The Kagonesti, page 2
“Give me my weapon!” he demanded harshly. “It is more precious than you can know – forged by the master smiths, enchanted by Silvanos himself!”
“The axe shall be my trophy!” retorted the wild elf, tautly. “Now leave, before I claim your head as well!”
The House Elf’s eyes flared, burning into Kagonos like a physical assault. Full of menace, the Elderwild raised the weapon, his own eyes narrowing as he watched Quithas back toward the prancing, agitated griffon. The House Elf spoke no further as he climbed onto his gilded saddle, seized his reins, and rode the beast’s powerful spring into the sky.
Kagonos watched until the flying creature disappeared over the rim of a nearby mountain. Then he turned to the Grandfather Ram and knelt beside the stricken creature’s head. His heart nearly burst with sorrow as he saw the growing crimson stain on that glorious white fur, saw the pleading expression in the gold-flecked eyes, the tongue lolling carelessly on the rocks.
“Water. Bring me water.”
Kagonos blinked, then nodded. He had leapt to his feet and sprinted toward the stream at the base of the slope before it fully dawned on him that the animal had spoken. When he reached that clear brook, he knelt and, lacking any vessel, filled his mouth from the cool, sparkling flow. Racing back to the ram, he allowed the water to trickle over the animal’s tongue, watching in wonderment as a trace of luster returned to the eyes.
“Shelter … we must find shelter. There is … a cave nearby. Carry me there.”
The Grandfather Ram spoke haltingly, but Kagonos sensed this was due to the creature’s wounds more than to any awkwardness with speech. The voice bore a suggestion of deep resonance and timbre, wrapped richly around his sparely chosen words.
The elf knew that the creature must weigh several hundred pounds, but Kagonos nevertheless reached under the ram and gently eased it upward, careful not to prod the flesh around the arrow. Surprisingly, he lifted the animal with ease. Following the ram’s directions, he soon carried it to a small niche in the rocky mountainside – a “cave” only in the loosest sense of the word.
“The arrow … can you remove it from my side?”
Kagonos worked the missile gingerly, wincing every time the ram grunted in pain, but eventually he pulled it free of the deep wound.
“It’s out, Grandfather. Rest now – do you need more water?”
The ram shook its head. “That’s better. I fear some enchantment, some lethal elixir was laid upon the arrowhead – else it would not have felled me so readily.”
With a grunting effort, the mountain sheep rolled onto its stomach, legs curled underneath. Already the bleeding from the arrow-wound had slowed to a trickle, and the animal’s breathing grew stronger, more regular.
But was it an animal at all?
“I have seen you before, Pathfinder,” spoke the sheep. This time those luminous eyes – the orbs that twice before had touched Kagonos from mountainous heights – seemed to penetrate through to the wild elf’s soul, and he could only nod at the words.
“You travel the mountains with the grace of one who belongs here. You seek the trails, and you discover them – places where neither elf nor man, not even ogre, have trod before. You are a worthy chieftain of the Elderwild.”
“I thank you, Grandfather – but I am no chieftain. Indeed, there are some in my tribe who think me mad, others who wait only for the time I depart my people and go to live in the hills. Perhaps my true worth may be measured in the tending of you. Can you tell me who you are?”
“Outside. Now I must come out of here,” the sheep declared, standing weakly and taking several steps from the mountainous niche. The ram settled to rest on a smooth patch of shale, looking at Kagonos with a suggestion of amusement.
The wild elf gasped and stepped backward, startled by something he couldn’t explain – the ram was changing!
Silver gleamed where that white pelt had been, as if a shimmering cascade of metal coins had suddenly spilled forth. At the same time the creature grew with impossible speed, extending incredibly. A long, sinuous tail curled outward, shining silver like the rest of the suddenly huge body. The already broad skull lengthened, the snout growing fearful, into a monstrous maw that bristled with sharp, curving fangs. The twin horns fell from the ram’s head, tumbling onto the shale as the last vestiges of the mighty sheep vanished, replaced by leathery – but still silvered – wings and powerful, crouching legs. Hooked talons, like silver sword blades, curved from the massive fore and rear paws.
