Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

I was wrong all those years ago, Riverwind thought as he stared up at her. Death’s wings aren’t black at all. They’re red as the vanished moon.

Suddenly, the dragon’s mouth snapped shut. The mountain continued to tremble beneath Riverwind for a long time. Malys glared at him, unreasoning hatred in her eyes. The dragonfear was horrifically intense, clawing at his sanity. He swayed as it beat down upon him but fought it off valiantly. Glaring up at the enormous wyrm, he reversed his grip on his sabre so its blade pointed downward, then raised it high in both hands. He held the sword poised for an instant, then drove it downward, through the helpless embryo’s breast. With one last, miserable shiver, the baby dragon died. He let go of the sabre, leaving it buried in the embryo’s stilled heart.

Her eyes shining ferociously, Malystryx hunched her shoulders and sucked in a long, deep breath. Not taking his eyes off her, Riverwind reached beneath his fur vest and locked his fingers around the Forever Charm. He yanked, and the medallion’s chain snapped as he pulled it from around his neck. He squeezed its two interlocked circles, feeling their steel edges cut his flesh. Blood welling between his fingers, he thrust his fist above his head.

“Goldmoon,” he whispered as flames surged up the dragon’s throat.

Kronn-alin Thistleknot waited for hours, crouching low on the ridge opposite Blood Watch. The mountain shook again and again as Malystryx thundered her rage, deep within its heart. A gout of smoke spewed from the volcano’s caldera, and rivers of glowing lava poured down into the valley below. Sheets of stone broke loose from its sides, smashing to pieces as they struck the ground.

Finally, around dusk, the noise and the tremors died away. Blood Watch fell silent. The dragon did not emerge.

Kronn stayed where he was a short while longer. Then he rose and walked away, toward the setting sun.

A cool breeze blew through Solace Vale, soughing through the branches of the vallenwoods and rustling their blue-green leaves. It was late summer, with a fortnight still to go before the Harvest Come festival, and the weather had begun to slide toward autumn. The front door of the Inn of the Last Home stood wide open, as did its stained glass windows, allowing the gentle wind to blow the taproom.

This afternoon, the tavern was more or less empty. It was market day in Solace, and the Inn’s patrons had gone down to the town square to shop, gossip, and enjoy the pleasant weather. Tika and her daughters were also at the market, buying food to stock the Inn’s larders.

Thus it was that-with the exception of Clemen, Borlos and Osler, who sat where they always sat, playing cards and swearing at one another-Caramon found himself left alone for a while. He took the opportunity to drag an armchair over to a spot where the breeze was particularly pleasant, sit down, and take a long, leisurely nap. He did not sleep alone, however; in his arms, he held Ulin, his grandson.

Usha’s child had arrived right on time, not quite a year ago. He had been born strong and healthy, and no one-not even Palin, who’d been beside himself with joy-had been quite as proud as Caramon. In the best grandfatherly tradition, he’d spent the past year fawning over Ulin, much to Palin and Usha’s chagrin. Tika often quipped that Caramon spent more time with the baby than he did with his own wife, but she was no one to talk. She spoiled Ulin rotten too.

Today, as with all market days, Caramon had volunteered to take care of the child, giving his mother and father an afternoon to themselves. And today being a particularly lazy day, both Caramon and Ulin were content to snooze quietly, listening to the orchestra of muttering leaves and twittering birds outside the Inn. They were both sound asleep, then, when the tromp of feet sounded on the stairs far below.

As the footsteps drew nearer, Clemen, Borlos and Osler set down their cards and glanced across the tavern. “Hey, big guy!” Clemen shouted across the room. “Company coming!”

Caramon answered with a cavernous snore. In his arms, Ulin made burbling sounds but didn’t wake. The footsteps were close now, nearing the balcony that surrounded the Inn.

“Whose turn is it this time?” Osler asked.

“Bor’s,” said Clemen.

Borlos groaned, then set his cards face down on the table. He rose and walked over to Caramon, then reached out and tapped the innkeeper on the shoulder. “Wake up, you old lummox,” he said, not unkindly.

Caramon’s eyes blinked open, and he peered up at Borlos. “You’re lucky I’ve got the kid here,” he grumbled, nodding at the baby in his arms. “What have I told you about waking me up?”

Just to be safe, Borlos took a quick step back from the chair. “Don’t matter what you’d do to me,” he replied. “Tika said she’d do worse if we let you sleep when guests showed up.”

Caramon’s brow furrowed. “What’d she do, threaten to take away your cards?”

“Well, uh,” Borlos answered, flushing with embarrassment, “actually, yeah.”

Caramon snorted with mock disgust, then shook his head groggily, clearing out the cobwebs. “You said something about guests?”

“Outside,” Osler called from their table. “You can hear them, can’t you, big guy? Haven’t up and gone deaf in your old age, have you?”

Scowling sourly, Caramon strained to listen. Hearing the footsteps-they were on the balcony now-he heaved himself to his feet, Ulin in his arms. Before he could move any farther, though, a shadow stepped into the doorway. Caramon stepped back, fighting to focus against the glaring sunlight that streamed through the door. The visitor was a young woman, clad in a Plainsfolk dress. She walked with a limp, favoring her right leg. Her face…

Caramon caught his breath as he finally made out the woman’s features. She had been truly beautiful, once. On the right side she still was, her strong face framed by long, golden hair shot with strands of silver. The left side, however, was a horror. From forehead to chin, and on down her neck, her skin was red and puckered-a large, glistening scar. Her left eye was seared shut, her left ear a gnarled stub. The golden hair had been scorched away on that side, laying bare her burn-ravaged scalp.

Behind him, Borlos swore softly and hurried back to join the other card players. Caramon took no notice; for a time, he could do little but stare.

“Moonsong?” he breathed.

The right side of her mouth curled into a smile. “Caramon.” She nodded at Ulin. “Your grandson?”

“What?” he asked, stunned. “Oh. Yes.” He continued to look at her, not believing what he saw. “Moonsong… what happened?”

“In good time,” she replied. “We will tell you.”

Caramon’s brow lowered. “We?”

A second woman stepped into the Inn, leaning on a plain staff. She was older, but her face still retained the beauty that once had been Moonsong’s. Caramon recognized her immediately, a sharp ache in his heart.

“Goldmoon,” he said.

The older woman regarded him kindly. “My friend,” she said. “It is good to see you.”

For a moment, Caramon couldn’t think of anything to say. “Why-why are you here?” he asked lamely.

“We come bearing news you should hear,” Goldmoon replied. “My husband is dead-and Brightdawn, Swiftraven, and thousands of brave kender with him.”

Folk who came to the tavern at the Inn of the Last Home that night found it dark and locked. Handpainted signs were posted at the front door and at the bottom of the long flight of stairs that wound around the vallenwood tree.

Closed tonight in memory of Riverwind of Que-Shu.

Guests, please use the back door to go to your rooms.