Love And War (35 page)

Raistlin nodded, but said nothing. Walking to the entrance of the cave, he stood in the
doorway, watching his strong twin wade through the snow drifts, breaking a path the frail
twin could follow. Raistlin's lip curled in bitterness, but the sneer slipped as, turning,
he looked back inside the cave. The fire had died almost instantly upon Caramon's leaving.
Already, the chill was creeping back.

But there lingered on the air, still, the faint fra grance of lilac, of spring. . . .

Shrugging, Raistlin turned and walked out into the snow-blanketed forest.

The Wayward Inn looked its best in summer, a season that has this happy influence on just
about anything and everyone. Great quantities of ivy had been persuaded to cradle the inn
in its leafy, green embrace, thus hiding some of the building's worst deficiencies. The
roof still needed patching; this occurred to Slegart every time it rained when it was
impossible to go out and fix it. During dry weather, of course, it didn't leak and so
didn't need fixing. The windows were still cracked, but in the heat of summer, the cool
breeze that wafted through the panes was a welcome one.

There were more travelers at the inn during these journeying months. Dwarven smiths,
occasionally an elf, many humans, and more kender than anyone cared to think about,
generally kept Slegart and his barmaids busy from morning until late, late at night.

But this evening was quiet. It was a soft, fragrant summer evening. The twilight lingered
on in hues of purple and gold. The birds had sung their night songs and were now murmuring
sleepily to their young. Even the old trees of Wayreth seemed to have been lulled into
forgetting their guardian duties and slumbered drowsily at their posts. On this evening,
the inn itself was quiet, too.

It was too quiet, so two strangers thought as they approached the inn. Dressed in rich
clothing, their faces were covered with silken scarves - an unusual thing in such warm
weather. Only their black eyes were visible and, exchanging grim glances, they quickened
their steps, shoving open the wooden plank door and stepping inside.

Slegart sat behind the bar, wiping out a mug with a dirty rag. He had been wiping out that
same mug for an hour now and would probably have gone on wiping it for the next hour had
not two incidents occurring simultaneously interrupted him - the entry of the two muffled
strangers through the front door and the arrival of the servant girl, running breathlessly down the
stairs.

“Your pardon, gentlemen both,” Slegart said, rising slowly to his feet and holding up his
hand to check one of the strangers in his speech. Turning to the servant, he said gruffly,
“Well?”

The girl shook her head.

- Slegart's shoulders slumped. “Aye,” he muttered. “Well, p'rhaps it's better so.”

The two strangers glanced at each other. “And the babe?” Slegart asked. At this, the
servant girl burst into tears. “What?” Slegart asked, astonished. “Not the babe, too?”
“No!” the servant girl managed to gasp between sobs.

“The baby's fine. Listen - ” A faint cry came from overhead. “You can hear 'er now. But. .
. but - oh!” The girl covered her face with her hands. “It's dreadful! I've never seen
anything so frightening - ”

At this, one of the strangers nodded, and the other stepped forward.

“Pardon me, innkeep,” the stranger said in a cultivated voice with an unusual accent. “But
some terrible tragedy appears to have happened here. Perhaps it would be better if we
continued on - ”

“No, no,” Slegard said hastily, the thought of losing money bringing him to himself.
“There, Lizzie, either dry your tears and help, or go have your cry out in the kitchen.”

Burying her face in her apron, Lizzie ran off into the kitchen, setting the door swinging
behind her.

Slegart led the two strangers to a table. “A sad thing,” said the innkeeper, shaking his
head.

“Might we inquire - ” ventured the stranger casually, though an astute observer would have
noticed he was unusually tense and nervous, as was his companion.

“Nothin' for you gentlemen to concern yourselves with,” Slegart said. “Just one of the
serving girls died in childbirth.”

One of the strangers reached out involuntarily, grasping hold of his companion's arm with
a tight grip. The companion gave him a warning glance.

