her. They would be just as happy to see her dead.

This was the end. She was finished. She cursed that idiot Verminaard for getting himself assassinated, cursed Tanis for killing him, cursed Feal-Thas for spying on her, cursed Toede for having been born, and cursed Ariakas for not letting her pursue the war in Solamnia. Fighting the knights would have kept her out of trouble.

The bent-wing bozak, Targ, led her to the imperial suite which was located far below ground level, hidden from public view. The chambers belonging to the Highlords were all at the top of the temple structure, above the Hall of Audience. Kit had often wondered why Ariakas had chosen subterranean rooms for his apartment. When she saw them, she understood. This was not a dwelling place. It was a bunker. Here, underground, accessible only by a steeply winding staircase, were quarters for his troops and an attached storehouse stocked with supplies. A small force could hold out here for a long time, perhaps indefinitely.

The priest lit a torch and went on ahead down the staircase to disable the traps. The air was fetid and damp. Murder holes lined the walls. Any force descending those stairs would have to move in single file, and the narrow stairs were deliberately rough and uneven. Even the draconians with their clawed feet had to watch their footing or risk a fall. At the bottom, a massive iron door, operated by a complex mechanism, stood open. The bozaks led Kit through this door and into the apartments that were spacious, luxurious, dark, and oppressive.

No wonder Ariakas refused to live here, Kitiara thought with a shiver. This was where, if all went badly, he would make his final stand, fight his last battle, and, if defeat were imminent, this was where he would die.

At least he would die fighting, Kitiara reflected bitterly.

Ariakas had said she was to be locked in the storeroom. Targ escorted her to the room, which turned out to be a large pantry, dark and windowless, off the kitchen. The dark pilgrim brought her a blanket to spread on the cold stone floor and a slop bucket for her needs, and asked if she wanted anything to eat. Kit declined with scorn. The truth was, her stomach was clenched in knots. She feared she would throw up if she ate a morsel.

The dark priest asked about manacles. Despite Toede’s insistence on shackling Kit, the bozak had not thought to bring any along, and there were none to be found in the apartment. At length it was decided between Targ and the priest that for the moment manacles would be unnecessary. Kit obviously was not going anywhere until morning, when she would be led to her execution. The priest promised he would have manacles for her then. Targ shoved her inside the storeroom and started to shut the door.

“Targ, tell Ariakas I am innocent!” Kitiara pleaded with the draconian. “Tell him I can prove it! If he will only come to see me—”

Targ slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock.

Alone in pitch darkness, Kitiara heard the clawed feet of the bozak scraping over the stone floor. Then there was silence.

She could hear the beating of her own heart, each beat falling into the silence like grains of sand, counting out the seconds to her death. Kitiara listened to her heartbeat until the thudding grew so loud the walls of her prison seemed to expand and contract with this sound.

Kit was, for the first time in her life, almost sick with fear.

She had witnessed people being hanged, drawn, and quartered. The ordeal was terrible. She’d known veteran soldiers forced to turn away their heads, unable to stomach the gruesome sight. First, she would be hanged, but not until she died, only until she lost consciousness. Then she would be roused and staked down on the ground. The executioner would cut her organs from her still-living body. Screaming and writhing in unbearable agony, she would be forced to watch as her entrails were thrown into a fire and burned. She would be left to slowly bleed to death until, near the end, they would hack the limbs from her body and cut off her head. The various parts of her would be thrust onto pikes and left to rot at the Temple gates.

Kitiara imagined what the knife would feel like as it sliced into her gut. She imagined the cheers of the crowd as the blood spurted, cheers that, though loud, would not drown out her screams. The chill sweat rolled down her face and neck. Her stomach heaved; her hands began to shake. She could not swallow; she could not breathe. She gasped for air and jumped to her feet with some wild idea of flinging herself headlong into the wall, to end it by dashing out her brains against the stone.

Reason prevailed. Fearing she was on the verge of madness, she forced herself to think this through. She was down, but not out. It was only mid morning. She had the rest of the day and all the night to come up with a plan of escape.

What then? What if she did escape?

Kitiara sank down upon the chair. She would be alive, that was true, and that counted for something, but she would spend the rest of her life on the run. She, who had been a Dragon Highlord, a leader of armies, a conqueror of nations, would now skulk about the woods, forced to sleep in caves, reduced to thieving. The ignominy and shame of such a wretched existence would be harder for her to endure than the few terrible hours of agony she would suffer at her execution.