By the time the transformation was complete the serpentine body coiled in a great arc, half-encircling the dumbstruck wild elf. Kagonos felt no fear – just an incredible sense of awe, a knowledge that he beheld a miracle. He sensed, too, that his life from this point on was irrevocably changed.
“You ask who I am, Pathfinder? I am known by many names in the world, but you may call me Darlantan.”
“Yes, Lord,” Kagonos replied, dropping instinctively to his knees. The Elderwild had never bowed to anybody or anything in his life, yet now as he knelt he did so not only willingly, but with a sense of profound joy.
“I name you, Kagonos, as the true Pathfinder of the Elderwild. Your people shall need you in the centuries to come. If they are to survive, it will be because you have shown them the way.”
“But … but how will I find the path?”
“Have faith, my brave son. I do not charge you with an easy task – it will be more difficult than you can ever know. But I know that you have thought of leaving your tribe, of becoming a lone elf in these mountains. A hermit.”
“Yes, Lord. My time to do this is – was – soon.” Even as he spoke, Kagonos realized that he would not become a lone elf. Had not Darlantan told him that his destiny lay with his tribe?
“I believe you to be worthy, Pathfinder. But know this: If you are to lead your people through the age to come – an age when the House Elves will grow mighty, will seek to seduce your tribesmen into their cities, an age when danger will soar from the skies on wings of red and green and blue – you must be faithful to me, and to me alone.”
“You have my pledge, Lord.”
“As Pathfinder, you are a leader greater than a chief, a spiritual counselor above any shaman. Your task will take all of your life, all of your soul. Take no wife, for she would distract you from the importance of your tasks. And never venture to the cities of the House Elves, for they will know you, and seek to enslave you.”
“As you command, Lord.”
Darlantan looked down, and for the first time Kagonos saw a hint of sadness in those golden eyes – the eyes that were the same as the ram’s eyes, though everything else about this mighty creature had changed.
Following the glance, the elf saw one of the triple-spiraled horns lying on the stones at his feet. Like the ram, the horn had changed – though it retained its original shape.
Kagonos hefted the coiled object, feeling from its lightness that it was hollow. The wide end flared into an open bell, and the pointed end was carved, or somehow shaped, into a mouthpiece. Without being told, the elf knew he should raise it to his lips.
Placing the narrow tip between his teeth, Kagonos blew a long breath, feeling the mournful notes emerge from the horn, hearing the music keening through the mountain valley, a portent of danger and fear – yet a song that ended with a high note of hope and triumph. He had never played an instrument such as this, yet the notes came to him with intuitive clarity, and he raised his song with the fluid grace of his thoughts.
“This Ram’s Horn is my gift to you,” Darlantan said. “It will be heard by me, or my people, and if there is a way that we can aid you, we will.
“Play it in times of joy or sorrow, and it will speak to your people of hope and promise and pride. Play it in times of danger, and it will show you the path to safety.
“I shall keep the other horn,” Darlantan continued. “And forever may these two spirals be a symbol of the bond between our peoples. Their sound is a thing beholden to your people and to mine, heard by none except a silver dragon or a wild elf.”
“This is a precious thing,” Kagonos declared. “But why do you bestow it upon me?”
“You are the Pathfinder,” replied the dragon, and his powerful voice took on a firm sense of command. “Your people shall depend on you – and this horn is a sign of your high station. Even the shamans will hear your song of faith, and through it they shall better know their gods. Return with it to your tribes, to the council of Highsummer. When the Elderwild hear your song, they will know the truth.”
“I shall do this thing – though I still do not understand why.”
“That is of no matter. You need most to remember the two Ram’s Horns, Pathfinder. When either is played alone it may bray a song of hope and friendship, a lasting bond between our peoples. Either horn may cry for aid or offer comfort, and their songs will ring through the centuries of our lives.
“And someday in the future, perhaps, the two horns may be played together. The song they raise will be an anthem of hope and promise for the future of the world.”
