But the crimson monster could still breathe, and when its companion fell, fatally pierced, the survivor erupted with a screech of pure hatred. Fire exploded once, twice, and again from those widespread jaws, incinerating the remaining knights even as the humans turned to meet the new threat. Even in the face of certain death, the men remained steadfast-not one threw down his weapon or aimed in a useless attempt at flight.
Ashtaway continued to watch, awestruck, as the wounded dragon crawled away from the bloody battle. Dragging its useless wing in the dirt, it disappeared into the forest. The Kagonesti warrior remained immobile and silent for several minutes after the last scarlet scales on the serpent's tail had vanished into the shadows.
Finally he moved, though he didn't take the trail back to the village. Avoiding the scene of the battle, Ash worked his way along the high crests. All the while, the moves of the combat replayed in his head like the steps of an elaborate dance. The battle offered by the knights had been the greatest act of courage he had ever witnessed. Furthermore, the fact that the heroes had been humans now forced him to reexamine a number of previously held beliefs and assumptions-obviously, short lives did not equate to a craven existence.
A sound reached his ears and sent a jolt of alertness through Ashtaway's body-a tingling sense of delight that took him completely by surprise. The noise was repeated, and the wild elf recognized the distant blaring of a horn, its music impossibly sweet, delightful.
He was reminded of the three-spiraled Ram's Horn that his uncle, lydaway Pathfinder, played on important or ceremonial occasions. The sound of this distant music was similar, yet even more grand-fuller of body, more resonant in tone. And despite its distance, something told the elf that this horn played a song for him, and for him alone.
Even as he wondered about the sound, he began to run, not consciously aware that he had been summoned.
Chapter 10
Ashtaway run tirelessly, coasting down from bis lofty vantage, sprinting along flowered meadows and down shaded forest trails. Like a deer he flew over shallow streams, dart- ins around thickets, speeding dizzily when the undergrowth thinned. He raced for hours, unaware of time or distance, knowing only a joyous sense of anticipation.
Finally his footsteps faltered. The wild elf's forest senses suddenly signaled an alarm. He slowed to a trot along a narrow deer trail, then stopped altogether, listening.
Other footsteps thudded quietly through the woods, rut not silently, like the running of a Kagonesti brave. Crouching, Ash melted into the brush beside the path. Someone else came along the same trail-and ran with a great deal of grace and speed, to judge from the sounds.
Abruptly she came into sight around a bend, and when he recognized Hammana, Ashtaway's heart trilled with delight. The elfwoman's slender body was garbed in a gown of soft doeskin, her black hair braided into a single, lush plait that usually lay over her shoulder-though now it trailed behind, flying from the speed of her run. Her beaded moccasins glided lightly, making little sound-for the Kagonesti women were nearly as adept in stealth and woodcraft as were the men.
She was a healer, not a warrior, and she did not have the warrior's constant alertness. Her bright, hazel eyes were downcast, her face wrinkled in concentration as she raced closer to Ashtaway.
When she was still a dozen paces away, he stepped into the trail and called her name, wanting very much not to frighten her. She gasped slightly and pressed her fingers to her mouth as she suddenly stopped, but Ash thrilled to the realization that she concealed a sudden, secret smile. She was not displeased to see him!
"Greetings, Warrior Ashtaway," she said formally. Then she frowned. "Did you hear it as well?"
"The horn? I am on my way to find its source."
"I heard it calling, and I had to do the same. But what do you think it is?"
Hammana came closer, and Ash was once again struck by her beauty and serene grace. Since childhood she had possessed that sense of self-assurance he found so refreshing and impressive. Perhaps because she was blessed with her unusual skill, she lacked the self-effacing shyness that characterized so many young Kagonesti women. Often Ashtaway had watched her in the village, and sometimes had even gone into the woods to spy on her as she wove nets by the marshy edge of the Bluelake. The few times they had walked that shoreline together were experiences burned indelibly into the young warrior's memory.
Now fate had drawn them both to this compelling sound, and this fact excited and disturbed him. Surely that was a portent of destiny-that the two of them were meant to be together. Only as these thoughts filtered through his mind did he remember her question.
"It-it sounds like the Ram's Horn, or a bigger version of it," he suggested. "I've heard my uncle play it many rimes."
"I, too," she reminded him. 'Though this did not sound like the signal of our Pathfinder."
They fell into step side by side, jogging along quickly- though not so fast that they couldn't converse. "Where were you when you heard it?" he asked.
"At the lake shore," she said. "There were fishers there, too, but none of them noticed the sound-I asked them."
"Only you… and me," he said, his tone serious, the significance of the fact not lost on either of them.
She started to ask something and then, as they came around another bend in the trail, halted with a gasp of breath.
Ashtaway protectively took another step before he, too, ceased moving. The woods opened into a wide clearing, н-ith a cliff of black rock rising steeply beyond. He could only stare in awe at the creature that lay, coiled, in the center of the open space.
Silver scales rippled in the sun, though in many places the argent surface was broken by cruel cuts and ugly, bleeding gashes. One leathery wing, also silver, was half- spread onto the grass, while the other was twisted awkwardly at the great creature's side. The serpentine neck curled through a full circle, and the broad snout was turned to face them-though both silver eyelids remained dose.
The dragon was big-larger than the two reds Ashtaway had seen before-but terribly rended by battle. At first the elf thought it was dead, until he noticed the slow, rhythmic pulsing of one wounded flank.
Look!" Hammana whispered, her voice taut-but with excitement, not fear. "There, held in the forepaw."
Carefully Ashtaway stepped forward, looking down to get a clear look at the object held by the dragon.
"It's the Ram's Horn!" he replied. "Or one very much like it."
"Yes-but it's not the tribe's horn. Look, it curls in the opposite direction… as if it came from the same ram, but from the other side of its head!"
They looked at each other, awestruck. The legend of the second Ram's Horn was a part of Kagonesti lore, familiar to them both. At the time Darlantan bestowed the powerful talisman upon Father Kagonesti, he had claimed that the second horn would be held by the silver dragons, a symbol of the bond between wild elf and those mighty serpents. Yet it had never been heard in the dozens of centuries since, so the Kagonesti had come to view the story as a mystical legend.
"The second Ram's Horn. The tales are true," Hammana breathed, taking Ash's hand as she stepped to his side. He welcomed the touch, feeling this as a moment of wonder, not danger. "Is it dead?"
"Not yet, thank you." The words rumbled from the great mouth, though the jaws barely moved. With a grunt of effort, the silver dragon lifted its huge head from the ground and blinked with a pair of luminous yellow eyes.
Hammana rushed forward, kneeling before the great head as Ashtaway stepped more deliberately behind. "You called us, and we have come! How can we help you?" she asked, gently placing her hands to either side of the mighty jaws.