Kitiara let her head sink into her hands. A single tear burned her cheek; she angrily dashed it away. She had never known such despair, never been in such a hopeless position. She might try to make a bargain with Ariakas, but she had nothing to give.

A bargain.

Kitiara raised her head. She stared into the darkness. She could strike a bargain, but not with Ariakas—some-one higher. She didn’t know if it would work. Half of her thought it might, the other half scoffed. Still, it was worth a try.

Kitiara had never in her life asked a boon of anyone. She had never said a prayer, was not even certain how one went about praying. Priests and clerics went down on their knees, humiliated and abased themselves before the god. Kitiara did not think any god would be pleased with that, particularly a strong goddess, a warrior goddess, a goddess who had dared to wage war on earth and in heaven.

Kitiara stood up. She clenched her fists and shouted out, “Queen Takhisis. You want Lord Soth. I can bring him to you. I am the only one of your Highlords, my Queen, with the skill and the courage to confront the death knight in his keep and convince him of the worthiness of our cause. Help me escape this prison tonight, Dark Majesty, and I will do the rest.”

Kitiara fell silent. She waited expectantly, though she was not sure for what. Some sort of sign, perhaps, that the goddess had heard her bargain, accepted her deal. She’d seen the priests receive such signs, or so they claimed. Flames flaring upon the altar, blood seeping from solid stone. She had always assumed these were nothing more than tricks. Her little brother, Raistlin, had taught her how such fakery could be accomplished.

Kitiara did not believe in miracles, yet she had asked for one.

Perhaps that was the reason no sign came. The darkness remained dark. She heard no voice, heard nothing except her beating heart. Kit sat back down. She felt foolish, but also calm—the calm of despair.

She had only now to wait for death.

7

The white bean. The Ice Folk.

he day that started out disastrously for Kitiara proved better for her rival. Laurana had asked the griffons to take them to Icereach and the griffons did so, though they refused to go near Ice Wall castle, telling her it was inhabited by a white dragon. The griffons made it clear they did not fear the dragon, but said they would have difficulty fighting a dragon while carrying riders.

The griffons told Laurana she and her companions would need help if they were going to remain in this region, stating they would not survive long without shelter, food, and heavier clothing. The land was inhabited by nomadic humans, known as the Ice Folk, who might be able to assist them, if they could convince the people they had no hostile intent.

Once they crossed the sea and were over the glacier, several griffons left the group to scout, keeping an eye out for the dragon and searching for the Ice Folk. The scouts soon returned to say they had found the nomad encampment. The griffons deposited their riders at some distance from the camp, for they feared if the Ice Folk saw the great winged beasts they would turn against the strangers immediately.

The Ice Folk have no love for Feal-Thas, the griffon told Laurana, as they made ready to depart, telling her the wizard and his thanoi had been waging war on the nomads for the past few months. The griffon left her with a final warning: make friends with the Ice Folk. They were fierce warriors who would be valuable allies, deadly foes.

After the griffons departed, the group sought shelter in the ruins of a large sailboat that appeared to have crashed and overturned on the ice. The boat was like nothing any of them had ever seen, for it was made to sail on ice, not water. Large runners carved of wood were attached to the hull. When the sail was hoisted, the boat would apparently skim over the surface of the ice.

The boat’s hull offered some protection from the frigid wind, though not from the bone-chilling, flesh-numbing cold. The group discussed how best to approach the Ice Folk. According to the griffons, most of the nomads spoke Common, for during the summer months, when the fishing was good, they would sell their fish in the markets of Rigitt. Elistan proposed sending Laurana to speak to them, due to her diplomatic skills. Derek objected, saying that they had no way of knowing how the Ice Folk felt about elves or if they had ever even seen an elf.

They were huddled together in the wreckage of the boat, arguing or trying to argue—their mouths were stiff from cold and it was difficult to talk—when the argument was interrupted by a hoarse cry, a roaring and bellowing sound, as of some creature in pain. Ordering the rest to stay in the boat, Derek and his knights left to see what was wrong. Tasslehoff immediately chased after the knights. Sturm chased after Tas, and Flint went with him. Gilthanas said he did not trust Derek, and he followed, accompanied by Elistan, who thought he might be of some use. Laurana had no intention of remaining behind alone, and thus the entire group trailed after Derek, much to his ire.

They came upon an enormous white bear being attacked by two kapak draconians, who were jabbing at the bear with spears. The bear was on her hind legs, roaring and batting at the spears with enormous paws. Red blood marred the bear’s white fur. Laurana wondered why the bear did not simply run off, and then she saw the reason. The bear was trying to protect two white cubs who crouched together behind her.

