Margaret Weis - Dragons of the Highlord Skies

All she had was the information Iolanthe had provided following their brief and eventful encounter in the Temple in Neraka. Kit wished she’d taken more time to listen to the witch, asked her more questions. But then, she’d been fleeing for her life. Not the right moment for chit-chat. Kit went over everything Iolanthe had said, mulled over it all, hoping to devise a strategy. All the stories agreed on certain points: an army of undead warriors, three heart-stopping banshees, and a death knight who could kill her with a single word. So far as Kit could see, developing a strategy for this encounter was rather like developing a strategy for committing suicide. The only question was how to die as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Kit had the bracelet Iolanthe had given her. Iolanthe had instructed her in its use, but Kit wanted to know all there was to know about this bracelet. Not that she didn’t trust Iolanthe. The witch had saved her life.

It was just that Kit did not trust Iolanthe. She took the bracelet to a mageware shop.

The owner—a Red Robe wizard, as most tended to be, since they had to deal in black, red, and white magic—latched onto the bracelet and was loathe to let it go. His eyes lit up at the sight of it; his mouth watered. He stroked and caressed it. His voice grew husky as he spoke of it. The bracelet was very rare, he told her, and very valuable. He knew of such bracelets only by reputation. He’d never seen one before. He mumbled magic over it, and the bracelet did prove to be magical. Though he wouldn’t swear by his god the bracelet would do what Iolanthe had promised—protect Kit from magic-induced fear and magical attacks—he thought it likely the bracelet would perform as required. Finally, holding the bracelet lovingly in his hand, he offered her the pick of any object in his shop in exchange. When she refused, he offered her his shop.

Kit eventually pried her bracelet from the man’s hands and left. The Red Robe followed her down the street, begging and pleading. She had to spur her horse into a gallop to get away from him. Kit had been rather careless with the bracelet, stuffing it into a sack and not thinking much about it. From then on, she treated it with more care, checking frequently to make certain she still had it in her possession. The bracelet did not make Kit feel easier in her mind about her upcoming encounter with the death knight, however. Quite the opposite. Iolanthe would not have given Kit a gift this precious unless certain Kit would need it.

That was very disheartening.

Kitiara decided she would do something she’d never done in her life—seek the help of a god. Queen Takhisis was the one responsible for sending her on this mission. Hearing of an oracle not far from the border of Nightlund, Kitiara made a detour to visit the old crone to request Her Dark Majesty’s aid.

The oracle lived in a cave, and if the stench counted for anything, she was extremely powerful. The smell of body waste, incense, and boiled cabbage was enough to gag a troll. Kit walked into the cave entrance and was ready to turn around and walk right back out when a beggarly youngster, so filthy it was impossible to say if it was a he or a she, seized hold of her and dragged her inside.

The crone had lank, ragged, yellow-white hair that straggled about her face. Her flesh hung flaccid off her bones. Her breasts beneath her worn garments sagged to her knees. Her eyes were blurred and unfocused. She sat cross-legged in front of a fire and appeared to be in some sort of stupor, for she mumbled, drooled, and rolled her head. The youngster held out a hand, demanding a donation of a steel piece if Kitiara wanted to ask a question of the Dark Queen’s oracle.

Kit was dubious, but also desperate. She handed over the steel piece. The youngster inspected it to make certain it was not counterfeit, then muttered, “It’s good, Marm,” and remained to watch the spectacle.

The crone roused herself long enough to toss a handful of powder onto the fire. The powder crackled and hissed; the flames changed color, burning green, blue, red, and white. Tendrils of black smoke coiled around the crone, who began to moan, rocking back and forth.

The smoke was noxious and made Kit’s eyes water. She could not catch her breath and she tried again to leave, but the youngster grabbed hold of her hand and ordered her to wait; the oracle was about to speak.

The crone sat up straight. She opened her eyes and they were suddenly focused and lucid. The mumbling voice was clear and strong, deep and cold and empty as death.

“‘I will pledge my loyalty and my army only to the Highlord who has the courage to spend the night with me alone in Dargaard Keep’.”

The crone collapsed back into herself, mumbling and mewling. Kitiara was annoyed. She’d spent good steel for this?

“I know about the death knight’s promise,” said Kit. “That’s why I’m going. What I need is for Her Dark Majesty to look out for me. I won’t be of any use to her if Soth slays me before I even have a chance to open my mouth. If Her Majesty would just promise me—”

The crone raised her head. She looked directly at Kitiara and said snappishly, in a querulous tone, “Don’t you know a test when you see one, you stupid chit?”

The crone sank back into her stupor, and Kitiara left as fast as she could.

A test, the oracle said. Lord Soth would be testing Kit. This might be comforting. It could mean the death knight would refrain from killing her the moment she set her foot in the door. On the other hand, it could also mean he would keep her alive just for her entertainment value. Perhaps he only killed people when he grew bored of watching them suffer.

Kit continued her journey north.

She knew she had crossed the border into Nightlund when she started seeing abandoned villages and the road on which she traveled could scarcely be termed a road anymore. Solamnia had always been known for its system of highways. Armies marched faster on roads that were in good condition. Merchants traveled farther and reached more cities. Good roads meant a strong economy. Even after the Cataclysm, when there was so much turmoil and upheaval, those in charge of the cities made highway upkeep a priority—everywhere but in Nightlund.

Many of the roads had been destroyed during the Cataclysm, sunk under water when the river flooded or shaken apart in the earthquakes. Those roads that had survived fell into disrepair, and in some parts they disappeared altogether as nature reclaimed the land. The roads Kit traveled now were overgrown with weeds, dusted with snow, and devoid of travelers. Kit went for days without seeing another living soul.

She had made good time up to this point. Now her progress was slowed. She had to ride miles out of her way to find a place to ford a river because the bridge had washed out. She had to fight her way through tall grass that came up to her horse’s flanks and was as tough as wire. Once, the road dumped her in a ravine, and another time led her straight into the side of a cliff. She would sometimes cover only a few miles in a single day, leaving herself and her horse exhausted. She also had to spend time hunting for food, for the only inns and farm houses she came across were long-since abandoned.

Kit had not used a bow and arrow since she was young, and she was a clumsy shot at best. Hunger sharpened her skills, however, and she managed to bring down the occasional deer. But then she had to butcher it and dress it, and that took more valuable time.

At this rate, she would be as old as the crone by the time she reached Dargaard Keep—if she reached it at all.

Not only did she have to deal with broken roads and impassable forests and near starvation, she had to keep constant vigilance against the outlaws who now made this part of Ansalon home. She had discarded the garb of a wealthy cleric, foreseeing that would make her a valuable target. She replaced it with the clothes she had been wearing when she escaped Neraka: her gambeson and some leather armor she had picked up along the way. She resembled a down-on-her-luck sellsword again, but even that wouldn’t save her. There were those in Nightlund who would kill her for her boots.