Dru had righted a broken chair that could nonetheless bear his weight. “Oh, these are not my doing,” he said with mock humility. “The original owners of the peak collected these little mementos, and I didn’t have the heart to throw them away when I took possession.” A smile parted his thin lips. “Besides, I think they lend a certain air to my humble domicile.”
Ulvian shrugged and kicked through the shattered remains of Dru’s former life. He threw a leg over a stove-in barrel and sat. “Well, we’re here,” he said. “Now what?”
“Now you must give me the other half of my amulet.”
The small golden box was hard and heavy inside Ulvian’s cloak. “No,” the prince replied. “I have no illusions about how long I’ll live once I do that.”
“But, Your Highness, Feldrin will certainly send someone after us, perhaps even royal warriors of Thorbardin and Qualinesti! I cannot possibly defend us with only a half measure of my powers.”
Half a hundred skulls leered over Dru’s shoulders. Here on his own ground, the ragged prisoner of Pax Tharkas seemed to acquire new strength, greater self possession. “I didn’t come here to withstand a siege. I am bound for Qualinost,” Ulvian declared. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ve gotten all the reward you earned—escape from Pax Tharkas and half your amulet.”
Dru folded his hands, twining his fingers together. “It’s a long way to Qualinost, my prince. You have neither horse, nor pony, nor royal griffon to take you there.”
From the corner of one eye, Ulvian saw the pommel of a sword lying on the floor, buried by torn parchment and broken pottery. “Am I your prisoner?” he asked coolly.
“I thought we were partners.”
“A prince of the blood and a base-born sorcerer, partners? I think not, Master Drulethen. On the other hand, if you wish to become my servant…” Ulvian rubbed his beard thoughtfully. The sword hilt was just beyond easy reach.
“I would serve you gladly! But without my entire amulet, I am a poor spell-caster and not half the sorcerer I could be for you, Highness.”
As Dru finished speaking, Ulvian hurled himself at the half-buried sword hilt. He skidded in the debris, and his fingers closed over the rough, wire-wrapped handle. By the time he’d rolled clumsily to his feet, Dru was gone. The broken chair was still there, but the sorcerer had vanished.
The prince whirled, searching wildly. Drulethen was nowhere to be seen. Then his voice boomed out, echoing in the vast circular hall. “You stupid half-breed! Do you think you can get the better of me so easily? How disappointed your father must be, to have such a worthless, stupid son. Will he weep, I wonder, when he learns of your death?”
“Come out and face me!” Ulvian cried, his eyes flying to and fro over the grisly trophies lining the wall.
“We could have worked together, you know,” Dru went on. “With your name and my power, we could have forged a mighty empire. No one could have stopped us—not the dwarves, nor the Speaker of the Stars in Silvanost. But you had to be foolishly greedy. You thought you could command Drulethen of Black Stone Peak.”
Ulvian stood by the firepit, turning constantly, keeping the sword always ready. It was an ancient dwarven blade, short and thick and rather rusty, but still lethal. The sorcerer’s voice bounced off the walls.
“I am no one’s tool!” the prince shouted. “Even my father will give way to me in time!”
Ten tunnel mouths opened into the central chamber at floor level, and Ulvian could see nearly a dozen more higher up. The prince didn’t recognize the one he’d emerged from with Dru. Sweat formed on his brow.
“I have only to wait,” the sorcerer said silkily. “When you fall asleep, the amulet will be mine.”
“Liar! You can’t touch the charmed box!”
“True enough, but I will have it, and I’ll be rid of you. Good night, my prince. Sleep well. I’ll be waiting.”
Then there was silence, except for the soft crackling of the fire.
“Dru!” called Ulvian. No answer. “Drulethen! If you don’t come out, I’ll pitch the box into a gorge so deep you’ll never find it!”
Still there was no response.
