Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

“From the stories told by Weavewillow survivors,” Paxina added, “she’s almost four hundred feet long. How can we hope to slay any creature that big?”

“I didn’t say ‘slay,’ ” Riverwind answered, his brow furrowed with thought. “I said ‘defeat.’ There must be some way to beat her even if we can’t kill her. We just need to discover her weakness.”

“Oh,” Kronn said. “But how are we going to figure out what-”

Before he could finish his question, though, a commotion rose in the courtyard below. Someone was running toward them, waving his arms. Looking down, the Plainsman and the Thistleknots saw it was Giffel Birdwhistle.

“Riverwind!” the tall kender shouted, his pouches flapping with every loping stride. “Kronn! Pax!” He sprinted toward the wall and bounded up the stairs, taking them two and three at a time.

“Giff?” Kronn asked. “What’s the matter? Has something happened in the tunnels?”

“No,” the tall kender replied, puffing with exertion as he finally reached the top of the stairs. He leaned heavily against a merlon. “I mean, yes. Something’s happened.” He looked at Riverwind, with a pitying expression that made the white hairs on the Plainsman’s arms stand on end. “You’ve got to come to Arlie’s place,” he said.

Riverwind walked so swiftly through Kendermore’s twisty streets that the kender had to jog to keep pace. For every step he took, they took three. The crowds of kender, who usually made it so hard to move quickly through the city, hurried out of his way to keep from getting trampled. Somehow, though he was still unfamiliar with the tangled layout of the city, Riverwind made his way without having to stop or double back even once. Mere minutes after leaving Brimble to oversee the next wall-defense drill, the Plainsman strode up the path to Arlie Longfinger’s house, past the parched earth that was all that remained of the herbalist’s garden. He stepped up onto the porch, pushed past several kender who waited outside the shop, and pounded on the door with his fist.

For a moment, no one answered. Then, as Riverwind tensed to knock again, the door swung open. Catt stood inside. Her injured arm was still in its sling, but the bandages that had covered her head were gone. She looked up at the Plainsman, then quickly stepped aside.

“That was quick,” she said as Riverwind and the others hurried in.

“What’s going on, Call?” Kronn asked.

“Is it Brightdawn?” Riverwind demanded impatiently, giving voice to the terrible fear that had been welling inside him since they had left the battlements. “Has something happened to her?”

“No,” said another voice.

They all looked down the dimly lit hallway that led into the depths of Arlie Longfinger’s home. Swiftraven stood in the passage.

“It isn’t Brightdawn,” he said. “It’s-”

“There you are!” snapped Arlie Longfinger. The old herbalist shoved past Swiftraven and marched straight up to Riverwind. “He’s been asking for you. He has a message.”

“Message?” Kronn echoed, confused. “Who has a message?”

At last, Riverwind’s frayed patience snapped. “Would someone tell me what in the Abyss is going on?” he shouted.

Arlie blinked at him, startled, then turned and headed down the hallway, beckoning with his hand for the others to follow. They did, Riverwind at the fore. The herbalist reached a door-it led to the same room where Call had lain, while she’d recovered from her head wound-and gently pushed it open.

The room was dark, but it was not empty. From the bed, the sound of ragged breathing mixed with moans of pain.

The tang of fresh blood hung in the air.

“What is this?” Riverwind demanded as he entered.

Arlie pushed past him and went to an oil lamp that sat, flickering faintly, upon a small table by the bed. He turned its key, and the lamp’s light rose to a lambent, ruddy glow.

When Riverwind saw the man who lay upon the bed, he blew out his breath and staggered as though he’d been punched in the stomach. Swiftraven was at his side in an eyeblink, taking the old Plainsman’s arm and leading him to a low stool beside the bed. Riverwind sat down heavily and stared in mute horror.

The man on the bed was badly injured. He had been stabbed in the gut, and even though the bandages Arlie had used to bind the wound were fresh, they were nonetheless dark with blood. Despite the seriousness of his wound, however, the man stirred when he saw Riverwind and even tried to sit up. Swiftraven rushed to his side and eased him back again, whispering soothing words and mopping the man’s sweat-soaked brow.

“I don’t understand,” Paxina said, staring at the injured man. “He looks like one of your people, Riverwind-but what is he doing here? Who is he?”

Riverwind opened his mouth, but could say nothing. He bowed his head, overcome. Swiftraven turned toward the Lord Mayor, his face contorting into a grimace of pain.

“It’s Stagheart,” he said. “My brother… and Moonsong’s beloved.”

“My chief,” Stagheart of Que-Teh, moaned, through teeth clenched with pain. He clawed for Riverwind with a strong, sweat-soaked hand. The old Plainsman gripped it tightly, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Oh, my chief.”

Riverwind forced himself to speak calmly. “Be easy, Stagheart,” he said. “Still yourself, then speak.”

Stagheart relaxed, slumping back in the bed and breathing heavily. It was a long while before he could summon the will to speak again. When he did, his terse words sent a chill through the old Plainsman.

“They took her,” Stagheart gasped. “I tried to stop them, but-” He stiffened, grimacing as the wound in his belly wracked him with pain. “They took her… Moonsong…”

Riverwind jerked away from Stagheart’s touch as though the younger man had stung him. Shakily, he rose to his feet and backed away from the bed until he bumped into the wall. His face was as pale as a corpse, his eyes wide with horror.

The old Plainsman said nothing. He only stared at Stagheart, scarcely even breathing, his lips moving soundlessly.

Paxina nodded to Catt, who slipped out of the room. Paxina followed her, casting a troubled glance at the old Plainsman before she stepped out the door.

Riverwind raised a shaking hand to his head. “What happened?” he asked. “How did he get here?”

“I was leading a scouting patrol out beyond the ogres’ camp,” Giffel answered. “Down by Chesli’s Creek. We found him, unconscious and covered in blood. We bound his wound as well as we could, and brought him to Kendermore through the tunnels. It took eight of us to carry him here.”

“They took her,” Stagheart wept as Swiftraven smoothed back his damp, brown hair.

Drawing a long, slow breath to calm himself, Riverwind knelt by the bedside. “Stagheart,” he said, at once gentle and insistent. “What happened?”

Stagheart’s eyes rolled, showing nothing but white, then his gaze settled on Riverwind. “My chief,” he breathed. “I have failed you.”

“Tell me,” Riverwind said.

The two men held each other’s gaze for an excruciating moment, then Stagheart grew calm. Drawing upon some deep well of strength within himself, he began to speak.

“We left Que-Shu a month ago,” he said. “Moonsong had a… a nightmare. She dreamt that Brightdawn was in danger, that she needed her, so she pleaded with Goldmoon to let us go after you. We rode south to New Ports, found a ship to bear us across the New Sea-”

“Then crossed the desert in Khur, crossed the Bay of Balifor, and headed inland, toward the Kenderwood,” Kronn finished proudly. “The same route we took.”

“Kronn,” Riverwind snapped.