Nancy Berberick - Stormblade

He dropped to a crouch and laid the map out on the ground, smoothing the creases carefully. “Look at this place, Piper. It’s even ugly on a map.”

He traced the map for the benefit of a ghost who could now see well behind them and well before them.

Piper said nothing and let him go on.

“See? Back here to the east is Qualinesti.” Lavim looked up, squinting at the sky. “Kind of odd, isn’t it, that I spent most of my time there looking for ghosts and didn’t find one until I was out of the place. Well, there it is, Elvenwood, all green and pretty. Here’s the river we crossed, that blue squiggly line.” He snorted in disgust. “And here’s where the map gets ugly and the land gets even uglier. Just little hills, the map says. Huh! These aren’t hills, they’re little mountains.”

No, they’re hills.

“Easy enough for you to say; you’re not walking them.” Lavim folded his map and tucked it back into his pocket. “It would be a whole lot easier to get to Thorbardin if we could cut across the Plains of Dergoth—or the Plains of Death as the dwarves call ’em. Why do they call ’em that, Piper?”

Because thousands of dwarves, hill dwarves and mountain dwarves, died there during the Dwarfgate Wars.

Lavim rose and stretched. The wind cut sharply from the east now, pushing the wildfire ahead of it. Though the sky was clear of the guyll fyr’s smoke, the currents over the plains for the most part sucked the roiling smoke along the channel of the marshland. Still, he could scent it. With no further word, he jogged off to the south, climbed the highest hill he could find, then dropped again to his heels.

The fire was miles distant and looked from his hilltop like a broad red snake slithering toward the mountains in the east. The smoke overhung the marshes, a thick black pall. When he tried very hard, eyes squeezed shut and shoulders hunched, Lavim imagined he could hear the roar of that fire like distant thunder.

Piper, silent for all this time, spoke suddenly and Lavim jumped. Why don’t you go talk to Tyorl?

“No, I don’t think so.” Lavim glanced over his shoulder and down the hill. “He’s still real upset about Kelida and Stanach being snatched up by the dragon. I could see why he would be. I don’t—I don’t like to think about it much myself.”

I’ve noticed. Maybe Tyorl needs to talk about it.

Lavim shook his head darkly. “Not to me, he doesn’t. Look at him.”

Tyorl was sitting on his heels, watching the sky. He’d had his eye on the hard blue heights since the dragon had snatched Kelida and carried her and Stanach into the dawn. Lavim sighed. He’d missed nearly the whole wonderful thing and only come back to the others in time to see the dragon, looking like nothing as much as a sharp black tear in the sky, winging eastward toward Thorbardin with Kelida and Stanach and without its rider.

They’d found the one-eyed dwarf in a gully between two fells. Bone-smashed and bleeding, he was not dead. Lavim supposed that Finn had been moved by revenge for Lehr’s terrible death when he cut the dwarf’s throat. Piper had said such a killing was a mercy. Lavim glanced at Finn now. Forehead on drawn up knees, the rangerlord sat unmoving in the shelter of the hill, seemingly unaware of Kern’s restless pacing. Kembal, always quiet, hadn’t said a word since his brother had been killed by the dragon. He prowled the base of the hill, head up and ready, like a hunter waiting to resume his prey’s trail. He was sharpening his arrows on the stone of revenge, Piper said. With the change in the wind’s direction just after dawn, the fire had spread fast through the hills and, racing south and north as well as east, threw up a wall of flame behind them. They’d headed for the desert hills on Finn’s advice. There wasn’t much to burn here and the rangerlord figured they’d be safe. It had been a hard run and now, as the shadows grew longer and darker with imminent sunset, the four had stopped to rest before pushing east again.

Go on, Lavim. Talk to Tyorl.

“And?”

And what?

“And give him the flute, right? It’s what you’ve been nagging me about all along. Give him the flute, give him the flute.”

I’d be happier if you did.

“But he can’t use it and I can!”

Piper sighed. As long as I tell you what to do, yes.

“Then where’s the sense in giving it to him?”

Lavim! Go!

Lavim squeezed his eyes closed and clapped his hands over his ears. Wishing that Piper had never developed this nasty habit of yelling right inside his head, he went to join Tyorl.

The elf never looked around, even when Lavim’s small shadow cut across his. Lavim cleared his throat loudly.

Tyorl got to his feet and scanned the eastern quarter of the sky. “We’ve an hour or so before dark, Lavim. Let’s not waste it talking.” He nodded to Finn who rose and signaled Kem that they were ready to move again. Kem, as was his custom, took the northern point, covering ground with his long-legged lope. Finn jogged a little ahead to the south and east, setting their course. Soon, the smoky pall from the Plains of Death ran high over their heads. Lavim trotted beside Tyorl, stepping quickly to keep up.

“Uh, Tyorl, I want to tell you something.”

Tyorl made no response.

“I want to tell you about Piper.”

“He’s dead,” Tyorl grunted. “What more do I need to know about Piper?”

Lavim sighed patiently. “I know he’s dead. But I think you think that if you had his flute when the dragon grabbed Stanach and Kelida, you’d’ve been able to do something about it.”

Tyorl said nothing.

“You wouldn’t have. You couldn’t have.”

“Aye? And why not?”

“Because the flute only works for me, Tyorl. Piper says that it won’t—”

“Piper says?”

Lavim nodded. “You see, he’s a ghost, Tyorl. He talks to me in my head and he tells me things—”

“Lavim—”

“Please, Tyorl, let me finish. He really is a ghost. He told me when the red dragon flew over the forest and set the woods on fire. Well, not that he—the dragon, I mean—was going to do that, but that he was flying. And—and he told me about the black dragon, too.” The kender sighed and picked up his pace. The sand and red dust seemed to drag at his feet.

“But—but I was too far away to do anything about it. I tried! I really did, but Piper says that spells have ranges and—I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I wish I’d been closer. I wish I hadn’t been out in the hills. But I was. And—and I know you think that you would have been able to help Lehr and Kelida and Stanach when the dragon came if only you had the flute, but you couldn’t have. You don’t have Piper in your head.”

“And neither do you. Kenderkin, sometimes I think you’re half mad and—”

Tell him you are not mostly senile.

Indignantly Lavim snapped, “I am not mostly senile! Not even partly!”

Tyorl stopped. It was the phrase he’d been about to use “What?”

“I—Piper said—I mean I said—I am not mostly senile.” Lavim drew a shuddering breath and stopped. Hands on his knees, head low and panting, he closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath, still talking. “And Piper says, too, that right now you’re thinking that you’d better find a way to keep me quiet before Finn hears.”

Tyorl blinked. “Aye? Does he?”

“Yes, and he says that now you’re thinking that the last thing you need is a crazy kender on your hands. I’m not crazy, Tyorl! Do you understand? I’m not making this up. It’s true. It’s real. Here.” He groped through his pockets and dragged out the flute. He pressed it into Tyorl’s hand before he could decide not to. “Try it. Play something.”