Furious and terrified, Ulvian strode to the nearest tunnel opening. As he stepped inside it, a wall of wind gushed forth, flinging him back into the circular chamber. It was impossible to resist the wind, as the slick, curving tunnel floor offered no purchase for his feet. Trash covering the floor whirled around him, and soon Ulvian was back by the firepit. The wind ceased abruptly.
The same thing happened when he tried two other tunnels. Dru wasn’t going to allow him to escape with the box. Very well, resolved the prince silently. If he had to, he would smash the onyx cylinder himself rather than allow the sorcerer to possess it. The pommel of the dwarven sword was hard brass; it would do nicely as a hammer.
The torches blazed brightly in their wall sconces. Ulvian sank down by the soot-stained rim of the firepit, the sword held firmly in one hand and the golden box in the other. The cold of the mountain penetrated to his very bones. He huddled by the small fire burning in the firepit and tried to ward off sleep.
Twenty warriors and their leaders crouched in a cold defile, screened on three sides by slabs of upright stone. Some watched the wild aerial display, mesmerized by the dash and clash of shooting stars. Others gripped their lance shafts tightly, feeling the strain of impending combat like a hollow ache in the pit of their bellies.
“I don’t like this—this marvel,” Kemian whispered. “Do you think it’s the sorcerer’s doing, Majesty?”
Kith-Kanan looked up at the dance of comets and shook his head. “That is beyond the power of any mortal to orchestrate,” he said. “More likely, it’s part of the other wonders we’ve seen.” For no reason he could name, the Speaker felt a surge of elation as he watched the stars racing and crashing over their heads. It seemed almost a celebration of sorts. He turned his attention back to the dark pinnacle just ahead. Dru and Ulvian must be inside by now. Still, they couldn’t simply storm in. There was no telling what might lie waiting for them.
Though the Speaker hadn’t been part of the attacking force that originally captured Drulethen, General Parnigar had. Parnigar had reported that Drulethen’s wyvern had slaughtered many good warriors who tried to fight it in the tight confines of the tunnels. At last, Parnigar and the noted dwarf hammer-fighter Thulden Forkbeard had gotten behind the monster and cut its head off.
“Here’s what we will do,” the Speaker whispered. The young warriors forgot the shooting stars and listened intently. “You will separate into five groups of four, and each group will enter a separate tunnel. They supposedly all converge on the center hall, but be careful! Be as silent as you can, and if you find Prince Ulvian, subdue him and bring him out.”
“What if we find the sorcerer?” asked one of the warriors.
“Take him alive if you can, but if he resists, slay him.” Twenty heads nodded in unison.
“Sire,” Kemian said, “what about you and me?”
“We shall go in the main entrance,” Kith-Kanan announced.
The warriors left their lances with their tethered horses and formed into their assault groups, daggers drawn. Kith-Kanan raised his hand, and the ones destined for the farthest cave opening started up the trail. A moment later, the second group set out, and when they had reached the base of Black Stone Peak, the Speaker and General Ambrodel drew their swords and started forward.
In the cold, still air, every sound was as clear as crystal—the click of spurs on stone, the squeak of armor joints flexing, the rush of each elf’s breath. The peak loomed over Kith-Kanan. Memories tumbled through his head, brief flashes of his past like the flare of the exploding meteors overhead. The scene he’d created by baring a weapon in the Tower of the Stars in Silvanost. Scaling the Quinari Palace the night he left on his resulting exile. Arcuballis, his noble griffon, companion during his sojourn in the wilds. Sithas, his twin, whom he hadn’t seen since the division of the elven nation. Flamehaired Hermathya. The vestiges of old shame still burned when he remembered how much he’d been tempted by her beauty, even though she was wife to his brother. His own wife, Suzine, who had perished in the war. Mackeli, his brother, if not by blood then by heart and soul. And as the black shadow of the peak covered him completely, Kith-Kanan recalled the face of Anaya, his first wife and greatest love, the dark Kagonesti woman he’d lost so long ago in the wild forest of Silvanesti.