Paul Thompson - Riverwind

Li El sighed. A trilling note sounded. The ranks of sword-armed elves parted. Four soldiers, dressed in light mail, came forward whirling strange-looking devices over their heads-three metal balls joined by a length of chain. Catchflea menaced them with his harmless gourd, but the elves were not bluffed. They flung the bolos at the old man. Two wrapped up his arms and legs. The gourd hit the mosaic floor. The guards flinched. When nothing else happened, they gave a concerted cry of anger and swarmed over the plainsmen. The sword was snatched from Riverwind, and both men were carried bodily from the room.

Li El stepped lightly down from her throne. She picked up Catchflea's gourd. The acorns rattled within. She turned the gourd over, and one by one shook the acorns out into her hand. No emotion at all showed on her beautiful, still face.

Shouting all the while, the soldiers bore Riverwind and Catchflea roughly along a winding passage that ascended through the solid stone of the cave wall. Up and up they went, banging against projecting rocks and the low ceiling. The yelling elves ran faster as the path constricted into a tighter and tighter spiral. Ten elves carried Riverwind and six had Catchflea. A swarm of others followed, all shouting ferociously.

The spiral passage suddenly ended on an open platform dug out of the cave wall. Riverwind's heart climbed to his throat when he saw where they were: three hundred feet or more above the city, nearly to the roof of the great cavern! For a moment he had the horrible thought that the Hestites were going to hurl him and Catchflea off. They didn't. Butting against the lip of the platform was a span of milk-colored limestone. This dizziest of bridges rose in a gentle arch and disappeared a dozen yards out in the drifting smoke and haze.

The soldiers set them on their feet. One cried, “To the Spires! To the Spires!” and the rest took up the frenzied cry. They waved their swords and poked the men in the back with the sharp tips to spur them on.

“Well, old man, what do you think?” Riverwind asked. “We can die fighting, or we can go out on that span and fall.”

“Those are not the only choices, yes?” Catchflea said desperately. “Ouch!” An elf pricked him on the calf of his leg. “We could go out and not fall off.”

Riverwind inhaled deeply and bellowed, “Stand back!” His size still impressed the Hestites, and they did stand away. The plainsman walked to the edge of the platform.

Light from the brazen sun threw weird shadows from the forest of stalactites. Foundry smoke drifted around the hanging spires. Riverwind coughed as sulfurous fumes swept over him. Through watering eyes he could dimly see a dark mass far off in the smoke, at the other end of the bridge.

“Come along, Catchflea,” he said. “Let's show these cave-folk how Que-Shu men face danger.”

“On my hands and knees,” the old man muttered, closing in behind Riverwind.

The bridge was only six inches wide, and rounded. A fine film of soot coated the upper surface; just enough, Riverwind mused, to make it slick. He slid his feet onto the glassy surface. It seemed sturdy enough. He brought his trailing foot up slowly. That was the way to do it. Inch along. No hurry, no sudden stops.

Catchflea imitated him. Only once did the old man look down. Instantly he regretted it. Vertigo punched him in the stomach; his head spun. So did the concentric streets of Var-toom, far below. Catchflea flailed his arms-

'Tall man!” he gasped. “Help me!”

Riverwind turned in time to see Catchflea topple. The drop beneath him was over a hundred feet. Riverwind threw himself at Catchflea. He hit the bridge chest-first. The impact drove the air from his lungs, but he reached out and grasped Catchflea's arms. The old man slid steadily over the rounded rim of the bridge. Riverwind wrapped his long legs around the limestone span and dug his fingers in Catchflea's rags. The old cloth frayed and ripped, sending up puffs of dust.

The Hestites, who up till now had been jeering, fell silent. One shouted, “Get a leg up, old giant!” The rest joined in, calling out advice.

Catchflea tried three times to get his right leg over the bridge, but his heel could find no purchase and skidded off. Tears streaked his dirty face. “I cannot do it,” he groaned.

Riverwind said, “Try again! This time I'll pull you just as you swing your leg up!”

Catchflea was old, but wiry. He threw his leg up again. Riverwind's arm muscles knotted, drawing the old man toward him. Catchflea's heel caught. The elves cheered. With much effort, the old man worked his leg over until he was straddling the bridge. He and Riverwind lay nose to nose, panting for breath.

“Are you set?” asked Riverwind.

“I think so, yes.”

Riverwind sat up and swung himself around. He and Catchflea proceeded, sliding along astride the bridge. The soldiers and the cave wall submerged in the smoke and were lost from sight.

Gradually their destination took shape. A number of especially stout stalactites had been used to support an airy platform. Iron bands circled the spires, securing a floor made of square iron rails. Riverwind grasped a rail and hauled himself onto the platform.

A dark figure appeared in the smoke. “Who's there?” When neither man replied, the figure came forward. It was Karn. “So, the outlanders were sent to the Spires, too. How fitting.”

Riverwind dragged Catchflea off the bridge. The old man clung to the floor like a sailor to a barmaid.

“This is like no dungeon I ever heard of,” he wheezed.

“It wasn't built to be a prison,” Karn said. His pointed features twisted into a sneer. “Once this was the private aerie of the King of Hest. Now, it's where Her Highness sends those who displease her.”

“There's no gate, no barred door,” Riverwind noted.

“None are needed, giant. Two guards stand at the end of the bridge, ready to dispatch any who try to leave.” Karn growled low in his throat. “I, who serve Her Highness like a slave, sent here with two barbarians!” He glared at the men. “I should have slain you in the tunnel. And that digger girl, too.”

“Bitterness is no answer, yes,” Catchflea said.

“We share a common prison,” Riverwind added. “Couldn't we work together to gain our freedom?”

Karn sneered. “I don't expect you overgrown barbarians to understand a warrior or his code of honor,” he said. “My life belongs to the queen. Her will is mine.”

“But she sent you here,” said Riverwind.

Karn folded his arms. “I won't be here long. Her Highness needs me. I am her right arm.”

“From what I've seen, there are many arms in Hest, yes? Perhaps you are not as valuable as you think,” Catchflea remarked.

The elf warrior flushed and took a step toward where Catchflea and Riverwind still sat on the floor. He glared hatefully down at the old man. “You know nothing about us!” Karn rasped, breathing heavily. “I may have to take such insults from Vvelz because he is the queen's brother, but I won't take them from you!”

He stepped back from Catchflea, and the old man breathed a sigh of relief. “Vvelz is a weakling and a meddler,” Karn continued. “He is tolerated by the Host only because of the loyalty we bear Her Highness.”

“He seems witful enough,” Catchflea ventured carefully.

“Master Vvelz is infamous for his wit. And for using it to aid the diggers. He will subvert the natural order of Hest! Favoring diggers over his own kind-” The flow of words trailed away. After a second of head-shaking, Karn said, “Kinthalas take his eyes!”

The Que-Shu men exchanged a long and meaningful glance. “Why would Vvelz favor the diggers?” asked Riverwind softly.