Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun (13 page)

distortion of the air, a distortion that caused the trees to waver in

his sight.

Silvan continued to climb.

"A mirage," he said. "Like seeing water in the middle of the

road on a hot day. It will disappear when I come near it."

He reached the top of the hill and tried to see through the trees

to the road he knew must lie beyond. In order to keep moving, .

moving through the pain, he had concentrated his focus upon the

road until the road had become his one goal.

"I have to reach the road," he mumbled, picking up the

mantra. "The road is the end of pain, the road will save me, save

my people. Once I reach the road, I am certain to run into a band

of elven scouts from my mother's army. I will turn over my mis-

sion to them. Then I will lie down upon the road and my pain will

end and the gray ash will cover me . . ."

He slipped, nearly fell. Fear jolted him out of his terrible

reverie. Silvan stood trembling, staring about, prodding his mind

to return from whatever comforting place it had been trying to

find refuge. He was only a few feet from the road. Here, he was

thankful to see, the trees were not dead, though they appeared to

be suffering from some sort of blight. The leaves were still green,

though they drooped, wilting. The bark of the trunks had an un-

healthy look to it, was staring to drop off in places.

He looked past them. He could see the road, b\lt he could not

see it clearly. The road wavered in his vision until he grew dizzy

to look at it. He wondered uneasily if this was due to his fall.

"Perhaps I am going blind," he said to himself.

Frightened, he turned his head and looked behind him. His

vision cleared. The gray trees stood straight, did not shimmer. Re-

lieved, he looked back to the road. The distortion returned.

"Strange," he muttered. "1 wonder what is causing this?"

His walk slowed involuntarily. He studied the distortion

closely. He had the oddest impression that the distortion was like

a cobweb spun by some horrific spider strung between him and

the road, and he was reluctant to come near the shimmer. The dis-

quieting feeling came over him that the shimmering web would

seize him and hold him and suck him dry as it had sucked dry the

trees. Yet beyond the distortion was the road, his goal, his hope.

He took a step toward the road and came to a sudden halt. He

could not go on. Yet there lay the road, only a few steps away.

Gritting his teeth, he shoved forward, cringing as if he expected

to feel sticky web cling to his face.

Silvan's way was blocked. He felt nothing. No physical pres-

ence halted him, but he could not move. Rather, he could not

move forward. He could move sideways, he could move back-

ward. He could not move ahead.

"An invisible barrier. Gray ash. Trees dead and dying," he

murmured.

He reached into the swirling depths of pain and fear and de-

spair and brought forth the answer.

"The shield. This is the shield!" he repeated, aghast.

The magical shield that the Silvanesti had dropped over their

homeland. He had never seen it, but he'd heard his mother de-

scribe it often enough. He had heard others describe the strange

shimmer, the distortion in the air produced by the shield.

"It can't be," Silvan cried in frustration. "The shield cannot

be here. It is south of my position! I was on the road, traveling

west. The shield was south of me." He twisted, looked up to

find the sun, but the clouds had thickened, and he could not

see it.

The answer came to him and with it bitter despair. "I'm

turned around," he said. "I've come all this way. . . and it's been

the wrong way!"

Tears stung his eyelids. The thought of descending this hill, of

going back down into the ravine, of retracing his steps, each step

that had cost him so dearly in pain, was almost too much to bear.

He sank down to the ground, gave way to his misery.

" Alhana! Mother!" he said in agony, "forgive me! I have failed

you! What have I ever done in life but fail you. . . ?"

"Who are you who speaks the name that is forbidden to

speak?" said a voice. "Who are you who speaks the name

Alhana?"

Silvan leaped to his feet. He dashed the tears from his eyes

with a backhand smear, looked about, startled, to see who had

spoken.

At first he saw only a patch of vibrant, living green, and he

thought that he had discovered a portion of the forest untouched

by the disease that had stricken the rest. But then the patch

moved and shifted and revealed a face and eyes and mouth and

hands, revealed itself to be an elf.

The elf's eyes were gray as the forest around him, but they

were only reflecting the death he saw, revealing the grief he felt

for the loss.

"Who am I who speaks my mother's name?" Silvan asked im-

patiently. "Her son, of course." He took a lurching step forward,

hand outstretched. "But the battle. . . Tell me how the battle went!

How did we fare?"

The elf drew back, away from Silvan's touch. "What battle?"

he asked.

Silvan stared at the man. As he did so, he noted movement

behind him. Three more elves emerged from the woods. He

would have never seen them had they not stirred, and he won-

dered how long they had been there. Silvan did not recognize

them, but that wasn't unusual. He did not venture out much

among the common soldiers of his mother's forces. She did not

encourage such companionship for her son, who was someday

destined to be king, would one day be their ruler.

"The battle!" Silvan repeated impatiently. "We were attacked

by ogres in the night! Surely, you must. . ."

Realization dawned on him. These elves were not dressed for

warfare. They were clad in clothes meant for traveling. They

might well not know of any battle.

"You must be part of the long-range patrol. You've come back

in good time." Silvan paused, concentrated his thoughts, trying to

penetrate the smothering fog of pain and despair. "We were at-

tacked last night, during the storm. An army of ogres. I . . ." He

paused, bit his lip, reluctant to reveal his failure. "1 was sent to

fetch aid. The Legion of Steel has a fortress near Sithelnost. Down

that road." He made a feeble gesture. "1 must have fallen. My arm

is broken. I came the wrong way and now I must backtrack, and

I don't have the strength. I can't make it, but you can. Take this

message to the commander of the legion. Tell him that Alhana i1~

Starbreeze is under attack. . . ."

