Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

“Only,” Kronn said firmly, “after you’ve answered a few questions for us. Does that sound fair to you?”

“Yes!” Baloth cried. “I’ll do whatever you want-just don’t bring him back.”

“All right, then,” Kronn said happily. “Let’s get started. Riverwind?”

Riverwind stepped forward, his face grave. “What is your position in the army outside our walls?”

Baloth’s eyes flared with recognition when he saw the old Plainsman. “I am one of the Black-Gazer’s warlords, and his favorite,” he said proudly. “I slew Lord Ruog and in return he made me his third-in-command. I answer only to the Black-Gazer.”

“The Black-Gazer?” Riverwind asked.

“Kurthak.” The ogre’s lip curled derisively. “The one who will destroy this city and take its survivors back to our homeland as slaves.”

Riverwind leaned forward. “Slaves? Why do you need so many slaves all of a sudden, and why pick on the kender?”

Baloth sneered. “We stick ‘em in the mines. Ogres are too big. Besides, it’s hard work that doesn’t befit warriors.”

Kronn let that pass.

“What is this Black-Gazer’s plan?” Riverwind continued.

“Batter your walls and burn your homes. Drag the kender away in chains-and you, Hero of the Lance… yes, he knows of you. He’ll take your head-and those of the other humans you have brought with you.”

The old Plainsman paled, his scalp prickling. It was not an empty threat, he knew. The thought of the ogres bearing his daughters’ heads back to their homeland as trophies made him furious-and worried.

Kronn glanced at Riverwind. “And when is all this supposed to happen?” the kender demanded.

“Soon,” Baloth answered with a snarl. “The day after Year-Turning.”

Kronn fell back a pace, his mouth dropping open. He looked back at Riverwind, whose grave expression showed that they shared the same thought. Year-Turning was three weeks away. It was a gift of time, even if they didn’t have time to evacuate Kendermore completely.

“But you have us trapped,” Riverwind reasoned. “A smart leader would wait and starve us out. Why attack at all?”

“Because Malystryx wills it.”

Riverwind swallowed. “The dragon commands your leader?”

Baloth nodded. “She has given us Kendermore … as a gift. When we have destroyed it, she will fly to the Kenderwood and burn it to ashes. Then this land will belong to her. She will raise a new lair here, and the Desolation will continue to spread west into the human lands.”

“You seem to know a great deal about her,” Kronn observed.

“I have seen her,” Baloth declared proudly. “I was there when she told the Black-Gazer how and when to attack.”

Riverwind stepped forward. “You attacked today. I realize you were merely testing us. Why wait so long before attacking again?”

The hairless ogre opened his mouth to answer, then stopped and shut it again. His eyes, which had been dull and dim until now, flared like torches of hate. “No,” he said. “I will not tell you.”

Kronn hesitated, then glanced over at Riverwind.

The old Plainsman nodded. “Go get Giffel,” he said.

“No!” Baloth yelped. He cringed, the hate in his eyes giving way to dread. “Not him!”

“Then tell us why Malys is delaying the final attack,” Kronn said. “If you don’t… well, I’m sure Giff’s got a lot of stories he hasn’t told you yet. Maybe a whole week’s worth.”

The hairless ogre broke down and began to sob. He shook his head stubbornly. “No.”

“Tell us!” Riverwind snapped.

Baloth slumped, defeated. “Kurthak asked her why,” he blubbered. “Why we must wait to destroy you. She said she couldn’t leave her lair, not yet.”

Riverwind tensed. “Why?” he pressed.

“Because,” Baloth moaned, “she needs to save her strength… until she lays her egg.”

Riverwind climbed the stairs out of the tunnels, his face gray. Once he was out in Kendermore’s streets, he bent over, hands on his knees, and gasped for air.

After a while, he heard Kronn approach from behind. “Riverwind,” the kender asked quietly, “are you all right?”

The old Plainsman took a deep breath, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and forced himself to stand up straight. He swayed on his feet as he turned toward Kronn. “Just getting old,” he breathed. “That… and the egg.”

“Yup,” Kronn agreed. “But that’s not what’s troubling me most. You heard what Baloth said about the attack, when it’s happening. We’ve only got three weeks.”

“I know,” Riverwind said. “We can’t get everyone out of Kendermore before then.”

“We might get about three-quarters of the population out,” Kronn said. “Maybe more, if Catt can hurry things up. I’ll talk to her about that. But there’ll still be ten, maybe fifteen thousand of us left when the ogres attack.”

For an instant, Riverwind’s shoulders slumped with defeat, but then he recovered, forcing stoicism back onto his face. “Do you know where Malystryx lives?”

Kronn frowned. “Yes,” he said. “Father told me her lair was at Blood Watch. Why do you ask?”

Riverwind didn’t answer; he pursed his lips and stroked his chin, deep in thought. He knew of Blood Watch: Elistan had told him the story, many years ago. The old cleric, who had been a leader of the Seeker order before Goldmoon turned him to the true gods, had known many such tales from his studies, and had related them to Riverwind and his companions. Now, Riverwind strove to remember his words.

“Blood Watch,” Elistan had said, “was once a monastery devoted to an ancient god of thought-Majere, the Disks of Mishakal call him. Of course, it wasn’t called Blood Watch then. That would come after.”

“After what?” Tasslehoff had asked. It was rare that Elistan would get through an entire story without Tas interrupting at least once.

“Hush, Tas,” Tanis had said.

Elistan, however, had smiled patiently. “I will tell you,” he said. “When the Kingpriest grew corrupt in his own goodness, and the persecutions grew worse all over Istar-inquisitions, burnings, stonings-the people went to the monastery and begged the monks for help. But the monks turned them away. ‘Our duty to our god,’ they told the people, ‘is to watch the world unfold, and to think on it. It is not our place to act.’

“In truth, however, the monks could have acted… and should have,” the old cleric had said. “Who knows what might have been different if they had?”

“Nothing,” Raistlin had hissed. “Nothing would have been different. Larger rocks have been thrown into the river of time before, without changing its course. No group of monks could have changed the Kingpriest’s mind-the Cataclysm would have happened, whatever they did.”

Riverwind had glared at the cynical mage, but Raistlin had only sneered, his disturbing, hourglass eyes glittering as his lip curled in derision.

“The monks thought as you do, Raistlin Majere,” Elistan had continued, his rich voice breaking the brittle silence. There had been no sign of reproach in his kind face. “They believed it was better to contemplate life than to live it, so they ignored the people’s pleas, no matter how loud they became. Instead they remained in their cloisters, meditating. Whether they saw what lay ahead I cannot say, but if they did, they did nothing to stop it, even when the gods sent their Thirteen Signs to thwart the Kingpriest. Perhaps they thought they were being humble, but too much humility can be just as bad as too much pride-as they learned one day, not long after Yule, when the sky began to rain fire.

“The monks gathered in the courtyard of their abbey and watched as destruction fell upon the land. Even then, with the end at hand, they ignored the cries of the people, who pounded upon the doors of the monastery, begging for succor. Then, with a roar, the Cataclysm struck. The burning mountain streaked down from the sky, far to the north, and the ground erupted. The earth dropped away, and the sea poured in, drowning the empire of Istar-but not all of it. The destruction stopped at the edge of the monastery, cleaving the hill on which it stood in two. The northern slope dropped away into the newborn Blood Sea, but the rest remained, leaving the abbey perched upon a clifftop above the surf, on the north shore of what is now the Goodlund peninsula.