Margaret Weis - Elven Star

The Sartan had intended the Patryns to occupy this wondrous world—after their “rehabilitation,” of course. Haplo smiled, settled himself more comfortably in his chair. He let go of the steering stone, allowing the ship to drift with his own thoughts. Soon the Nexus would be populated, but not only by Patryns. Soon the Nexus would be home to elves, humans, and dwarves—the lesser races. Once these people had been transported back through the Death’s Gate, the Lord of the Nexus would destroy the four misbegotten worlds created by the Sartan, return everything to the old order. Except, that the Patryns would rule, as was their right.

One of Haplo’s tasks on his journeys of investigation was to see if any of the Sartan inhabited the four new worlds. Haplo found himself hoping he discovered more of them—more at least than Alfred, that one pitiful excuse for a demigod he’d confronted on Arianus. He wanted the entire race of Sartan alive, witnesses to their own crushing downfall.

“And after the Sartan have seen all they built fall into ruin, after they have seen the people they hoped to rule come under our sway, then will come the time of retribution. We will send them into the Labyrinth.” Haplo’s gaze shifted to the red-streaked, black swirl of chaos just visible out the far side of the window. Horror-tinged “memories reached out from the clouds to touch him with their skeletal hands. He beat them back, using hatred for his weapon. In place of himself, he watched the Sartan struggle, saw them defeated where he had triumphed, watched them die where he had escaped alive. The dog’s sharp, warning bark shook him from his grim reverie. Haplo saw that, absorbed in his thoughts of revenge, he’d almost flown into the Labyrinth. Hastily, he placed his hands on the steering stone and wrenched the ship around. Dragon Wing sailed into the blue sky of the Nexus, free of the grasping tendrils of evil magic that had sought to claim it. Haplo turned his eyes and thoughts ahead to the starless sky, steering for the place of passage, steering for Death’s Gate.

Paithan had a great deal of work to do making his caravan ready for travel, and the old man’s words of doom slipped from his mind. He met Quintin, his foreman, at the city limits of Cahndar—the Queen’s City. The two elves inspected the baggage train, making certain the railbows, boltarches, and raztars, packed away in baskets, were attached securely to the tyros. [17] A gigantic spider with a shelled body, the tyro has eight legs. Six are used for tree and web climbing, the two front legs each end in a clawed “hand” that is used for lifting and manipulation. Cargo is mounted on the back of the thorax between the leg joints. Opening the packs, Paithan inspected the toys that had been spread over the top, taking care to note if he could see any sign of the weapons hidden beneath. Everything appeared satisfactory. The young elf congratulated Quintin on a job well done and promised to recommend the foreman to his sister. By the time Paithan and his caravan were ready to start, the hour flowers were indicating that foiltime was well advanced and it would soon be midcycle. Taking his place at the head of the line, Paithan told the overseer to begin the march. Quintin mounted the lead tyro, climbing into the saddle between the horns. With much cajoling and flattering, the slaves persuaded the other tyros to crawl into line behind their leader, and the caravan plunged into the jungle lands, soon leaving civilization far behind. Paithan set a swift pace and the caravan made good traveling time. The trails between the human and elven lands are well tended, if somewhat treacherous. Trade between the realms is lucrative business. Human lands are rich in raw materials—teakwood, bladewood, cutvine, foodstuffs. The elves are adept at turning these resources into useful goods. Caravans between the realms came and went daily.

The greatest dangers to caravans were human thieves, jungle animals, and the occasional sheer drops between moss bed and moss bed. The tyros, however, were particularly effective in navigating difficult terrain—the main reason Paithan chose to use them, despite their shortcomings. (Many handlers, particularly humans, cannot deal with the sensitive tyro, who will curl into a ball and pout if its feelings are hurt.) The tyro can crawl over moss beds, climb trees, and span ravines by spinning its webs across the gap and swinging over. So strong are the tyro webs that some have been turned into permanent bridges, maintained by the elves.

Paithan had been over this route many times previously. He was familiar with the dangers, he was prepared for them. Consequently, he didn’t worry about them. He wasn’t particularly concerned with thieves. His caravan was large and well armed with elven weapons. Thieving humans tended to prey on lone travelers, particularly their own kind. He knew, though, that if thieves became aware of the true nature of his merchandise, they would risk much to acquire it. Humans have a high regard for elven weaponry—particularly those that are “intelligent.”

The railbow, for example, is similar to a human crossbow—being a missile weapon consisting of a bow fixed across a wooden stock, having a mechanism for holding and releasing the string. The “rail” it fires is an arrow magically gifted with intelligence, able to visually sight a target and guide itself toward it. The magical boltarch, a much smaller version of the railbow, can be worn in a scabbard on the hip and is fired with one hand. Neither human nor dwarven magic is capable of producing intelligent weaponry; thieves selling these on the black market could name their price.

But Paithan had taken precautions against being robbed.

Quintin (an elf who had been with the family since Paithan was a baby) had packed the baskets by hand, and only he and Paithan knew what really lay beneath the dolls and sailing ships and jack-in-the-boxes. The human slaves, whose duty it was to guide the tyros, thought they were carrying a load of toys for tots, not the deadlier toys of grown men.

Secretly, Paithan considered it all an unnecessary nuisance. Quindiniar weapons were high quality, a cut above those of ordinary elven manufacture. The owner of a Quindiniar railbow had to be given a special code word before he could activate the magic, and only Paithan had this information, which he would pass on to the buyer. But Calandra was convinced that every human was a spy, a thief, and a murderer just waiting to rob, rape, pillage, and plunder. Paithan had tried to point out to his sister that she wasn’t being rational—she gave the humans credit for a phenomenal and cunning intellect on one hand, while maintaining that they were little better than animals on the other.

“Humans really aren’t too different from us, Cal,” Paithan had said on one memorable occasion.

He had never tried that logic again. Calandra had been so alarmed by this liberal attitude that she had seriously considered forbidding him to venture again into human lands. The awful threat of having to stay home had been enough to silence the young elf on the subject forever.

The first stage of the journey was easy. Their only obstacle would be the Kithni Gulf, the large body of water that divided the elven and human lands, and that lay far to the vars. Paithan fell into the rhythm of the road, enjoying the exercise and the chance to be his own person once again. The sun lit the trees with jewellike tones of green, the perfume of myriad flowers scented the air, frequent small showers of rain cooled the warmth built up from walking. Sometimes he heard a slink or a slither alongside the path, but he didn’t pay much attention to the jungle wildlife. Having faced a dragon, Paithan decided he was equal to just about anything. But it was during this quiet time that the old man’s words began buzzing in his head. Doom will come back with you!