“This is indeed sad news. We're very sorry to hear it,” said the stranger in a voice he
was obviously keeping under tight control. “Was she - was she kin of yours? Pardon me for
asking, but you seem upset - ”

“I am that, gentlemen,” Slegard said bluntly. “And no, she warn't no kin of mine. Came to
me in the dead 'o winter half-starved, and begging for work. Somethin' familiar about her there was, but just as I
start to think on it - “ he put his hand to his head - ”I get this queer feelin'. . . .
'Cause of that, I was of a mind to turn her away, but“ - he glanced upstairs - ”you know
what women are. Cook took to her right off, fussin' over 'er and such like. I got to
admit,“ Slegart added solemnly, ”I'm not one fer gettin' attached to people. But she was
as pretty a critter as I've seen in all my born days. A hard worker, too. Never
complained. Quite a favorite she was with all of us.”

At this, one of the strangers lowered his head. The other put his hand over his
companion's.

“Well,” said Slegart more briskly, “I can offer you gentlemen cold meat and ale, but you
won't get no hot food this night. Cook's that upset. And now” - the innkeeper glanced at
the still-swinging kitchen door with a sigh - “from what Lizzie says, it seems like
there's somethin' wrong with the babe - ”

The stranger made a sudden, swift movement with his hand, and old Slegart froze in place,
his mouth open in the act of speaking, his body half-turned, one hand raised. The kitchen
door stopped in mid-swing. The servant girl's muffled cries from the kitchen ceased. A
drop of ale, falling from the spigot, hung suspended in the air between spigot and floor.

Rising to their feet, the two strangers moved swiftly up the stairs amid the enchanted
silence. Hastily, they opened every door in the inn, peering inside every room, searching.
Finally, coming to a small room at the very end of the hall, one of the strangers opened
the door, looked inside, and beckoned to his companion.

A large, matronly woman - presumably Cook - was halted in the act of brushing out the
beautiful hair of a pale, cold figure lying upon the bed. Tears glistened on the cook's
kindly face. It had obviously been her work-worn hands that had composed the body for its
final rest. The girl's eyes were shut, the cold, dead fingers folded across the breast, a
small bunch of roses held in their unfeeling grasp. A candle shed its soft light upon the
young face whose incredible beauty was enhanced by a sweet, wistful smile upon the ashen
lips.

“Amberyl!” cried one of the strangers brokenly, sinking down upon the bed and taking the
cold hands in his. Coming up behind him, the other stranger laid a hand upon his
companion's shoulder.

“I'm truly sorry, Keryl.”

“We should have come sooner!” Keryl muttered, stroking the girl's hand.

“We came as quickly as we could,” his companion said gently. “As quickly as she wanted us.”

“She sent us the message - ”

“ - only when she knew she was dying,” said the companion.

“Why?” Keryl cried brokenly, his gaze going to Amberyl's peaceful face. “Why did she
choose to die among . . . among these humans?” He gestured toward the cook.

“I don't suppose we will ever know,” said his companion softly. “Although I can guess,” he
added, but it was in an undertone, spoken only to himself and not to his distraught
friend. Turning away, he walked over to a cradle that had been hastily constructed out of
a wood box. Whispering a word, he lifted the enchantment from the baby, who drew a breath
and began whimpering.

“The child?” the stranger said, starting up from the bed. “Is her baby all right? What the
servant girl said ...” There was fear in his voice. “It isn't, it isn't dea-” He couldn't
go on.

“No,” said his friend in mystified tones. “It is not what you fear. The servant girl said
she'd never seen anything more frightening. But the baby seems fine - Ah!” The stranger
gasped in awe. Holding the baby in his arms, he turned toward his friend. “Look, Keryl!
Look at the child's eyes!”

The young man bent over the crying baby, gently stroking the tiny cheek with his finger.
The baby turned its head, opening its large eyes as it searched instinctively for
nourishment, love, and warmth.

“The eyes are . . . gold!” Keryl whispered. “Burning gold as the sun! Nothing like this
has ever occurred in OUR people. ... I wonder - ”

“A gift from her human father, no doubt. Although I know of no humans with eyes like this.
But that secret, too, Amberyl took with her.” He sighed, shaking his head. Then he looked
back down at the whimpering baby. “Her daughter is as lovely as her mother,” the man said,
wrapping the baby tightly in its blankets. “And now, my friend, we must go. We have been
in this strange and terrible land long enough.”

“Yes,” Keryl said, but he made no move to leave. “What about Amberyl?” His gaze went back
to the pale, unmoving figure upon the bed.

“We will leave her among those she chose to be with at the end,“ his companion said gravely. ”Perhaps one of the gods will accept her now and
will guide her wandering spirit home.”