He stopped speaking. One of the elves had made a sound, a

slight exclamation. The elf in the lead, the first to approach Silvan,

raised his hand to impose silence.

Silvan was growing increasingly exasperated. He was morti-

fyingly aware that he cut but a poor figure, clutching his

wounded arm to his side like a hurt bird dragging a wing. But he

was desperate. The time must be midmorning now. He could not

go on. He was very close to collapse. He drew himself up, draped

in the cloak of his title and the dignity it lent him.

"You are in the service of my mother, Alhana Starbreeze," he

said, his voice imperious. "She is not here, but her son, Sil-

vanoshei, your prince, stands before you. In her name and in my

own, I command you to bear her message calling for deliverance

to the Legion of Steel. Make haste! I am losing patience!"

He was also rapidly losing his grip on consciousness, but he

didn't want these soldiers to think him weak. Wavering on his

feet, he reached out a hand to steady himself on a tree trunk. The

elves had not moved. They were staring at him now in wary as-

tonishment that widened their almond eyes. They shifted their

gazes to the road that lay beyond the shield, looked back at him.

"Why do you stand there staring at me?" Silvan cried. "Do as

rou are commanded! I am your prince!" A thought came to him.

You need have no fear of leaving me," he said. "1'11 be all right."

He waved his hand. "Just go! Go! Save our people!"

The lead elf moved closer, his gray eyes intent upon Silvan,

looking through him, sifting, sorting.

"What do you mean that you went the wrong way upon the

road ?"

"Why do you waste time with foolish questions?" Silvan re-

turned angrily. "I will report you to Samar! I will have you de-

moted!" He glowered at the elf, who continued to regard him

steadily. "The shield lies to the south of the road. I was traveling

to Sithelnost. I must have gotten turned around when I fell! Be-

cause the shield. . . the road. . ."

He turned around to stare behind him. He tried to think this

through, but his head was too muzzy from the pain.

"It can't be," he whispered.

No matter what direction he would have taken, he must have

still been able to reach the road, which lay outside the shield.

The road still lay outside the shield. He was the one who was

inside it.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"You are in Silvanesti," answered the elf.

Silvan closed his eyes. All was lost. His failure was complete.

He sank to his knees and pitched forward to lie face down in the

gray ash. He heard voices but they were far away and receding

rapidly.

"Do you think it is truly him?"

"Yes. It is."

"How can you be sure, Rolan? Perhaps it is a trick!"

"You saw him. You heard him. You heard the anguish in his

voice, you saw the desperation in his eyes. His arm is broken.

Look at the bruises on his face, his tom and muddy clothes. We

found the trail in ash left by his fall. We heard him talking to him-

self when he did not know we were close by. We saw him try to

reach the road. How can you possibly doubt?"

Silence, then, in a piercing hiss, "But how did he come

through the shield?"

"Some god sent him to us," said the lead elf, and Silvan felt a

gentle hand touch his cheek.

"What god?" The other was bitter, skeptical. "There are no

gods."

Silvan woke to find his vision clear, his senses restored. A dull

ache in his head made thinking difficult, and at first he was con-

tent to lie quite still, take in his surroundings, while his brain

scrambled to make sense of what was happening. He remem-

bered the road. . .

Silvan struggled to sit up.

A firm hand on his chest arrested his movement.

"Do not move too hastily. I have set your arm and wrapped it

in a poultice that will speed the healing. But you must take care

not to Jar It.

Silvan looked at his surroundings. He had the thought at first

that it had all been a dream, that he would wake to find himself

once again in the burial mound. He had not been dreaming,

however. The boles of the trees were the same as he remem-

bered-ugly gray, diseased, dying. The bed of leaves on which

he lay was a deathbed of rotting vegetation. The young trees and

plants and flowers that carpeted the forest floor drooped and

languished.

Silvanoshei took the elf's counsel and lay back down, more to

give himself time to sort out the confusion over what had hap-

pened to him than because he needed the rest.

"How do you feel?" The elf's tone was respectful.

"My head hurts a little," Silvan replied. "But the pain in my

arm is gone."

"Good," said the elf. "You may sit up then. Slowly, slowly.

Otherwise you will pass out."

A strong arm assisted Silvan to a seated position. He felt a

brief flash of dizziness and nausea, but he closed his eyes until

the sick feeling passed.

The elf held a wooden bowl to Silvan's lips.

"What's this?" he asked, eying with suspicion the brown

liquid the bowl contained.

" An herbal potion," replied the elf. "I believe that you have

suffered a mild concussion. This will ease the pain in your head

and promote the healing. Come, drink it. Why do you refuse?"

"I have been taught never to eat or drink anything unless I

know who prepared it and I have seen others taste it first,"

Silvanoshei replied.

The elf was amazed. "Even from another elf?"

"Especially from another elf," Silvanoshei replied grimly.

"Ah," said the elf, regarding him with sorrow. "Yes, of course.

I understand."

Silvan attempted to rise to his feet, but the dizziness assailed

him again. The elf put the bowl to his own lips and drank several

mouthfuls. Then, politely wiping the edge of the bowl, he offered

it again to Silvanoshei.

"Consider this, young man. If I wanted you dead, I could

have slain you while you were unconscious. Or I could have

simply left you here.1I He cast a glance around at the gray and

withered trees. IIYour death would be slower and more painful,

but it would come to you as it has come to too many of us."

Silvanoshei thought this over as best he could through the

throbbing of his head. What the elf said made sense. He took the

bowl in unsteady hands and lifted it to his lips. The liquid was

bitter, smelled and tasted of tree bark. The potion suffused his