They slept fitfully that night, at the very edge of the forest. Each took a turn at watch, looking to the north and east where the ruddy glow continued to light the sky. By morning the wind had shifted, and smoke drifted into their eyes as they packed their bedrolls, quickly broke their fast with cold biscuits and sausage from the Pig and Whistle, and took to the road once more.
As they rode, their horses grew more and more nervous. The smell of burning was everywhere, though the fire was yet miles away. There was another scent too, still faint but unmistakably foul, which made their mounts even more skittish. Around midday they gave up riding, finding it faster to dismount and lead their steeds along Kendermore’s winding main road.
Kronn and Catt took the lead, marching swiftly and wiping stinging soot from their eyes as they crested one low hill after another. Every league, Swiftraven sought out a suitably tall tree and climbed it, nimbly ascending until he was above the blanket of boughs that spread above the path. Each time he jumped back down with the same report. The fire was still far ahead and did not look to be getting any closer. They passed the whole day that way, never stopping for more than a few minutes. They kept moving on through the deepening dark, always toward the glow. All five knew it would be fruitless to make camp. None of them would be able to sleep with that terrible light before them.
Then, sometime in the morning’s smallest hours, the glow began to waver and fade. The smell of smoke still clung to the woodland like a shroud, maddeningly strong, but there was no doubting what they saw. The fire was going out. Long before the sky began to bruise with the promise of dawn, the light had vanished entirely. If anything, it only strengthened their resolve to go on.
The sun still had not risen halfway to its full height when the forest ended. It was as if the party had struck a wall. The underbrush stopped suddenly, giving way to blackened earth. For a hundred yards or more, there were no trees at all, only stumps. Beyond the strange, razed clearing-which stretched out of sight to either side-the poplars and maples resumed, clawing upward with leafless, ash-caked branches. Smoke hovered around their sooty trunks like mist, swirling as the wind clawed past. Here and there, orange light flickered where small, stubborn fires still smoldered.
Riverwind bent beside a blackened stump, his hand running over the charred wood.
“Too even,” he pronounced. “This tree did not fall. It was cut with a saw. So were the others.”
Swiftraven crouched down, running his hand through the ashes. “This was burned on purpose.”
“Someone cleared the trees away, then scorched the earth,” Riverwind agreed. “A firebreak, to keep the flames contained.”
“My people did this,” Kronn said. He unslung his chapak from his back and compared its blade to the axe marks on a smoking stump. “They trapped the fire and let it burn out.”
Catt whistled, impressed. “It must have taken hundreds of them, cutting the whole day long.”
“Where is everyone, then?” Brightdawn wondered, looking around the clearing. “If there were so many of them here, where did they go now that the fire’s out?”
“The same place we’re going,” Kronn answered. “Kendermore. Paxina said she’d order people back from the outlying villages… if there was trouble…. Make no mistake,” he added solemnly, “those woods ahead of us were burned just as deliberately as the firebreak.”
Morning wore on to midday as they picked their way through the burnt forest, holding Kronn’s handkerchiefs over their noses and mouths to keep from choking on the lingering smoke. All around them the bare trees moaned, blackened branches clawing upward like the hands of a thousand charred skeletons. It was almost noon when they reached the remains of a tiny cottage, reduced to nothing but a chimney and stone foundation. For a while they searched for bodies but found none. “Whoever lived here got out in time,” Riverwind said.
“There aren’t any axes here,” Swiftraven added, rooting through the ruins of a tool shed. The metal heads of shovels and hammers glinted dully amid the ashes. “They must have gone to help make the firebreak.”
“And the children?” Brightdawn asked, holding up another bit of metal. It was a toy knight, made out of tin.
Catt shrugged. “Fled to Kendermore, I guess.”
“Come on,” Kronn said, his voice firm with determination. He had already begun to walk onward, leaving the cottage behind. “It’s not much farther to the nearest hamlet-Weavewillow.”
Weavewillow was no more. The town, which had once been home to some eight hundred kender, had been blasted from the face of Krynn. Like the cottage, wood and plaster and thatch were gone, leaving nothing but empty, stone husks where homes and shops had stood. Chimneys had blown apart, and cobblestone streets had cracked from the heat. The town well was nothing more than a pool of glassy rock around a steaming hole.
“What could have done this?” Brightdawn wondered, staring at Weavewillow’s five-towered town hall. The spires had melted, then hardened again, so they looked like candles that had burned down to stubs. “I’ve never seen a fire that could do this to solid rock.”
“I have,” Riverwind said, his face dark. “In old Que-Shu, after Verminaard’s troops laid waste to it. The stones were melted there. The only thing I’ve ever seen that could make flames this hot is a red dragon.”
“It’s just like Woodsedge after Malys attacked,” Catt agreed.
“Then-are we too late?” Swiftraven asked. He held his sabre naked in his hand and was watching the woods, his body tensed.
“No,” Catt answered. “I saw tracks, leading away from town. They went to Kendermore, I’m sure.” She scratched in the soot with the butt of her hoopak. “Kronn, we’d better get moving. Pax will be waiting for us.”
A moment passed, and no one answered. Catt looked around. “Kronn?”
Her brother was gone.