“Farewell, my sister,” Keryl murmured. Reaching down, he took the roses from the dead
hands and, kissing them, put the flowers carefully in the pocket of his tunic. His
companion spoke words in an ancient language, lifting the enchantment from the inn. Then
the two strangers, holding the baby, vanished from the room like a shower of silver,
sparkling rain.

AND THE BABY WAS BEAUTIFUL, AS BEAUTIFUL AS HER MOTHER. FOR IT IS SAID THAT, IN THE
ANCIENT DAYS BEFORE THEY GREW SELF- CENTERED AND SEDUCED BY EVIL, THE MOST BEAUTIFUL OF
ALL RACES EVER CREATED BY THE GODS WAS THE OGRE. . . .

Silver And Steel Kevin D. Randle It had finally come to this. A summer-long campaign that had seen the Dark Queen pushed
until the remnants of her tattered army were grouped around her at the base of a massive
obsidian obelisk. A few thousand ragged warriors and their tired, dirty families, waiting
for the Queen to do something before the final attack.

Huma, his army spread out on the hills overlooking the black tower, climbed from the back
of the silver dragon he rode and studied the scene below him, looking for the trap he knew
to be there. The Queen's line of retreat had been straight, as if this had been her
destination.

Glancing to his right, he could see the movement of his men, the knights on horseback, and
the bowmen in front of them but behind the pikemen, as they formed just below the crest of
the hills. Long, straight lines, marked by colored flags. The movement of their feet, the
pawing of the horses, stirred the dry soil, creating a choking cloud of dust that engulfed
them like a thick, morning fog. Slowly, their equipment rattling as the metal pieces
struck one another, they fell into a strict military formation. They were a silent group,
tense and strained, waiting for Huma to order them forward to the attack.

The scene to the left looked much the same. The men were moving forward. Their weapons,
held at the ready flashed in the afternoon sun. The women and children stayed at the rear of the battle
line, setting up their camp and preparing bandages and splints, preparing to clean up the
battlefield after the fighting.

The support vehicles, ox carts and wagons, the support men - those who made the weapons,
the squires who aspired to be knights, the grooms, and the drivers - stood in the rear,
sweating in the hot sun and watching everything, wishing that they could somehow get into
the battle.

Near them was the makeshift band. Pipes and drums and flutes that could stir the men with
their melodies and inspire them to greater efforts. They choked on the dust that stuck in
their throats. Wiped the sweat from their faces as they waited for someone to do
something. Waited for Huma to order them forward.

The silver dragon that Huma rode was gone suddenly, and standing next to him was a tall,
slender woman with a mane of silver hair. She wore a breastplate of green armor, molded to
her, a short, leather skirt, and shin guards that matched the green of her breastplate. In
her right hand - a delicate, thin-boned hand with long, slender fingers - she held the
hilt of a jeweled broadsword, the silver tip stuck in the dust at her feet. There was a
look of grim determination on her face, because she knew what this event meant. She knew
what the outcome of the battle had to be, and knew the cost to her and to Huma.

She turned to look at Huma, a huge man with a big, flaming mustache and long/black hair
that brushed his shoulders. He wore armor of silver, a helmet with a plume of crimson on
his head, and he held the dragonlance that was nearly twelve feet long. The barbed tip was
of pure silver, and the shaft was of polished wood. It was a special weapon, forged by the
dwarves with the Hammer of Kharas. The weapon that could destroy the Queen and her army -
maybe the only weapon in the whole world that could do the job.

Huma stepped to his right and touched the woman's shoulder, as if assuring himself that
she was real flesh and blood and not a mirage created by the enemy. She reached up and
took his hand in hers, turning her face, framed by her silver hair, so that she could
smile at him.

“We have her trapped now,” said the woman, her voice quiet, almost soothing.

“Yes,” Huma agreed. “There is nowhere for the Dark Queen to go now. Still . . .” He didn't
finish the sentence, feeling an anxiety that he couldn't place. It was almost as if evil were radiating from the obelisk ... as if the Dark Queen had led them to the spot to
be destroyed.

“It will soon be over,” she said, quietly, as if speaking to herself. “All over.” She
stared at Huma, her heart pounding in her chest. Slowly, she reached out and touched his
bearded cheek with the tips of her fingers.