Dalamar The Dark

Weeping over the ruin of the river, the ravaged Thon-Thalas, the wind felt like nothing out of summer. With its cold clammy fingers, it felt like a winter wind. The reeds along the banks drooped, faintly green at the base, pasty brown along the shaft, black and slimy where the feathery seed pods should now be starting to form. It was as though they tried to grow, managed to stagger, and then fell to die. Fish lay rotting in the coves, silvery sheen turned to the blue of a corpse's lips as the scales rotted. Some of these, it seemed, were whole when they'd died. Others bore the marks of mutation, some with thin, twisted limbs, others with three eyes. One or two had wings, and these, trying to fly, had died; for they had wings, but they did not have lungs that liked air better than water.

Above the misery, the sky hung a pall of ragged clouds. In the air, thin mist stank of death, the tatters that dressed the decay and decorated the corruption seen on all sides.

"By the gods," whispered Lord Ko

"It is a bitter sight," agreed Porthios.

In this, the elf-prince and the Silvanesti House Holder stood in perfect and rare agreement.

Along the banks of the Thon-Thalas, trees stood like blackened skeletons; in summer's season they were winter's ghosts. Writhen by foul magic, they staggered in terrible twisted shapes. Once-proud aspens bowed low, their slender shapes brutalized by the dragon Cyan Bloodbane's nightmarish spells. Some of those trees bled, not sap but red blood as mortals bleed. Some wept, silver tears ru

No one dared touch the trunks or anything else, not even the water in the river. Yet, some yearned to do that, aching to reach out with healing touches, aching to comfort the ravaged land. One of these was a cleric, Caylain, a young woman whose cheeks shone white as a ghost's. She reached, now and then, only to remember that she dared not reach too far.

"Dearest E'li," she whispered, her voice barely heard beneath the muffling of the sleeve she pressed against her mouth and nose. Dalamar heard her, though, for they stood near one another. And he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks as those from the aspens-ever dying, never healing.

Dearest E'li, Dalamar thought, watching the ruin of their homeland slide by. Well, dearest E'li hasn't walked here in a long time.

Dragons did, though. He saw marks of their passage everywhere-snapped branches, the slithering trail of long scaly tails in the mud at the river's edge, and broad flat footprints with the pegged marks of talons. Once, when the skiff came close to the bank, he saw in a nest of mud the jagged shells of leathery eggs, freshly burst. Those eggs had been as large as his torso, and they had held a clutch of dragon young. Soon after, he spotted the sullen gleam of green scales and an eye the size of his hand, evil gold in a midnight iris. These were green dragons, the kind who seldom grew longer than thirty feet-small in comparison to the beasts who had descended from the iron sky over the northern border five years before. Small, but not less dangerous. These greens had great cu

Dragons lived here in the ruined kingdom, yet so did a princess. No, not that. Alhana Starbreeze was more than princess now. She was Speaker of the Stars, for her father was dead. She waited in Silvanost in the Tower of the Stars, anxious for the coming of Porthios and his little fleet. She waited in safety, warded by a full troop of Porthios's own household guard. That troop was a thing Lord Ko

The river groaned, and on board the little skiff one of the rowers swore he had to work twice as hard for half the distance as he and his crew forced the vessel to creep against the tide.

"Aye, well," growled Lord Ko

Porthios heard that, but he did not comment, keeping diplomatically out of the lord's way. He stood in the prow of the skiff, looking northward as though it were his only task.

"He is a fine and handsome fellow, this Porthios," said the rower to Dalamar.

Dalamar shrugged. Fair enough for a barbarian Qualinesti, he thought. Aloud, he said, "It's the cut of his weapons I like better than anything else about him."

Behind him, a curse. An oar hit something. "Damn," the Wildru

Lord Ko

Dalamar twisted a sour smile, one the lord could not see as he stepped in front of the rower and bent his back to the task of pulling out the oar from whatever snare had caught it. He pulled hard, then again, moving in concert with the Wildru

"What is it?" Porthios called, coming back to see. He balanced easily in the shifting skiff, then put his hand on Dalamar's shoulder to move him aside. "Ach, branches-"

The water slapped against the sides of the boat, and the oar slipped suddenly in Dalamar's hands. Startled, he gripped harder, pulling back against what pulled forward. Something did pull at the oar; something with intent worked beneath the waters. Clacking and clattering sounded from under the water, then a high keening shrieked up.

The brown water broke, a hand reached up-one of whitened bone, fingers grasping the oar.

"By all the gods!" Porthios stepped back to give himself sword-room.

A hand grabbed Dalamar's arm-Caylain's-and yanked him away from the side of the boat. Porthios's sword came singing from its sheath, the blade gleaming dully in the gray daylight. In one swift arcing motion, the prince swung and brought his sword down, shattering the grip of the bony hand. But it was only one hand, and there were others now, reaching with clattering fingers to grab the sides of the skiff. Once more, hands yanked at the oars, but now the rowers were prepared and held hard.

More swords sang in the air as Wildru