Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

The woods grew deeper, denser. He was a long way from the road, tracking four draconians, and he was alone. Not a particularly wise move.

He kept going. They had his son.

The sound of guttural voices, speaking a language that made flesh crawl and brought back unpleasant memories, caused Tanis to slow his pace. Holding his breath, he crept forward, moving from tree trunk to tree trunk, nearing his prey.

And there they were, or most of them, at least. Three draconians stood in front of a cave, conversing in their hideous tongue. And there was the horse, Gil’s horse, with its fine leather trappings and silken ribbons tied in its mane. The animal was shivering in fear, bore marks of having been beaten.

It wasn’t a trained war-horse, but it had apparently fought its captors. One of the draconians was cursing the animal and pointing to a bleeding slash on a scaled arm.

But there was no sign of Gil. He was probably in the cave with the fourth draconian. But why? What terrible things were they doing to him?

What had they done?

At least Tanis could take cold comfort from the fact that the only blood visible on the ground was green.

He chose his target, the draconian standing nearest to him. Moving more silently than the wind, Tanis lifted his bow, fitted an arrow to it, raised the bow to his cheek, and pulled. The arrow struck the draconian in the back, between the wings. The creature gave a gurgle of pain and astonishment, then toppled over dead. The body turned to stone, held the arrow fast.

Never attack a Baaz with a sword if you can help it.

Swiftly, Tanis had another arrow nocked and ready. The second draconian, its sword drawn, was turning his direction.

Tanis fired. The arrow hit the draconian in the chest. It dropped the sword, clutched at the arrow with its clawed hands, then it, too, fell to the ground.

“Don’t move!” Tanis ordered harshly, speaking the Common language he knew the creatures understood.

The third draconian froze, its sword halfway drawn, its beady eyes darting this way and that.

“I have an arrow with your foul name on it,” Tanis continued. “It’s pointed straight at what you slime call your heart. Where is the boy you took captive back there? What have you done to him? You have ten seconds to tell me, or you meet the same fate as your comrades.”

The draconian said something in its own language.

“Don’t give me that,” Tanis growled. “You speak Common better than I do, probably. Where is the boy? Ten seconds is almost up. If you—”

“Tanis, my friend! How good to see you again,” came a voice. “It’s been a long time.”

An elf, tall, handsome, with brown hair, brown eyes, wearing black robes, emerged from the cave.

Tanis fought to keep the bow raised and aimed, though his hands trembled, his fingers were wet with sweat, and the fear tore him up inside.

“Where is my son, Dalamar?” Tanis cried hoarsely. “What have you done with him?”

“Put the bow down, my friend,” Dalamar said gently. “Don’t make them kill you. Don’t make me.”

Blinded by tears of rage and fear and helpless frustration, Tanis kept the bow raised, was ready to loose the arrow, not caring what he hit.

Clawed fingers dug into his back, dragged him to the ground. A heavy object struck him. Pain burst in Tanis’s head and, though he fought against it, darkness closed around him.

Gil was riding through a particularly dark and gloomy portion of forest, thinking, uncomfortably, that this would be a perfect place for an ambush, when a griffin sailed down through an opening in the trees and landed on the road directly in front of the young man.

Gil had never before seen one of the wondrous beasts, who were friends to the elves and no other race on Krynn. He was alarmed and startled at the sight. The beast had the head and wings of an eagle, but its rear portion was that of a lion. Its eyes were fierce; its wickedly sharp beak could—according to legend—rip through a dragon’s scales.

His horse was terrified; horseflesh is one of a griffin’s favorite meals.

The animal neighed and reared in panic, nearly throwing its rider. Gil was a skilled horseman; such exercise having been advocated as good for his health, and he immediately reined in the horse and calmed it down with soothing pats on the neck, gentle words of reassurance.

The griffin’s rider—an elder elf clad in rich clothing—watched with approval. When Gil’s horse was under control once again, the elf dismounted and walked over. Another elf—one of the oddest-looking elves Gilthas had ever seen—waited behind. This strange elf was clothed in practically nothing, leaving bare a well-muscled body decorated with fantastic, colorfully painted designs.

The elder elf introduced himself.

“I am Rashas of the Thalas-Enthia. And you, I believe, must be Prince Gilthas. Well met, grandson of Solostaran. Well met.”

Gil dismounted, said the polite words as he’d been taught. The two exchanged the formal kiss of greeting and continued through the ritual of introduction. During this proceeding, the griffin glared around, its fierce-eyed gaze penetrating the forest shadows. At one point, it gnashed its beak, its claws churned the ground, and its lion tail lashed about in disgust.

The elf accompanying Rashas spoke a few words to the griffin, which twisted its head and flexed its wings and seemed to—somewhat sullenly—settle down.

Gil was watching the griffin, trying to keep his horse calm, casting oblique glances at the painted elf servant, and attempting, at the same time, to make the correct, polite responses to the senator. Small wonder he became confused. Rashas noticed the young man’s difficulty. “Permit me to apologize for frightening your horse. It was thoughtless of me. I should have realized that your animal would not be accustomed to our griffins. The horses of Qualinesti are trained to be around them, you see. It never occurred to me that the horses of Tanthalas Half-Elven were not.”

Gil was shamed. The griffins had long been friends of the elves. To be unacquainted with these magnificent beasts seemed to him tantamount to being unacquainted with one’s own kind. He was intending to stammer an apology for his father, but to his astonishment found himself saying something quite different.

“Griffins come to visit us,” Gil said proudly. “My parents exchange gifts with them yearly. My father’s horse is well-trained. My own horse is young—”

Rashas politely cut him off.

“Believe me, Prince Gilthas, I do understand,” he said earnestly, with a glance of cool pity that brought hot blood to the young man’s face.

“Believe me, sir,” Gil began, “I think you mistake—”

Rashas continued on, as if he hadn’t heard, “I thought it might be enjoyable, as well as enlightening, for you to take your first glimpse of Qualinesti from the air, Prince Gilthas. Therefore, on impulse, I flew to meet you. I would be greatly honored if you were to ride back with me. Don’t worry, the griffin can easily carry us both.”

Gil forgot his anger at the insult. He gazed at the wondrous beast with awe and longing. To fly! It seemed all his dreams were coming true at once!

But his elation quickly evaporated. His first concern must be for his horse.

“I thank you for your kind offer, Senator—”

“Call me Rashas, my prince,” the elf interrupted.

Gil bowed, acknowledging the compliment. “I could not leave my horse alone, unattended.” He patted his horse’s neck. “I hope you are not offended.”

On the contrary, Rashas appeared pleased. “Far from it, my prince. I am glad to see you take such responsibilities seriously. So many young people do not, these days. But you won’t have to miss out on the trip. My Kagonesti servant here”—Rashas waved a hand in the general direction of the strange-looking elf—“will return the horse to your father’s stables.”