The wooden skis rasped across the snow, barely marking the icy crust. Kagonos worked his way between frosted pines, carefully remaining below the knifelike crest of the high ridge. On the sunny northern slope the surface already grew soft and slushy, threatening a deadly avalanche, but here on the southern face the snow remained hard, crisp.
The lean, sinewy wild elf skied with steady urgency. Despite the chilly air, Kagonos wore only a pair of leather leggings and a buckskin vest. At his side he carried the three-spiraled Rams Horn, suspended by a sturdy thong. Stiff moccasins, lined with fur, protected his feet. Currently devoid of warpaint, Kagonos’s skin was a rippling surface of gleaming, almost metallic bronze, shiny with a sheen of sweat and oil. His black hair fell in a long, thick coil down his back, wrapped into a single braid with a feathered thong.
Hissing softly, the skis glided down the incline into a deep, wide ravine. With a leaping turn at the bottom, the wild elf aided his momentum with plunging stabs of his poles, smoothly coasting halfway up the opposite slope. Kicking hard, still poling, he pushed himself quickly through the last, steep stretch.
Beyond the ravine, the wild elf picked up speed. Climbing gradually, he remained near the summit of the ridge, skimming over the snow with the combined force of his kicking feet and steadily poling arms. When he reached a clump of rocks that had been blown free of snow by the steady wind, Kagonos paused. He kicked off his skis and dropped to his belly, ignoring the icy surface against his naked arms. Crawling slowly, he worked his way between the boulders, carefully raising his head just high enough to see into the broad valley beyond.
His caution may have been extreme – the nearest ogres were at least a dozen miles away. Still, there was no other way Kagonos could have approached this lofty horizon. To the wild elf, there was no such thing as “unnecessary” caution, for once one became used to taking chances, discovery and disaster were inevitable.
His hazel eyes flashed at the sight of the huge army sprawling across the plain in an irregular column. For many days the Dark Queen’s horde had followed the fringe of the Khalkist foothills, closing in on the army of Silvanos, which remained out of sight somewhere to the south. The ogres were creatures of lofty places and would have preferred to march in the heights, Kagonos knew – it was only the commands of their dragon masters that brought them down from the mountain summits.
Of those masters, it was hard to believe that only one clan of evil remained to menace the world. For more than a century and a half Kagonos and the Elderwild had been unwilling participants in the battles against the five children of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness. These dragons – of green and black, of blue and white and red – had plundered Ansalon for most of those decades, bringing death and destruction to elvenkind and humanity.
The tide of evil had been stemmed, finally, when three gods had conspired to bestow potent gifts upon the elves. These artifacts were the five dragongems – magical stones of life-trapping. During the most recent years of the war, Silvanos and his legions, aided by warriors mounted on flying griffons, had created clever traps. In their great, flying wings, evil dragons had fallen to the elven ambushes, until the greens, reds, whites, and blacks had all been ensnared, their lives trapped within the potent gemstones – the stones then buried in the depths of the Khalkist Mountains.
Finally only the blue dragons remained, and the great leader Silvanos had planned for his final victory. Before the battle could be joined, however, disaster had struck in the form of an ogre raiding party – the Bluestone was stolen! Vanishing into their mountain fastness with their priceless trophy, the ogres had taken from Silvanos his only effective means of fighting the blue dragons.
Recriminations had been many, with the House Elves of Silvanos blaming humans, and the humans – so recently escaped from ogre-bound slavery – quick to turn the blame against the elves. Word had reached the Elderwild through several routes – a trader of beads and steel arrowheads had come from Xak Tsaroth, trembling with predictions of doom, and several wild elves had come north, refugees from the House Elf compounds, carrying the tale of consternation among the Elderwild’s kin.
Kagonos believed that the ogres were more to blame than either humans or elves, for they were the ones who had actually stolen the precious artifact. He had been amused to hear the tales of bickering and blaming, none of which changed the central fact that the Bluestone was missing.
