"Do not labor yourself with speech. Allow me to sit-to make vigil with you," Kagonos said.
"That would please me-but as yet I am not ready for silence. There is a thing I must say."
The Elderwild waited, squatting on his haunches, listening in desperation to Darlantan's labored breathing.
"Your people are strong, and proud, and beautiful." There was nothing weak about the dragon's voice now. As he spoke, his words struck to Kagonos's core. He knew Darlantan's words were more than an opinion, that they went beyond simple praise. The mighty dragon spoke a fundamental truth.
"More than all these things, you are wild-and that wildness lies at the center of your being. You must help vour people remain wild, Kagonos Pathfinder-wild for all time."
For a long time the elf sat silently, formulating a reply. I hear your words. Know that I desire for my people that we always remain free of the House Elves' fetters. But 1 tear that, as the centuries pass, the ways of the Silvanesti will draw more and more of my people from the forests- until there are none left to be wild."
"Your fears are real, but you-and you alone-can ensure that they do not come to pass. The horn will help to guide you-use it."
"But…haw?"
"Let the music tell you that. Remember, too, that the second horn is safe, in the den of my wyrmlings. They will know its purpose and its importance. They know, and you should remember always, that the silver dragons and:he wild elves will share a kinship, a bond that will last for all the ages of Krynn."
Rest, now," urged the elf. "Save your strength, and vou may well see the new dawn." In his heart he desper- a:elv wished he spoke the truth-but in his mind he recognized the lie.
I shall have time… for rest," Darlantan murmured ireamilv. "As do we all. One day even you, Kagonos, shall have to choose another Pathfinder, to pass along the тот of the Grandfather Ram. Elves are long-lived, but you shall not roam the forests forever!"
The massive silver body shifted, shrinking, and as the elf reached out he felt warm, coarse wool. He brushed his palm over a sturdy shoulder, his throat tightening in grief as he recognized the Grandfather Ram. Though Darlantan had appeared in many incarnations in the centuries Kagonos had known him, he had not seen the lordly ram since their first meeting. The white-maned head lowered, and Kagonesti thought he saw a shimmering of silver scales in the curling pelt-or was it merely his imagination? With a great exhalation, the ram dropped his chin to his shoulder and lay still.
"Dar-" Kagonos's throat choked the rest of the word. He blinked bitter tears, then grinned foolishly as Darlantan opened one bright, yellow eye. It gleamed at him with vast depths of wisdom.
"Your people… lead them. Find the path-and use the Ram's Horn to show them the way," whispered Darlantan. "Now, I go to rest…"
This time, when Darlantan ceased speaking, Kagonos knew that his words were done forever. Sighing, yet possessed by a tingling sense of energy he had not known since before the battle, the wild elf rose to his feet- though his shoulders remained hunched in grief.
Now he had an important task. Kagonos found a sturdy, blunt-ended stick below the cottonwood tree, and used it to scratch a hole into the soft dirt. He knelt to pull the loose soil out of the hole with his cupped hands. The work was hard and grueling, yet the elf took a peculiar satisfaction from the blisters raised on his palms, the stiffening muscles that began to ache and complain each time he hoisted more dirt out of the hole. He felt that, in every way, this was the most honorable work he had done in a long time.
Finally the excavation was deep enough to protect Darlantan from scavengers and desecrators. As gently as possible the Pathfinder carried the ram to the grave, laid him with dignity along the soft mud in the bottom of the hole. Murmuring a prayer for the creature's peaceful rest, the wild elf slowly, reverently, moved the dirt back into the hole. When he was finished, he washed himself in the river and spoke another prayer for the spirit of his friend. With a look at the sky, Kagonos had no trouble believing that Darlantan's light still burned brightly among the legion of twinkling stars.
Across the plain, huge victory fires blazed, spurting showers of sparks into the dark sky. Under, in the form of ogre supply carts, surplus spear shafts, and other debris, was cast onto the coals. Shouts and cheers arose around the fires-already the victory dances, with their attendant boasting and storytelling, had begun.
The Elderwild braves would figure prominently in the celebration, Kagonos knew. His people could brag as expansively as any other, and a wild elf warrior would not be shy about enhancing the drama and glory of his accomplishments. And in the recent battle those accomplishments had been truly legendary.
Still, the Pathfinder could find no enthusiasm for the celebration. If not for the need to tend his people's business, he would have started back to the mountains immediately. The solitude of the heights seemed likely to provide the only possible balm for his multitude of intangible wounds. He realized that all of central Ansalon was once again open to him, to all the wild elves. Yet what freedom was that when Dall, Kyrill, and Darlantan would not be there to share it with him?
Certainly the rest of the tribes would depend on him for leadership, for some sort of suggestion as to where lay the future of the Elderwild. Perhaps it was time for the multitude of small tribes to consider gathering again in larger clans. After all, the danger of the evil dragons was gone. He thought back to a long time ago, having difficulty remembering that the Dark Queen's wyrms had smashed the great councils that had been an annual feature of Elderwild life during the first centuries after Kagonos's birth. He remembered the time of Midsummer Starheight, when he had spoken to the Grandfather Ram. He had left the tribes, tired of their silly celebration-and had been given the Ram's Horn. Now the tribes would create a whole new series of such observances, based around the moons that appeared nightly.
Indeed, the idea of such communal celebrations tickled a favorable nerve-perhaps the idea had merit. If the tribes once again met in Highsummer council, if they talked with their brethren from across Ansaion, would not the wild elves grow stronger, develop the will to resist the encroachments of the followers of Silvanos? And they would all hear the song of the Ram's Horn and share in its wisdom and comfort.
The wild elf Pathfinder cast a last look at the grave of his comrade. The site, with its smooth, rounded dome of earth, seemed larger than was possible. Even in death Darlantan possessed a regal dignity, an awe-inspiring presence that seemed to cry out to any observer that this had once been a masterful being, lord of flatland, mountain, and sky.
Abruptly Kagonos froze, then slowly lowered himself into a flat crouch. He didn't know what had alarmed him-sound or smell, most likely, a sensory impression too light for conscious awareness. Nevertheless, he knew he was not alone. There was an intrusive presence nearby, someone who had arrived here with stealth and cunning. With that knowledge, Kagonos clearly understood something else, something important:
The hidden figure in the darkness was someone who intended him harm.
Chapter 7
Kagonos crouched soundlessly, responding by instinct to the sense of danger. He tried to absorb the subtle clues of the night, sniffing the air, trying to penetrate the shadows with his eyes. Someone shared this dark riverbank with him-someone very close, someone dangerous. Kagonos was inclined to believe that it had been an odor, faintly borne by the night breeze, that first had triggered his subtle sense of alarm. He never questioned that his intuitive response had been a portent of real danger.