Margaret Weis - Elven Star

“Not you. Your ancestors. All your ancestors.” Haplo’s gaze took in the elves and the two humans who stood before him, regarding him with dark suspicion. The Patryn’s eyes shifted to the dwarf.

Drugar ignored him, ignored them all. His trembling hands touched the stone, the bones of the world, that had been little more than memory among his people.

“All your ancestors,” Haplo repeated.

“Then we can go back in,” said Aleatha. “We would be safe in there. Nothing could harm us!”

“Except what you take in with you,” said Haplo, with his quiet smile. He glanced at the weapons each held, then at the elves standing apart from the humans, the dwarf keeping apart from the rest. Rega paled and bit her lip, Roland’s face darkened in anger. Paithan said nothing. Drugar leaned his head against the stone, tears coursed down his cheeks and vanished into his beard.

Whistling to the dog, Haplo turned, and began to walk back down the mountainside toward the jungle.

“Wait! You can’t leave us!” Aleatha called after him. “You could take us inside the walls! With your magic or … or in your ship!”

“If you don’t”—Roland began swinging the raztar, its lethal blades flashed in the twilight—“we’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Haplo turned to face them, traced a sigil before him, between himself and the threatening human.

Faster than the eye could see, the rune sizzled through the air and smote Roland on his chest, exploding, propelling him backward. He landed hard on the ground, his raztar flew from his hand. Aleatha knelt beside him, cradled the man’s bruised and bleeding body in her arms.

“How typical!” Haplo spoke softly, not raising his voice. “ ‘Save me!’ you cry. ‘Save me or else!’ Being a savior’s a thankless job with you mensch. Not worth the pay, because you never want to do any of the work. Those fools”—he jerked his head in the direction of the crystal spire—“risked everything to save you from us, then tried to save you from yourselves—with results that are plainly obvious. But just wait, mensch. One day, one will come who will save you. You may not thank him for it, but you will achieve salvation.” Haplo paused, smiled. “Or else.”

The Patryn started off, turned again. “By the way, what happened to the old man?”

None of them answered, all avoided his eyes.

Nodding, satisfied, Haplo continued down the mountain, the dog trotting along at his heels.

The Patryn traveled safely through the jungle. Arriving at the Dragon Star, Haplo found the elves and humans roaming the jungle, embroiled in a bitter battle. Each side called on him to come its aid. He paid no attention to any of them and climbed aboard his empty ship. By the time the combatants realized they were being abandoned, it was too late. Haplo listened in grim amusement to the terrified, pleading wails spoken together in two different languages, reaching his ears as one voice.

The ship lifted slowly into the air. Standing at the window, he stared down at the frantic figures.

“ ‘He it is, who, coming after me, is preferred before me’” Haplo tossed them the quote, watching them dwindle away to nothing as his ship carried him into the heavens. The dog crouched at his feet and howled, upset by the pitying cries.

Below, the elves and humans watched in bitter, helpless impotence. They could see the ship shining in the sky a long time after its departure; the sigla emblazoned on its hull blazing fiery red in the false darkness created by the Sartan to remind their children of home.

The dragon came up on the five, catching them massed in front of the gate of the citadel, trying vainly to get inside. The marble walls were slick and smooth, without a handhold or foothold in sight. They banged upon the gate with their fists and, in desperation, hurled themselves against it. The gate didn’t so much as quiver.

One of the five suggested battering rams, another magic, but the talk was half-hearted and desultory. Each knew that if elven or human magic had been effective, the citadel would have been occupied.

And then the strange and terrible darkness once again began to flow from the city walls, creeping over the mountain and the jungle like slowly rising flood waters. Yet though it was dark below, it was light above, the crystal spire casting its radiant white call out into a world that had forgotten how to answer. The bright light caused every object to be either seen or unseen—illuminated brilliantly by its glow or lost in impenetrable shadow. The darkness was terrifying, more so because they could still see the sun shining in the sky. Because of the darkness, they heard the dragon coming before they saw it. The rock shook beneath their feet, the city walls trembled under the dwarf’s hand. They started to flee to the jungle, but the sight of the darkness submerging the trees was appalling. For all they knew, the dragon would come from that very direction. They clung to the city walls, unwilling to leave its shelter, though they knew it couldn’t protect them.

The dragon appeared, out of the darkness, breath hissing. The starlike light glittered off the scaled head, reflected red in the gleaming eyes. The dragon’s mouth parted, the teeth were stained with blood that was black in the white light. A bit of mouse-colored cloth fluttered horribly, impaled upon a sharp, glistening fang. The five stood together; Roland protectively in front of Aleatha, Paithan and Rega beside each other, hand in hand. They held desperately onto their weapons, though they knew they were useless.

Drugar’s back was to the danger. The dwarf paid no attention to the dragon. He was gazing, fascinated, at the hexagonal gate, its runes thrown into sharp relief by the starlike light.

“I recognize each one,” he said, reaching out his hand, running the fingers lovingly over the strange substance that gleamed brightly, reflecting the light, reflecting the image of approaching death.

“I know each sigil,” he repeated, and he named them, as a child who knows the alphabet but does not yet know how to read will name the individual letters it sees upon the sign hanging from the inn.

The others heard the dwarf muttering to himself in his own language.

“Drugar!” Roland called urgently, keeping his gaze fixed on the dragon, not daring to turn around and look behind him. “We need you!” The dwarf did not answer. He stared, mesmerized, at the gate. In the very center of the hexagon, the surface was blank. Runes surrounded it in a circle on all sides, the strokes of the tops and bottoms of the sigia merging together, breaking apart, leaving broad gaps in an otherwise continuous flow. Drugar saw, in his mind, Haplo drawing the runes. The dwarf’s hand slipped into the tunic of his blouse, chilled fingers wrapped around the obsidian medallion he wore on his chest. He drew it forth, held it up before the gate so that it was level with the blank spot, and slowly began to rotate it.

“Leave him alone,” said Paithan, as Roland began to curse the dwarf. “What can he do anyway?”

“True enough, I guess,” Roland muttered. Sweat mingled with the blood caked on his face. He felt Aleatha’s cool fingers on his arm. Her body pressed closer to his, her hair brushed against his skin. His curses hadn’t really been aimed at the dwarf at ail, but hurled bitterly against fate. “Why doesn’t the damn thing attack and get it over with!”

The dragon loomed in front of them, its wingless, footless body coiling upward, its head almost level with the top of the smooth city walls. It seemed to be enjoying the sight of their torment, savoring their fear, a sweet aroma, tempting to the palate.

“Why has it taken death to bring us together?” whispered Rega, holding fast to Paithan’s hand.