Beryl realized suddenly that she was not going to survive, that she could not escape. The knowledge bewildered her. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to end. She—the mightiest force to have ever been seen on Krynn—was going to die an ignominious death in a hole in the ground. How could this have happened? What had gone wrong? She didn’t understand. . . .
Boulders rained down on her, cracking her skull and breaking her spine. Splintered trees ripped holes in her wings, falling rocks snapped the tendons. Sharp, jagged stones slashed open her belly. Blood spurted from beneath her scales. Pain wrenched her and twisted, her and she screamed for death to come to release her. The monster who had slain so many moaned and writhed in agony as rocks and trees and crumbling buildings pummeled her. The immense, misshapen head sank lower and lower. The red eyes rolled back. The broken wings, the thrashing tail grew still. With a last sigh, a bitter curse, Beryl died.
Tremors shook the ground around the elven city as the Immortal Hand pounded on it with a fist of hatred. The earth quaked and shattered. Cracks widened, fissures split the bedrock on which Qualinost had been built. The red dragons, looking down from the skies, saw an enormous, gaping hole where once had stood a beautiful city. The reds had no love for elves, for they had been enemies since the beginning of time, but so terrible was this sight, expressive of awful power, that the reds could not rejoice. They looked down upon the ruin and bowed their heads in reverence and respect.
The tremors ceased. The ground settled, no longer heaved and quivered. The White-rage River overflowed its banks, poured into the immense chasm where once had stood the elven city of Qualinost. Long after the quakes stopped, the water continued to boil and bubble and surge and heave, wave after wave crashing upon the newly created banks. Gradually, the river grew calm. The water lapped tremulously at the new banks that now surrounded it, hugged them close, as if shocked by its own fury and bewildered by the destruction it had wrought.
Night came without starlight or moonlight, a shroud drawn over the dead who rested far beneath the dark, quivering water.
33
Nalis Aren
Many miles away, Gilthas and his retinue parted with Tarn Bellowsgranite, the dwarven thane, then traveled south. I They had ridden with what haste they could, the Lioness pushing them, for she feared that Beryl’s army would split, send one force marching south to intercept the refugees while one force seized and held Qualinost. Despite her urging, their pace was slow, for their hearts were heavy and seemed to weigh them down. Whenever they came to the top of hill or ridge, Gilthas halted and turned in the saddle to stare at the horizon in some vain hope of seeing what was happening.
“We are too far away,” his wife reminded him. “The trees block the view. I left runners, who will come after us swiftly to report. All will be well. We must move on, my love. We must move on.”
They had stopped to rest and water their horses when they felt the ground shudder beneath their feet and heard a low rumble, as of a distant storm. The tremor was mild, but it caused Gilthas’s hand to shake so that he dropped the water skin he had been filling. He rose and looked to the north.
“What was that? Did you feel that?” he demanded.
“Yes, I felt it,” said the Lioness, coming to stand beside him. Her gaze joined his, and she was troubled. “I don’t know what that was.”
“There are sometimes quakes in the mountains, Your Majesty,”
Planchet suggested.
“Not like that. I’ve never felt anything like that. Something has gone wrong. Something terrible has happened.”
“We don’t know that,” the Lioness said. “Perhaps it was nothing but a tremor, as Planchet says. We should keep going—”
“No,” said Gilthas. “I’m staying here to wait for the runners. I’m not leaving until I find out what has happened.”
He walked away, heading for a rock promontory that thrust up out of the ground. The Lioness and Planchet exchanged glances.
“Go with him,” the Lioness said softly.
Planchet nodded and hurried after Gilthas. The Lioness instructed her troops to set up camp. She looked often to the north, and when she did, she sighed softly and shook her head.
Gilthas climbed with fevered energy; Planchet had difficulty keeping up with his king. Reaching the top, Gilthas stood long moments, staring intently to the north.
“Is that smoke, do you think, Planchet?” he asked anxiously.
“A cloud, Your Majesty,” Planchet replied.
Gilthas continued to stare until he was forced to lower his gaze, wipe his eyes.
“It’s the sun,” he muttered. “It’s too bright.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Planchet softly, looking away. Imagining he could read the young king’s thoughts, he added, “Your Majesty’s decision to leave was the right—”
“I know, Planchet,” Gilthas interrupted him. “I know my duty, and I will try to do it, as best as I am able. I wasn’t thinking about that.” He looked back to the north. “Our people have been forced to leave their ancient homeland. I was wondering what would happen to us if we could not go back.”
“That will never come to pass, Your Majesty,” said Planchet firmly.
“Why not?” Gilthas turned to look directly at him, curious to hear the answer.
Planchet was confounded. This was so simple, so elementary.
“Qualinesti is ours, Your Majesty. The land belongs to the elves. It is ours by right.”
Gilthas smiled sadly. “Some might say the only plot of land to which we mortals have an inherent right is the plot where we are finally laid to rest. Look down there. My dear wife paces like the giant cat for which she was named. She is nervous, worried. She does not want to stop. She wants to keep going. Why? Because our enemies pursue us. They hunt us—on our land.”
“We will take it back—”
“Will we?” Gilthas asked quietly. “I wonder.” He turned back to the north. “We are a people in exile. We have nowhere to go.” He slightly turned his head. “I’ve heard the reports about Silvanesti, Planchet.”
“Rumors, Your Majesty,” Planchet returned, embarrassed and uncomfortable. “We cannot confirm them. We were going to tell you, but the Lioness said you were not to be troubled. Not until we knew something certain—”
“Certain.” Gilthas shook his head. With the tip of his boot, he traced in the dust an outline of an oblong, six feet in length and three feet wide.
“This is all that is certain, my friend.”
“Your Majesty—” Planchet began, worried.
Gilthas turned to stare back to the north.
“Is that smoke, do you think?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Planchet. “That is smoke.”
The runner caught up with them during the night. Accustomed to traveling under the cover of darkness, the Lioness and her rebel elves marked the trails as her Kagonesti ancestors had done long before her, using the petals of flowers that glowed in the darkness to indicate which fork to take, leaving glow worms trapped in bottles on a pile of rocks, or smearing a tree with phosphor. Thus the runner had been able to follow their trail even after night fell.
They had not lit a fire. The Lioness had counseled against it. They sat silently in the darkness, no one telling tales or singing a starsong, as they might have done in happier times.
Gilthas kept apart from the others, his thoughts straying back to his childhood as they had done often since his parting from his mother. He was remembering these times, thinking of his mother and his father, of their love and tender care for him, when he saw the guards jump to their feet. Their hands going to their swords, they ran to surround him. Gilthas had not heard a sound, but that was not unusual. As his wife constantly teased him, he had “human ears.” Sword drawn, Planchet came to stand by the side of his king. The Lioness remained in the center of the clearing, peering into the darkness. She whistled the notes of the song of the nightingale.