Jean Rabe - The Silver Stair

The gnoll growled softly.

"I'm going to talk to them," Camilla said, sliding from the horse's back. "Maybe they know something about this Shadowwalker." She strode toward them, head high, the other knights holding their position, but Orvago following. The gnoll's paw drifted to the pommel of the broadsword in his belt.

"Sword Commander!" the tallest barbarian began. "Is not that a fine garment?" He hadn't turned to greet her. He saw her reflection in the window. "It would look good on me, but I have not the goods to trade for it today. Maybe my next trip."

"Do you know of someone called Shadowwalker?" She came right to the point. She wasn't about to engage him in pleasant conversation about clothes.

"Shadowwalker is an old man and would not look as good in that garment as I." His fellows sniggered. "Shadowwalker's face is full of wrinkles, and he is not handsome like me. My next trip, I will buy this, or one like it if it is gone."

"Are you with Shadowwalker's clan?"

He shook his head, the beads in his hair clacking together.

"But you know him?"

"Maybe the Sword Commander would like to buy me that garment. Call it a trade. Information for the leather."

"I haven't the steel."

He sighed and turned away from the window to finally face her. "Shadowwalker is old, Sword Commander, but he is full of fire. You ask about him because you protect the Que-Shu woman. The Que-Shu and Shadowwalker's clan are not friends."

"Do you know where I can find him?"

"If I did, I would not tell you. I do not like Shadowwalker, but I like the Que-Shu even less."

She carefully regarded him. The beads in his hair were carved in the shapes of owls and hawks. None were blood-soaked like the beads of the men who had attacked her.

"Is there anything else, Sword Commander?"

"No. Thank you for speaking with me."

"A pleasure, Sword Commander. When next we meet, perhaps I will be wearing a fine garment like this one."

She watched them stroll away, heading toward the northern edge of town. The tall barbarian pointed toward a tavern, and he and his fellows slipped inside.

Camilla returned to Orvago and escorted him into the keep. One of the knights took the horses to the stable.

"We'll leave in the morning," she told the gnoll. Softer, she said, "When I have another suit of armor, my brother's sword, and a good night's sleep."

Orvago took off his cloak just as Judeth walked by. The stocky servingwoman stared wide-eyed at the creature. He grinned at her, showing all of his teeth, and she promptly swooned.

"Sorry," the gnoll offered.

Camilla knelt to tend to the woman. "Please don't go out tonight, Orvago. I don't think it would be a good idea."

The gnoll sadly nodded his head.

The ruins of Castle Vila were tinged a burnt orange by the rising sun. Gair traced a deep crack that ran between the age-worn stones.

"The Que-Shu sheep must die!"

He turned to watch the barbarians gathered nearby.

"It is only one Que-Shu, Shadowwalker. Hardly worth your effort. Let her be."

The old Que-Nal shaman stomped and spat at the ground, beads clacking angrily as he shook his head. "I decide if it is worth my effort, Windfisher. I decide!"

"You don't command the tribes, Shadowwalker. My brother does. He has made a truce with the elf Iryl Songbrook. You cannot command warriors to follow you on some foolish-"

"Your brother is not here."

"No. He would not dignify this gathering with his presence, but he has said the camp of the mystics is to be left alone. He gave his word."

Shadowwalker glared at the young Que-Nal, puffed out his chest, and again stomped in the snow. The pair was in front of a spirit pole, an old tree carved with oversized Que-Nal faces. The left half of each face was red, the right black. Four faces, one each facing east, south, west, and north. In decades past, the poles were believed to serve as homes for the spirits who watched over the village and who carried the shamans' prayers to the gods. Many of the barbarians believed the gods were still here but were turning a deaf ear.

Not Shadowwalker. He and his fellows were confident the gods were still here and very much attentive. "The Que-Shu sheep who leads those people has wronged us by her very presence! The gods would be happy if we killed her. The spirits will rejoice."

On the far side of the spirit pole were more than five hundred barbarians, nearly the entire village of Que-Jotun, and they were clearly divided. The youngest, by their murmurs and raised fists, sided with Shadowwalker, eager for a confrontation. The older villagers stood with Windfisher. All of them carefully regarded the two men as they shivered in the morning cold. Like the adults, the few children present were lean and muscular. Even the eldest looked graceful. All of those assembled had olive skin, which had not lightened despite the winter, and their dark hair was decorated with beads and feathers.

"You are mad, Shadowwalker. No one will rejoice if you try to kill the Que-Shu and her people." Windfisher squared his broad shoulders and ground his slippered heel into the snow. He had an impressive array of beads, easily more than Shadowwalker, each one from a kill accomplished during a special hunt or given for some act of courage, but they were not soaked in blood like the older man's. "Our fight with the Que-Shu was a long time ago, Shadowwalker, and it was based on an argument about the gods. Those years are gone. Let it rest."

"Rest. Pha!" Shadowwalker spat at the younger man's feet. "The gods care! The Blue Phoenix, Habbakuk, Zeboim, and Zebyr Jotun are still here watching over us. The shamans said Habbakuk and Zebyr Jotun would have washed away all of Abanasinia if everyone on the land did not fall down and worship them, but not all of the Que-Shu would revere them so. The fools! Perhaps they will wash away Schallsea if we do not slay the mystic."

Windfisher narrowed his eyes. "Abanasinia was not washed away, old man. Schallsea Island will not be washed away either. The Que-Shu-"

"The sheep waged war on us."

"After our ancestors attacked them! Our ancestors thought war would force them to worship our gods."

"They drove us off Abanasinia!" Shadowwalker was red-faced with anger. "Threw us to the mercy of the sea."

"And to the mercy of the gods our ancestors tried to ram down the throats of the Que-Shu."

"I have not forgotten that our people were driven from their homeland!"

"You should not, Shadowwalker. It is part of our history." Windfisher circled the spirit pole, scrutinizing the faces of those barbarians closest to him. The youths were angry, infected by Shadowwalker's fiery speech. His own words had done little to calm them. "Goldmoon, the Que-Shu sheep as you call her, did not drive us out of Abanasinia. She had done nothing to you, Shadowwalker, and you will do nothing to her."

Shadowwalker whirled on the balls of his feet, sending a shower of snow at the younger man. He stomped through the assembly toward the wall of Castle Vila, where Gair stood alone.

"One madman running to another," Windfisher said softly.

The air around his head was buzzing with questions. Could Windfisher's brother-Skydancer, the leader of all the Que-Nal-stop a war against the settlement?

Yes. Skydancer and he would stop Shadowwalker, as they had stopped his other foolish plans through the years.

Did he think the gods would swallow Schallsea Island if Goldmoon stayed?

No. There is a place for mysticism. There is a place for everything, and there is a need for such magic on Krynn.

And Shadowwalker? Could Skydancer stop him from acting alone?

The young Que-Nal paused at this question, running his fingers over his smooth chin. Behind him, Shadowwalker and Gair held a whispered conversation.