The blue serpents, in many ways the most evil and malicious of the five children of Takhisis, had plundered, raided, and ravaged all the north coast of Ansalon during the winter. Now, with summer arrived, everyone knew they were winging toward the central plains. When they arrived, the damage they might do would be beyond measure – and without the Bluestone, the forces of Silvanos had no way to stand before the potent, massive wyrms. The great elven army would be dispersed, Silvanos’s power broken, and the survivors of his legion scattered across Ansalon.
Reflecting on the potential for disaster, Kagonos wondered about his own, private knowledge – the secret he now carried to the top of the mountain. It did not seem possible that he and his braves could change the course of fate, yet he had to hope that they might do just that.
The elf squinted into the distance. Tall, billowing clouds rose into the skies over the plains, towering like mighty marble columns. Sunlight reflected from these alabaster pillars with a brightness that almost forced the wild elf to look away. But still he stared, shifting his eyes only slowly among the great cumulus.
Finally he blinked, satisfied – for the moment, at least – that the blue dragons did not soar above the marching army. They would come, he knew, and probably soon, but he drew some satisfaction from the knowledge that they had not yet arrived. The two armies on the ground were still many miles apart, so it seemed that the battle would not occur for several days.
He thought for a moment of the Elderwild tribes, gathered only a day’s march from here in a deep, sheltered valley. His people had come when Kagonos had summoned them with the Ram’s Horn. As always, even the chiefs of the different tribes turned to their Pathfinder for hope in time of danger – yet never in their history had the threat of destruction been so imminent and so complete. For the most part, since the Dragon War had raged, the Elderwild had dwelled in small bands, rarely venturing from beneath the protection of their treetop canopies. Only the command of the great horn could bring them into a large gathering, and only the secret knowledge Kagonos now possessed could have motivated him to make that summons.
Of course, the elves of Silvanos had developed another tactic during the course of the war – one that enabled them to dwell in large tribes, and even to defend themselves against the dragons. They had fortified their great cities as bastions against evil. When a dragon flew against one of these walled enclaves, it was forced to do so without the ogres who formed the other potent club of the Dark Queen’s hordes. Thus unsupported, the tough-scaled serpents proved slightly vulnerable to elven arrows – to the extent, at least, that the steel-tipped weapons fired in volley struck the dragons as a barrage of vexing stings. Ultimately, though cities had been ravaged and many elves slain within them, the evil wyrms had learned to avoid the House Elf strongholds. The great serpents were basically cowards and preferred to work their villainy in ways that brought little risk to themselves.
Looking toward the vast plain, Kagonos could not see Silvanos’s army, but he knew that his golden-haired cousins were there. All the houses had gathered for this final confrontation, and the wild elf knew that a great deal of the future history of Krynn, for good or ill, would be decided on that barren flatland sometime within the next few days.
However it came out, Kagonos thought wryly, the histories would ensure that Silvanos got most of the credit. The Pathfinder had personally met the lord of his kin on a few occasions, and always Silvanos had impressed him as an elf of wisdom, patience, and almost palpable leadership. Although, remembering his pledge to Darlantan, the wild elf had never visited any of those crystal cities, many stories reached him from those Elderwild fortunate enough to escape the bonds of House Elf servitude. The city clans hailed Silvanos as the font of all wisdom, the holder of highest elven honor. His virtues – of honor, grace, and patience – were raised as the ideal for all his subjects.
“Claim as well that he invented food or sleep,” Kagonos had muttered on hearing these tales, and that opinion had not shifted in the years since. Perhaps he wasn’t being entirely fair – after all, Silvanos was undeniably a leader who was wise and just. His feat in uniting the squabbling houses of elvendom – all the tribes save the Elderwild – was certainly no little accomplishment, though Kagonos still could not understand the benefits of this great melding. After all, why would any chieftain choose to subordinate himself to a greater chief?
Yet another thing about Silvanos he respected very much. The elven leader was strong, both in his own physical presence and in the use of his mighty army. Strength was a thing Kagonos understood and valued. Indeed, it seemed possible that Silvanos’s strength might be the hammer that finally smashed dragons down from their cruel mastery of the world. That was a result the Elderwild could only embrace.