“So the foul lizards are here, too,” Flint stated dourly.

He fumbled at his axe, trying to draw it from its harness on his back. His gloved hands were clumsy from the cold, and he dropped it. The axe fell to the ice with a clang.

At the sound, the draconians halted their attack and looked over their shoulders. Seeing themselves vastly outnumbered, they turned and started to run.

“They’ve seen us!” said Derek. “Don’t let them get back to report. Aran, your bow!”

Aran removed his bow from his shoulder. Like Flint, the knight’s hands were chilled to the bone, and he could not force his stiffened fingers to grasp the arrow. Derek drew his sword and started to run for the draconians, shouting for Brian to come with him. The knights slipped and slithered over the ice. The draconians, getting far better traction with their clawed feet, soon outdistanced them, disappearing into the white wilderness. Derek came back, cursing beneath his breath.

The white bear had collapsed and lay bleeding on the ice. Her cubs pawed her wounded body, trying to urge her to get up. Heedless of Derek’s shouts that the wounded bear would attack him, Elistan walked over to kneel at the bear’s side. The bear growled weakly at him, bared her teeth, and tried to raise her head, but she was too weak. Murmuring to her comfortingly, Elistan placed his hands on the bear, who seemed soothed by his touch. She gave a great, groaning sigh and relaxed.

“The draconians will be back,” Derek stated impatiently. “The creature is dying. There is nothing we can do. We should leave before they return in greater numbers. I’m going to put a stop to this.”

“Do not disturb Elistan at his prayers, sir,” said Sturm and when it seemed Derek was going to ignore him, Sturm placed a restraining hand on Derek’s arm.

Derek glared at him and Sturm removed his hand, but he remained standing between the knight and Elistan. Derek muttered something and walked off. Aran went with him, while Brian remained to watch.

As Elistan prayed, the gaping wounds and bloody gashes in the bear’s chest and flanks closed over. Brian gasped and said softly to Sturm, “How did he do that?”

“Elistan would say that he did nothing; it is the god who brings about this miracle,” Sturm replied with a smile.

“You believe in … this?” said Brian, gesturing toward Elistan.

“It is difficult not to,” Sturm replied, “when the proof is before your eyes.”

Brian wanted to ask more. He wanted to ask Sturm if he prayed to Paladine, but asking such a personal question would be ill-mannered, and therefore Brian kept silent. He had another reason. If Derek found out Sturm Brightblade believed in these gods and actually prayed to them, it would be yet another black mark against him.

The bear was starting to try to regain her feet. She was still a wild beast with young to protect, and Elistan prudently and hastily backed away, dragging Tasslehoff, who had been making friends with the bear cubs. The group returned to the boat. Glancing back, they saw the bear on all fours starting to lumber off, her cubs crowding near her.

Derek and Aran were talking over the fact that draconians were this far south.

“The draconians must be in the service of Feal-Thas,” Derek was saying. “They will report back to him that three Solamnic knights are now in Icereach.”

“I’m sure that this news will have the Highlord shaking in his fur-lined boots,” said Aran dryly.

“He will guess we are here after the dragon orb,” said Derek, “and he will send his troops to attack us.”

“Why should he immediately jump to the conclusion that we’re after the orb?” Aran demanded. “Just because you are obsessed with this artifact, Derek, doesn’t mean everyone is—”

“Did you two see that?” Brian cried excitedly, joining them. “Look! The bear is walking around. Elistan healed her wounds—”

“You are such an innocent, Brian,” said Derek caustically. “You never fail to fall for some charlatan’s tricks. The bear’s wounds were only superficial. Anyone could see that.”

“No, Derek, you’re wrong,” Brian began, but he was interrupted by Aran, who took hold of each man’s arm and gripped it tightly, warningly.

“Look around. Slowly.”

The knights turned to see a group of warriors clad in skins and furs heading their way. The warriors were armed with spears and some of them held strange-looking axes that glistened in the chill sunshine as though they were made of crystal.

“Get everyone into the boat!” Derek ordered. “We can use that for cover.”

Brian ran back, shouting at the others and yelling at them to run for the boat. He grabbed hold of Tasslehoff and hustled him off. Flint, Gilthanas and Laurana hurried after them. Sturm assisted Elistan, who was having difficulty keeping his footing.

