Paul Thompson - Riverwind

“I call you that, too. I'm sorry.” Riverwind laid a large hand on the old man's shoulder. He regretted many things at that moment, most especially his harsh words at the spring the previous day.

“Don't trouble yourself. I am Catchflea.” He scratched to prove his point and laughed with his usual rusty wheeze. Then he asked, “And what of Goldmoon? Does she know she loves a heretic?”

“By rights, she is a heretic herself. Her own mother's spirit appeared to her in the Hall of the Sleeping Spirits and confessed the falsity of Que-Shu religion.” Catchflea's face showed great surprise.

“The priestess of the people a heretic? Does the chieftain know this?” he sputtered.

“Arrowthorn hears and sees only what suits him. He listens to the poisonous mutterings of Loreman as often as he does his own daughter's good advice. His love for her at least allows him to tolerate my suit for her hand. Otherwise, I would have been stoned or cast out long ago,” Riverwind said darkly.

“Cast out? You mean, like now?” Catchflea gently observed.

“The chieftain thinks he has bested me with an impossible quest. Yet I shall come through.” Riverwind gripped the old man's hand. “You see, I believe it is the old gods' will that you follow me on my quest. You have heard Majere's voice and see into the future by his favor. Together, my friend, we will find proof.” He released his hold. Catchflea massaged his hand gratefully.

“As for Goldmoon,” Riverwind said quietly, “our love is not bound by tribal customs or village law. My life is pledged to Goldmoon, as hers is to me.”

River wind stood at the edge of a chasm. Below, hidden by billowing smoke, something deadly lingered. As he stood, he heard a sweet voice call his name.

“Goldmoon!”

On the opposite side of the chasm, Goldmoon waited, her fine, bright hair and white gown whipping about in the wind. She called to him plaintively. Riverwind felt helpless, desperate to reach her. There was no way across-no bridge, no rope, not even a vine to cling to.

Tall figures emerged behind Goldmoon. One was Lore-man, the other, her father, Arrowthorn. They took her by the arms and pulled her back. She fought them, but they were too strong. Riverwind's heart raced. He must get across! He would go back and seek another route.

He turned abruptly, and there was Hollow-sky, grinning fiercely. He had a corpse's pallor, and his clothes were mottled with grave mold. Without a word, they grappled. Riverwind was bigger, but the dead man's strength was inexorable. Riverwind was pushed back. He dug in his toes, bent his knees, tried to get low on Hollow-sky's chest to get better advantage. It didn't help. His heels hung in the air. With one mighty shove, Hollow-sky hurled Riverwind into the chasm.

He hit bottom almost at once. Stunned, he could hardly move. Smoke filled his eyes and nose. The sound of movement filtered through his dazed mind. Riverwind's blood turned to ice water when a howl rent the thick haze.

The wolves! They were all around him. He tried to rise, got to his knees, but they were on him in one savage, silent rush. Riverwind broke their bones with his bare hands, but fangs tore into his arms and legs. The wolves knocked him onto his back and held him there. The largest wolf stalked up to his spread-eagled form. Kyanor. The beast's head lowered, his red eyes boring into Riverwind's. Razor-sharp fangs pierced the plainsman's throat…

Riverwind sat up so swiftly that he rapped his elbow against the limestone boulder behind him. A nightmare. His breath came hard and rough, leaving a plume of warm vapor in the mountain air. Not far away, Catchflea snored peacefully.

Be calm, he told himself. It wasn't real.

Or was it?

Somewhere on the dark escarpment, Riverwind heard a rustling noise, followed by a trickle of falling pebbles. The terror from his dream returned, but he mastered it. He'd been helpless in his nightmare. He was definitely not helpless in the waking world.

“Hsst, Catchflea!” he whispered, reaching for his saber. The old man missed a beat in his snoring, then resumed his usual ripsaw rhythm. “Wake up!” Riverwind repeated, punctuating his words with a prod. Catchflea snorted and his eyes batted open.

“Wha-? It's a dark morning, yes?”

“Ssh! There's someone out there!”

“Who could it be? Most travelers avoid the mountains.”

“The Nightrunners,” Riverwind said grimly.

“The wolves? What shall we do?”

“You do nothing. Stay here!” Riverwind drew his saber in one quick motion and rolled to a standing crouch. Though he listened with all his hunt-honed senses, he heard nothing. The night was still.

None of Krynn's moons shone at that hour, and the stars were feeble lanterns at best. Riverwind surveyed the gently sloping field of stone. It could have been a night-scavenging fox or bird. Or only his imagination, sparked by his terrible dream.

He'd almost convinced himself that there was nothing out there when he heard another sound: the distinct ringing of metal, like chain-or a sword hilt against armor?

The sound came from ahead, on his left. Riverwind pressed close to the perimeter of boulders and worked his way toward the noise.

Something scraped the rock behind him. He swung the saber in a backhand cut. The blade struck the boulder just an inch in front of Catchflea's nose.

“I told you to stay where you were!” Riverwind whispered fiercely.

“I saw something!” hissed the old man.

“What?”

“A blue light, like a will o' the wisp.”

“WhereT'

Catchflea extended his right arm. “Out there.”

“I'll circle left. You stay here, unless you want me to trim that beard of yours the hard way.”

Riverwind was a dozen yards away from Catchflea when he saw the eerie blue light. It was small and round, a feeble glow, about knee-high off the ground. It wobbled a bit back and forth, but didn't move away. Riverwind approached in a low crouch. Nearer, he saw a vague shape above the blue light. It was too lightly built to be Kyanor or one of his pack.

Abruptly, the silence of the chase ended when River-wind's quarry stumbled and fell with a loud jingle. He's wearing mail, the plainsman surmised. Gripping his saber tightly, he sprinted toward the light. The broken shale almost cost Riverwind his footing, though, and he skidded but kept his feet.

On the ground was a dimly glowing globe the size of Riverwind's head. Warily, he poked at it with his sword. There was a brass handle affixed. It was some sort of lamp. Riverwind picked it up. The globe was very lightweight. The blue radiance roiled and seethed within as he turned the strange object in his hands. A tingle passed through the handle to Riverwind's arm, so he hastily dropped the globe. This was no time to fool with magical devices.

A shadow darted across open ground a few yards away. Abandoning stealth, Riverwind followed the evasive intruder. The dim figure led him back toward his camp. The interloper paused just long enough to snatch Riverwind's deerskin bag and carry it off.

“Hold there!” the plainsman shouted. “Drop that!”

“He's over this way!” Catchflea cried.

“Get down, Catchflea!”

Riverwind picked up a hefty rock and threw it at the sound of fleeing feet. There was a soft thud and a faint gasp of pain. Riverwind gave a cry of triumph and charged after the intruder. He went only a few steps before bowling into Catchflea.

“Oof! Look out there!”

“Watch your feet-ow! Mind that sword-”

Riverwind untangled himself in time to see the silhouette of the thief as he righted himself and scrambled over a pile of boulders along the eastern rim of the clearing. The phantom had a familiar form: a head, two arms, two legs, but he couldn't tell if it were human, dwarf, or kender. The intruder paused briefly, then leaped over the rocks and was lost from sight.