Kronn swung his chapak again and again, trying to penetrate the serpent’s scales. Every time, the axe glanced off harmlessly-until, finally, an errant swing grazed part of the serpent’s soft underbelly. Burning blood dripped from the wound.
Kronn glanced at the wound, then looked up at Riverwind. The serpent was still shaking the Plainsman, who had gone limp in its jaws. Furiously the kender raised his chapak high and buried its head deep in the serpent’s throat.
The first blow didn’t kill the monster, nor did the second or the third. Kronn struck the serpent’s throat again and again, like a lumberjack trying to fell a tree. The monster’s blood scorched Kronn’s skin, but the kender ignored the pain and continued to chop at the serpent.
Kronn cleaved the monster’s flesh a dozen more times, laying open its innards. At last, it stopped shaking Riverwind, then slumped over and died.
The old Plainsman lay motionless, his ankle still clamped in the serpent’s jaws. Then he raised his head and looked at Kronn, his hair and clothes dusted with fine, powdery ash.
Kronn breathed a sigh of immense relief. “How bad are you hurt?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Riverwind answered, staring at his wounded leg. “I can’t feel anything below my knee.”
Together, they pried open the serpent’s viselike jaws. Blood welled from the old Plainsman’s leg as the monster’s fangs pulled out of his flesh, but he did not wince or moan. As soon as he was free, the serpent’s shimmering body turned dull black, then crumbled into a shapeless heap of soot.
“I should have known Malys would put a ward on this place,” Kronn muttered, angry with himself. “She’d want to protect her egg.”
The serpent’s teeth had shredded Riverwind’s leather boot, then had done the same to his skin. The flow of blood, strong at first, was choked off by the rapid swelling of the wound. Working quickly, Riverwind drew his dagger and cut off his pantleg at the knee. The wound darkened, the flesh surrounding it puffing up until it was the size of a kurpa melon. At last, however, it ceased to swell, though it continued to throb angrily, oozing thin trickles of blood. Kronn stared at it, sickened, as the old Plainsman extended his hand toward him.
“Kronn,” Riverwind said plaintively, “help me stand.”
It was difficult-Riverwind could barely bend his knee, and his numb foot had trouble supporting his weight-but Kronn took the Plainsman’s hand and pulled him upright. Plowing a furrow in the ash pile as he dragged crossed the cavern floor. He stopped when he reached the rope, then turned. The Plainsman still faced him, smiling.
“Goodbye, Riverwind,” Kronn said, his voice trembling.
“Farewell, Kronn-alin. You have been a good friend.”
Swallowing, Kronn turned toward the cavern wall. He slung his chapak across his back, grasped the rope with both hands, and began to climb.
Riverwind watched him ascend, his face grave. It took the kender several minutes to reach the ledge. Finally, Kronn scrambled nimbly onto the stone balcony, looked down at the cavern floor, and waved his arm above his head. Riverwind raised his hand in reply. Then Kronn was gone, walking swiftly back down the obsidian tunnel.
Sighing, the old Plainsman turned back toward the egg. He looked at it silently for nearly a minute, then crossed the warm ash pile, walking swiftly to its side. “Goddess give me strength,” he whispered. “Guide my hand.”
Slowly, deliberately, he raised Brightdawn’s mace high above his head. He held it poised a moment, then swung downward, striking the egg’s ruddy shell.
The Kenderwood was very close, only a few scant miles away. Malystryx glared down at it, her blood burning with hate. She could see Kendermore clearly now, still blazing brightly in the midst of the wide, lifeless meadow. Beyond it, still far in the distance, her keen eyes spotted the fleeing kender, shadows flitting westward through the skeletal woodland.
“You will not escape,” she hissed at them. “I will make this forest a holocaust. You will die screaming my name.”
Her wings pumping mightily, she began to rise, gaining altitude so she could swoop down on the Kenderwood and blast it with her breath. The ground fell away beneath her.
Then, suddenly, a violent shock jolted her, nearly knocking her from the sky.
She fell a thousand feet before she recovered enough to move, then struggled to keep herself aloft. Her wings strained, the membranes snapping taut, as the Desolation spun up toward her. Finally she arrested her fall, flapping to put empty air between herself and the ground. Blood pounded in her ears, and she screamed balefully, her head snaking about to gaze upon the burning mountain, many leagues behind her.
With great effort she focused her mind, reaching toward Blood Watch. Yovanna, she thought. Someone is with the egg. Protect it.
Yovanna’s mind eluded her, however. She reached out, searching, but she soon realized her servant was dead-and then she knew that the fire serpent she had set to guard her nest was dead too. The egg was unprotected.
Another shock hit her, and she dropped again. This time, however, she recovered quickly, then rose higher. A bright star of rage burning within her, she turned back the way she had come, streaking away from the tinder-dry forest. The kender fled behind her, forgotten.
The egg would not break. Again and again Riverwind struck it, Brightdawn’s mace rising and falling as he beat a cadence of frustration upon its shell. Though its surface looked and felt like stiff leather, it was as hard as iron, refusing to crack even when he swung the bludgeon with both hands. His arms blazed with pain from the exertion, and he fought valiantly to keep from losing his balance as his benumbed leg tried to give way beneath him. The mace’s flanges bent, and its head began to loosen as he pounded. A loud, thunderous boom sounded with every blow.
“Give, damn you!” he snarled through clenched teeth. He could sense Malystryx’s wrath bearing down on him, growing with every hammering stroke. She would be here soon, emerging through the rift, thirsting for his blood. If the egg didn’t break before then, he would fail.
He could not-would not-let that happen.
Shouting incoherently, he brought the mace up with both hands and slammed it down with all his might. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet, sending him sprawling. The mace flew from his hand as he fell, its haft splintered. He writhed on the ground, gasping for breath, for long moments before he found the strength to turn his gaze toward the egg.
A long fissure marred the shell. Thick green ichor seeped from it, darkening the ashes where it dripped.
Riverwind stared at the crack a moment, then heaved himself upright and stumbled toward the egg. Steel rang as he jerked his sabre from its scabbard. Carefully, he wedged the sword’s tip in the fissure and leaned upon it hard. The membrane within the shell resisted for a long moment, then yielded. His sabre slid into the egg.
Green, sticky albumen spewed forth, soaking his anus. It stank of brimstone and putrescence, but he fought back his rising gorge and kept his grip on the hilt of his sword. Singlemindedly, he sawed the blade back and forth, slitting open the egg along the length of its shell. Then, weakened by his efforts, the shell burst, breaking open and drenching him from the chest down in slime. The ichor poured over the ashes, soaking them. Riverwind’s sabre trailed strings of albumen as he jerked it out of the egg.
Then, ulcerating out of the ruined egg like suppuration from a festering wound, the embryo slid free. It landed with a wet smack at his feet.