The warriors continued to advance. Aran began blowing on his hands, trying to warm them so he could use his bow. Flint peered out over the hull, fingering his axe and staring curiously at the odd-looking axes of the enemy.

“These must be the Ice Folk the griffons mentioned,” said Laurana, hastening up to Derek. “We should try to talk to them, not fight them.”

“I will go,” Elistan offered.

“It’s too dangerous,” said Derek.

Elistan looked at Tasslehoff, who was blue with the cold and shaking so badly that his pouches rattled. The others were not much better.

“I think the most urgent danger we face now is from freezing to death,” Elistan said. “I do not think I will be in danger. These warriors have not rushed to the attack, as they would have if they thought we were with the armies of the Highlord.”

Derek considered this. “Very well, but I will be the one to talk to them.”

“If you will allow me to go, Sir Derek, it would be more prudent,” said Elistan mildly. “If anything should happen to me, you will be needed here.”

Derek gave an abrupt nod.

“We will cover you,” he said, seeing that Aran had managed to warm his fingers enough to be able to use his bow. He had an arrow nocked and ready.

Laurana stood close to Tasslehoff, pressing the shivering kender against her body and wrapping her coat around him. They watched in tense silence as Elistan raised his arms to show he carried no weapons and walked out from the shelter of the boat. The warriors saw him; several pointed at him. The lead warrior—an enormous man with flaming red hair that seemed the only color in this white world—saw him too. The lead warrior kept going and urged his warriors forward.

“Look at that!” Aran exclaimed suddenly, pointing.

“Elistan!” Brian called a warning. “The white bear is following you!”

Elistan glanced around. The bear was trotting over the ice on all fours, her cubs running along behind her.

“Elistan, come back!” Laurana cried fearfully.

“Too late,” said Derek grimly. “He would never make it. Aran, shoot the bear.”

Aran raised his bow. He started to pull back the string, but his arm jerked and he lost his grip.

“Let go of me!” he cried angrily.

“No one has hold of you,” said Brian.

Aran glanced around. Flint and Sturm were standing on the other side of the boat. Tasslehoff—the most likely suspect—was shivering in Laurana’s grasp. Brian stood next to Derek, and Gilthanas was over beside Flint.

Aran looked foolish. “Sorry.” He shook his head, muttered, “I could have sworn I felt someone.”

He lifted the bow again.

The bear was on Elistan’s heels. The warriors had seen the animal as well, and now their red-bearded leader called a halt.

Elistan must have heard the warning shouts. He must have heard the beast scrabbling over the ice close behind him, but if he did, he did not turn. He kept walking.

“Shoot!” Derek ordered, rounding on Aran furiously.

“I can’t!” Aran gasped. He was sweating, despite the cold. His hand grasped the arrow, his arm shook with his great effort, but he didn’t fire. “Someone has hold of my arm!”

“No, someone doesn’t,” said Tasslehoff between chatters. “Should one of us tell him?”

“Hush,” said Laurana softly.

The bear reared up on her hind legs, towering over Elistan. She lifted up her great paws, held them over him, and gave a great, bellowing roar.

The leader of the warriors gazed long at the bear, then, turning around, he made a motion to his men. One by one, they threw their weapons onto the ice. The red-bearded warrior walked slowly toward Elistan. The bear relaxed down on all fours, though she still kept her gaze fixed upon the warriors.

The red-bearded man had bright blue eyes and a large nose. His face was seamed and weathered, and his voice rumbled like an avalanche. He spoke Common, though with a thick accent. He gestured at the bear.

“The bear has been hurt. She is covered with blood. Did you do this?” he asked Elistan.

“If I did, would she walk with me?” Elistan returned. “The bear was attacked by draconians. These valiant knights”—he pointed at Derek and the others, who had come out from the shelter of the boat—“chased them off. They saved the bear’s life.”

The warrior grunted. He eyed Elistan and he eyed the bear and then he lowered his spear. He bowed to the bear and spoke to her in his own language. Reaching into a leather pouch he had tied to his belt, he threw some bits of fish to the bear, who ate them with relish, then, rounding up her cubs, the bear lumbered away, heading at a rapid pace over the glacier.

“The white bear is the guardian of our tribe,” the warrior stated. “You are fortunate she vouched for you, otherwise we would have killed you. We do not like strangers. As it is, you will be our honored guests.”

“I swear to you, Derek,” Aran was saying as the knights went to meet Elistan, “it was as if someone had hold of me in a grip of iron!”

“Good thing, too,” remarked Brian. “If you’d killed that bear, we would all be dead now.”