Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

“Please,” Brightdawn sobbed. The sharp obsidian dug into her palms, drawing bright blood. “Father…”

Riverwind moved as quickly as he could, but he could see his daughter’s grip faltering and knew he wouldn’t be fast enough. Another board gave way beneath him, and he nearly fell, clutching the weakened hand rope. Tears of frustration crawled down his cheeks.

Yovanna continued to pull herself up Brightdawn’s body, growling like a wild animal. Her hand clawed up, reaching for the Plainswoman’s collar.

Then a tiny dart hissed through the air, striking the back of her neck. Reflexively, Yovanna swatted at it…

And lost her grip on Brightdawn.

As she fell, the glittering cruelty faded from Yovanna’s eyes. A look of relief took its place. Then the heat of the magma ignited her robes, and she plunged, burning like a torch, into the molten rock.

Brightdawn sobbed, her fingers slipping. Recklessly, Riverwind charged the last dozen paces back along the bridge, threw himself flat on the ledge, then reached back and caught her wrists. Groaning mightily, he pulled her up, out of the abyss. They lay sprawled together on the stone for a moment, shuddering, then Riverwind pushed himself weakly to his knees. His face was ashen as he beheld his daughter’s body. Yovanna’s dagger was still buried to its cross-guard in her side.

The Plainsman glanced back across the bridge, seeking Kronn. The kender stood still, holding the haft of his chapak in his hands. Pieces of the weapon protruded from his pouches and pockets: while Riverwind had striven to reach his daughter, Kronn had dismantled it, turned it into a blowgun, and fired the dart that had felled Yovanna. Now he slid the haft into his belt and dashed back along the bridge to help Riverwind and Brightdawn.

She rolled onto her side, the dagger’s hilt sticking up into the air, and looked at them both with bleary eyes. Her tunic was dark with blood. “I don’t think I can make it… on my own,” she hissed.

Riverwind’s jaw tightened; his face might have been carved of granite. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m here, child. I’ll help you.”

Somehow, using the remaining hand rope to guide them, he and Kronn carried her across the bridge. When they finally reached the far side, the kender and the Plainsman sank down on the stone, exhausted. For a long time, none of them could do anything but gasp for breath. Then Brightdawn stirred. “Father?” she asked in a small voice. “Why is it so cold?”

A spike of horror drove itself through Riverwind’s gut, paralyzing him. Wearily, Kronn crawled over to Brightdawn and inspected the dagger lodged in her side. He dabbed at the wound, and his fingers came away with blood-and something else. Something black and oily.

He looked at Riverwind, shaking his head.

His face constricted with anguish, Riverwind lifted his daughter and rolled her over, resting her head in his lap. She was shivering, and her lips were blue. Her eyes gleamed feverishly in the fireglow.

“Oh, child,” he said. “My sunrise.”

“She would have killed us all, Father,” Brightdawn hissed. “She would have cut the rope, and we would have fallen. I had to stop her. I had … to save you.”

“Oh, gods.” Riverwind’s voice was ragged with tears. “Child, you cannot save me. You cannot.” He hesitated, summoning strength from within. “I’m dying, Brightdawn.”

Kronn choked suddenly and turned away.

Brightdawn smiled, however. “Then,” she breathed, “you’ll see me again soon…”

Helplessly, Riverwind bowed his head.

“Father?”

“Yes, child?”

“Do you remember, when Moonsong and I were young, how sometimes we’d cry until you came to kiss us good-night?”

He nodded. “I remember.”

“You used to sing to us…” A shudder ran through her body, and she groaned.

“Shall I sing it for you, child?”

She nodded, smiling weakly. Her eyes fluttered dosed. Riverwind took several long, slow breaths to calm himself. Then, with grieving effort, his baritone voice rose softly, singing an old Plainsman lullaby.

Hush baby, sleep baby, nighttime is here

And the moons circle round up above in the skies.

The evening is calm and the blanket is soft,

Time to rest, time to sleep,

close your eyes.

So hush baby, sleep baby, don’t stay awake,

Let your dreams

carry you to a world far away.

A world that is peaceful, a world filled with love,

Where all

children share laughter and play.

So

sleep till the dirk fades away.

Sometime, while he was singing, Riverwind’s daughter died.

He held Brightdawn tight, stroking her golden hair. Kronn walked a short distance down the dark tunnel, partly to leave the Plainsman in peace, partly so he could cry alone. When he returned, Riverwind was still holding her. The Plainsman seemed very old and frail.

“Riverwind,” Kronn said.

“It should have been me,” Riverwind whispered. “First Swiftraven, now…” He bowed his head, shuddering.

The Plainsman removed Brightdawn’s mace from her belt and tied it to his own. Then he dug in his pack and took out a woven blanket. His hands trembling, he folded it about his daughter’s motionless form, then rose and lifted her in his arms. He walked to rim of the ledge and paused there.

“When you return to your people, Kronn,” he said, “tell them how she died. Tell Moonsong.”

The kender nodded sadly. “I will.”

Riverwind kissed Brightdawn’s forehead, then dropped her from the ledge. Her body spun slowly through the air, then vanished into the magma.

They turned and walked away, deeper into the mountain.

Moonsong groaned loudly and stumbled, nearly falling, as she dashed down Tornado Alley. Stagheart, running beside her, caught her arm. She doubled over, gasping desperately for breath that wouldn’t come. Her face grew deathly pale, seeming to age before Stagheart’s eyes. Kender surged all around them, fleeing from the toppled walls toward the center of Kendermore.

Nervously, Stagheart looked over his shoulder. The ogres’ bloodthirsty shouts were growing louder all around as they swarmed into the city He tightened his grip on Moonsong’s wrist. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Brightdawn…” Moonsong sobbed, her shoulders heaving. She looked up at him, her blue eyes brimming with anguish. “Stagheart, she’s dead. My sister’s dead.”

He swayed on his feet, his chest tightening, then forced himself to swallow the acid taste in his mouth. “You’re sure?” he asked gently.

“I know!” she cried. “Stagheart. She’s gone.”

The roars of the ogres were very near now; the mobs of running kender were thinning.

“And your father?” Stagheart pressed urgently.

Moonsong shook her head. “I don’t know. Oh, goddess. What if they’ve failed?” She sucked a shuddering breath through her teeth, shivering convulsively.

Stagheart could see the ogres now, at the far end of the broad, straight street. They were moving swiftly, chasing a mob of shouting kender. He drew his sabre and pulled her away. “Come on,” he told her. “We have to keep moving. Paxina’s waiting for us.”

The sharpness of his voice reached her. Swallowing her grief, she started to run.

The Black-Gazer’s horde spread into the streets of Kendermore, pursuing the retreating kender. Their quarry led them on, running hard to gain ground, then waiting for the ogres to catch up, always keeping maddeningly just out of reach. Each time they stopped, the kender turned around to mock their foes, pointing and laughing, their voices rising in a chorus of sweet-sounding derision.