“Thank you, uncle, and all my cousins,” Greenhands said, looping the strap around his neck.
He led the warrior maiden and the kender back to their camp. No one spoke. The shouts of the centaurs echoed once more through the peaks, slurred now as they continued to eat the fermented apples. Greenhands returned to the same boulder he’d sat by before, and he was asleep nearly as soon as he sat down. Rufus climbed back up to his safe perch, and Verhanna curled up by the dying fire. The smell of the centaurs lingered in her nostrils a long time. So did the words to Koth’s ancient song.
13 — The Great Stone House
Dru and Ulvian rode all day without stopping. The rugged mountain ponies were hardy beasts, but even they rebelled at such treatment. By evening, they were panting and balking. In a fury, Dru lashed at his mount with a cut sapling switch. The pony responded by throwing the short-tempered sorcerer to the ground and galloping away.
Ulvian, sitting calmly on his own mount, watched Dru’s fall and the flight of the abused pony. Dru scrambled to his feet and shouted, “After him! Worthless nag! I’ll flay him if I ever get my hands on him!”
“Seems unlikely, from where I sit,” remarked the prince. He slid off his horse, wincing. Riding bareback through the mountains for six hours had taken its toll on his aching backside.
Dru scowled and threw the hair back from his eyes. His manner had changed considerably since they left Pax Tharkas; his respectfulness, never sincere, had vanished completely. Sitting on a convenient boulder, he stared daggers in the direction of the fleeing pony.
All anger at the horse was forgotten, though, when Ulvian pulled the golden box out of his ragged cloak. The gilt flashed in the failing daylight. Dru licked his thin lips expectantly as Ulvian set the box on the ground between his feet. The prince produced the only tool he had, a mason’s trowel he’d picked up near Feldrin’s tent. He poked and scraped at the box. The gilt covering was supple, like leather, but the hard dwarven iron of the trowel didn’t even scratch it. A charmed box indeed. Ulvian examined the hinges, the hasp in front, and the seal that held the box closed.
“Well?” Dru demanded peevishly. “What are you waiting for? Open it!”
“I shall. There’s no sense blundering into it, though.” The sorcerer slapped his thigh in frustration.
Ulvian lifted the seal on its silken string. He guessed that Feldrin wouldn’t rely on a flimsy wax seal alone to protect the black amulet. Hooking the tip of the trowel inside the loop of silk, he broke the seal. Dru inhaled sharply.
“Now,” he breathed. “Open it!”
The prince set the box down. The hasp was loose. Very gently he inserted the tip of the trowel under the lid and, with a sudden jerk, flipped the lid up. Something moved with blinding speed toward his hand. Ulvian recoiled and drove the trowel like a knife into the yellowgreen thing that had leapt at him.
Dru peered over his shoulder. “What is it?”
Skewered neatly on the tool was a large spider with a red rectangle on its belly.
“A headstone spider,” Dru said. His tone was admiring. “One bite means certain death. Old Feldrin wasn’t such a fool after all.”
The prince flung the dead spider aside. Inside the box was a folded piece of silver cloth. Though there was little light remaining, the silver material threw off scintillas of light. When Ulvian touched it, its surface rippled with iridescent colors. The lumpy shape of the onyx amulet was obvious beneath the supple material. Without removing the cloth, he surreptitiously pushed the cylinder out of the ring, separating the halves of the magic talisman.
“Give it to me,” Dru ordered imperiously. “Why are you so slow? Give me my amulet!”
Ulvian’s hazel eyes glittered like cold metal as he looked at the sorcerer. “And if I don’t? Will you flay me like the tired pony?”
The sorcerer balled his fists and nudged Ulvian sharply with his knee. “Don’t be a fool!” he thundered. “The whole point of our escaping was to get my amulet back! It’s of no use to you. Give it to me!”
Ulvian stood abruptly and presented the point of the trowel to Dru’s throat. Reddish blood, the poisonous blood of the headstone spider, covered the tool’s sharp tip. Dru blanched and turned his head away.
“You seem to forget that I am a prince,” Ulvian snapped.
Dru swallowed hard and forced a smile. It was the ghastly expression of a grinning skull. “My friend,” he said, striving for a soothing tone, “be at ease. I was—I am—very nervous about getting my property back. Did I not save you from the stone block? Didn’t my golem avenge the insults inflicted on you by Splint? We are free now, my prince, but vulnerable. Only my magic can protect us from the wrath of your father and the dwarf king.”
The trowel was lowered a few inches. “I am not afraid of my father. I have no intention of hiding from him,” Ulvian said slowly. “My only thought in aiding you was to escape those thugs in Pax Tharkas who seemed bent on murdering me. Now that we are free, I intend to make my way back to Qualinost.”
“But, Highness,” Dru objected, “How do you know your father won’t simply return you to Pax Tharkas? Your supposed crimes are now compounded by mayhem, murder, and escape. I would not trust the Speaker’s mercy. Better to return with me at your side, my prince, fully armed with all my black arts and ready to defend you!”
Ulvian bent over and lifted the wrapped amulet. Dru’s eyes bulged. Color flooded his face, and his breath hissed out. Ulvian shook the silver cloth, and a single piece of onyx—the ring—fell out into Dru’s hands. He put the cloth back in the box and closed the lid.
“What’s this?” Dru all but shrieked. “The other—”
“I don’t trust you enough to give it all to you. If you behave and do as I tell you, then I’ll give you the other half. Maybe.”
A scream of outrage welled up in the sorcerer’s throat, but it died before it could escape his lips. Instead, Dru closed his fingers around the black stone ring, and his tight lips pulled back in a smile. “As you wish, Highness. I, Drulethen, am your servant.”
The sorcerer told Ulvian that the onyx ring solved his transportation problem; he no longer needed a pony. The ring allowed its possessor to shape-change. Before Ulvian’s wide eyes, Drulethen the elven sorcerer expanded like a water-filled bladder. His skin split, and feathers sprouted. His fingers curved into talons as his arms were transformed into wings. A ripping scream issued from his swollen throat, and a hooked yellow beak burst through Dru’s face. The sorcerer’s eyes, as gray as storm clouds, were slowly suffused with a yellow tint. The transformation was too horrible to watch. When next Ulvian looked, a giant falcon stood before him, preening his shiny, golden-brown feathers.
So warlike was the expression in the great bird’s eyes, Ulvian fell back a pace. Uncertainly he asked, “Dru? Can you speak?”
“Har! Yes!”
Ulvian put the golden box under his cloak and walked to his pony, which was straining against its tied reins. The sight of the six-foot-tall hawk was unnerving it. As the prince mounted, he said, “Where shall we go?”
“Har! My home. Black Stone Peak. Har!”
So saying, the giant falcon spread its wings and lifted into the air. It was completely dark, but Dru’s eyes glowed yellow, allowing Ulvian to mark his position. Calling out his harsh cries, the transformed sorcerer circled overhead, guiding Ulvian along the narrow path. A few hours ride, Dru promised, and they would reach his stronghold, the ancient pinnacle known as Black Stone Peak.
Twenty elven warriors, armed with lance and shield, formed ranks in the pass above Pax Tharkas with Kemian Ambrodel and Kith-Kanan at their head. Each warrior carried three days’ worth of water and dried food, a thin blanket roll, and a clay cup. Kith-Kanan told his soldiers that the eyrie occupied by Drulethen was at the very highest ridge of the Kharolis, up a steep trail. The warriors would need to travel fast and light.