Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

“On the contrary. I am overjoyed.”

Eyes narrowing, Hekhorath crawled out of the hole. Spreading his wings, he glided down to the bottom of the cavern. His talons clacked against the floor as he landed, then he slithered toward his mate. He held himself tensed, unsure of what to expect. Malystryx, however, raised her wing and folded it about him as he approached, then twisted her tail around his and nuzzled his neck with her muzzle. Gradually, he relaxed, and they coiled about each other.

“How fares my domain?” Malys asked. Her forked tongue flicked between her teeth, dancing tantalizingly along the underside of Hekhorath’s chin.

“Well enough,” he answered, shivering with pleasure. “The ogres have left their war camp and are finally marching on Kendermore.” He bent his head back, letting Malys’s tongue work its way from his chin down his throat, then back up again. He squeezed his eyes shut, sighing, then opened them again. His gaze focused on the balcony, high above.

“What is she doing here?” he demanded.

Malys nuzzled him again. “She brought me word of your return. I asked her to stay.”

“You did?” Hekhorath asked. “What for?”

“This.”

Hekhorath shrieked in sudden agony as Malys dug her claws into his belly and breast. Her talons drove through his tough, scaly hide, and blood pooled on the floor, running into cracks in the stone. He thrashed, kicking against her, but she clutched him close, keeping him from finding any hold. Slowly, painfully, she ripped open his flesh, tearing into his guts, disemboweling him. His cries grew more frantic, and his wings flapped furiously, buffeting Malys’s body. The blows bounced uselessly off her tough hide.

High above, Yovanna smiled.

Growing more desperate with each fading moment, Hekhorath opened his mouth and breathed fire all over her. She only laughed, though, as the flames enveloped her. “Do you really think that will be of any use?” she asked. He began to weaken in her grasp.

“Why?” he moaned, his voice wracked with agony. Blood bubbled in his throat. “What did I do?”

“Everything I wanted,” she answered.

Then her fangs clamped around his throat, crushing his windpipe, and his voice choked off with a wet gurgle. He bucked wildly, so violently he nearly slipped out of her iron grasp. Then she rolled him over on the blood-slick floor, clenched her jaw even tighter, and viciously twisted his neck.

Bones snapped. Hekhorath twitched once, then died.

Malys released him, her claws and face dripping red. “When you first asked to be my consort,” she snarled, “I said you were either clever or an idiot.” She sneered at his tattered corpse, her teeth glistening. “Now I know which.”

A moment passed, then something began to happen to Hekhorath’s body. A lambent, scarlet mist rose from his shredded flesh like bloody steam. She shuddered as it enveloped her, seeping between her thick, crimson scales. As Hekhorath’s life essence flowed from his corpse into her body, Malystryx’s body grew-and his shriveled.

Finally, the last of the mist faded away. Malys looked down upon Hekhorath’s body, which lay withered on the cavern floor, as if he’d lain in the sun for a year. She clamped her jaws around his neck once more and began to saw with her teeth, grinding and crunching. At length, she tore his head from his body.

“Will we add that to the rest, My Queen?” Yovanna asked from high above.

Malys grasped Hekhorath’s head in her claws and examined it, an odd wistfulness in her eyes. “Yes,” she said at last. “But this one, I think, will have a special place.”

She bent over the head, tenderly, running her tongue under his chin one last time. Then, using her teeth, she began to strip the shriveled flesh from Hekhorath’s skull.

“You never mentioned you played the flute,” Kronn said as the five travelers walked down the dock, leaving behind the ship that had borne them across the Bay of Balifor. The inns and rowhouses of Port Balifor stretched before them, hearth glow and candlelight shining from their windows as twilight stole across the city. Down the wharf, roaming fishmongers were calling, trying to sell the last of their wares before darkness fell.

Riverwind glanced at the kender, who trotted beside him, ponytail and cheek braids bouncing with each step. Brightdawn and Swiftraven came behind, whispering to each other and laughing softly. The young warrior still favored his healthy leg, but the wounds he’d suffered during the pirate attack had almost completely healed during their long trek across the sands of Khur. Catt came last, whistling a jaunty sea chantey as her hoopak rapped against the wooden planks of the dock.

Kronn looked up at the old Plainsman, his eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” Riverwind answered, his voice thick with memory. “Wanderer, my grandfather, taught me to play many years ago. Many years…” His voice trailed off, his gaze sliding away into the past. “Tending his flock under the stars, a man needs music,’ he said. I was to be a shepherd, you see. He carved my first flute from the branch of a bonewood tree, and showed me how to play. It was one of many things he taught me.” He paused again, a complicated mix of emotions playing across his face. “Sometimes, when I was older, I would play with Goldmoon. We seldom make music together any more, I’m afraid, except on festival days. But sometimes…”

He stopped suddenly, his brow furrowing. “Wait a moment,” he said slowly. “How did you find out I can play the flute?”

Kronn frowned, thinking it over. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I might have guessed. I’m a good guesser.”

Riverwind, however, had already shrugged off his pack, and was rooting through its contents. After a while, he looked up from the pouch, leveling a hard stare at the kender.

“Or-rrr,” Kronn amended slowly, “maybe it was because you dropped your flute this morning, back in Ak-Khurman.”

He reached into his pouch, his arm disappearing up to his elbow into the bag, then pulled a simple flute, hand-carved from white wood and worn from years of use. Riverwind snatched it from his hands and examined it closely for cracks. It seemed intact. Making sure, he blew softly into the mouth hole. It answered with a sweet, warm note. A look of relief smoothed the lines of his face-then he looked at Kronn, his brow darkening once more.

“All my life, through darkness and light,” he said, “I have kept this flute. I took it with me on my Courting Quest and carried it to war. I played it that night in Solace, when I met Tanis and Caramon and the others. And-it is the only thing I have left to remind me of my grandfather. Even his face is no longer clear in my memory but I can still see his hands as he guided my fingers over its holes.”

The kender nodded solemnly. “I’m surprised you’re so careless with it, if it’s so important. You’re lucky I’m around to pick up after you. I play too, you know.” He twisted sideways, displaying the chapak slung across his back. “Have a look at the handle.”

Riverwind looked. The axe’s ironwood haft was dotted with dark finger holes.

“Neat, huh?” the kender asked. “I had it specially made. It’s a pain unscrewing the axe head and taking out all the rope, but, ‘It’s not a proper weapon unless it can play a tune,’ as my father used to say. Of course,” he added sadly, “poor Father couldn’t carry a tune in a wheelbarrow. He was a great hero, but unlike myself, completely tone deaf. So’s Catt, you know.”

“I am not,” Catt snapped.

Kronn glanced back at her, a mischievous grin on his face. “Give us a song, then.”

Catt glowered at him, her lips pursing. “I don’t feel like it.”