Instantly alert, Riverwind and Swiftraven fanned out, combing through the rubble with their swords ready. Catt followed, calling Kronn’s name. It was Brightdawn, though, who found him, at the far edge of Weavewillow. Her horrified cry brought the others running.
Beneath the blackened arch of the ruined gatehouse, Brightdawn stood over Kronn, who was on his knees, face buried in his hands. He had found the bodies.
They were everywhere around him, dozens of them, burnt black by the conflagration. The Plainsfolk felt bile rise in their throats as they beheld the tiny corpses, frail as birds, strewn upon the earth like a child’s discarded toys.
“There was a fierce battle here,” Swiftraven noted, moving from one body to the next. Many still clutched weapons in their charred hands. “A fighting withdrawal, I’d say.”
“A withdrawal from what?” Brightdawn wondered, putting her arm around Kronn. She was close to choking on the sickly sweet smell that hung in the air. “Not the dragon, surely.”
“Here!” Riverwind called suddenly. He had wandered away from the others and was staring at something on the ground. Brightdawn remained with Kronn, but Catt and Swiftraven hurried to see what the old Plainsman had found.
There were more bodies where Riverwind stood, but they were not kender. They were too big-larger than humans, many more than eight feet tall. Swiftraven nudged one with his foot, and winced as its burnt flesh crackled. It had fallen forward, and so its face had escaped the worst of the fire. The blistered skin was brown, mottled with dark, hairy warts, and its features were ugly and brutish. Low, heavy brows surmounted a blunt, broad nose. Teeth that were almost tusks jutted from its mouth above a strong, square chin. The creature wore a leather breastplate and bracers, and near its blackened fist lay the iron head of a massive battle axe.
“Ogre,” Swiftraven said, and spat in the ashes.
Catt nodded slowly. “They must be in league with Malys now. These died fighting my people before the dragon burned the town.”
“Could there still be more around here?” Swiftraven asked, his sharp eyes flicking from shadow to shadow.
“No,” Riverwind said. “They would have left before the dragon attacked. They probably chased the kender north, toward Kendermore.”
Swiftraven’s eyes widened with sudden understanding. “They’re driving them,” he murmured. Riverwind nodded.
“Driving them?” Catt asked. “But-what does that mean? What are we going to find at Kendermore?”
The others looked at Riverwind. He thought on this, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Kronn trudged along like a wounded man, his head bowed in grief. Catt walked beside him, her hand on his shoulder, but she was too stricken herself to give her brother much comfort. In her other hand she held the reins of their horses, who followed nervously, eyes rolling and nostrils flaring at the strange sights and smells that surrounded them.
Swiftraven stalked ahead of the party an arrow nocked on his bowstring, alertly watching for signs of movement among the blasted trees. Riverwind brought up the rear, also ready to loose a shaft, should anything choose to loom at them from behind. It was Brightdawn, though, who first heard the sound.
It was soft, almost too quiet to discern, and for a moment she hesitated, wondering if she had heard it at all. Then it rose again and she held up a hand, hissing through clenched teeth.
The others stopped immediately, Swiftraven pulling back his bowstring as he hurried to Brightdawn’s side. “What is it?” Catt asked.
With a sharp gesture, Brightdawn waved her silent. She cocked an ear, concentrating. The sound grew momentarily louder, so everyone could hear it-a low, tired whimper.
“What is it?” Swiftraven whispered. “A wounded animal?”
“No,” Brightdawn replied. “It’s a child crying.”
“A child?” Catt asked. “Out here?”
The Plainswoman didn’t bother to answer; she started walking. Swiftraven jogged to catch up with her.
“Brightdawn!” Riverwind hissed. “Wait! It could be a trap!”
Ignoring her father’s call, Brightdawn continued to move, pausing only to listen a moment and make sure she was still headed toward the sound. They were nearly a league north of Weavewillow, and the ground here was rocky. Great boulders dotted with charred moss loomed among the blasted trees. Swiftly, Brightdawn made her way toward a cleft between two such rocks.
Swiftraven eyed the gap, which was dark, wide and deep. He trained his arrow on it. “I think maybe we should wait for your father, Brightdawn,” he whispered. “There could be anything in there.”
Stubbornly, Brightdawn shook her head. “No,” she answered, and started toward the cleft. Swiftraven quickly relaxed his pull on his bowstring and caught her arm.
“At least let me go first,” he said.
Seeing the pleading look in his eyes, Brightdawn nodded. “Watch what you shoot at,” she told him.
Moving slowly, arrow ready, Swiftraven stepped into the gap. For a moment he couldn’t see anything, but then his eyes adjusted to the shadows, and he discerned the walls of the cleft. He continued to creep forward, Brightdawn right behind him. The whimpering was much louder here, ringing weirdly off the stones.
Then, suddenly, he stopped, staring at something on the ground. Slowly, he relaxed his pull on his bow. “Merciful goddess,” he swore.
“What?” Brightdawn asked. “What is it? Let me through.” She pushed past him, following his gaze, and stopped.
There, huddled in the bottom of the cleft, weeping uncontrollably as she hugged her knees to her chest, was a little kender girl. She looked up, her eyes wide, and drew back from the Plainsfolk.
“It’s all right,” Brightdawn said. She crouched low, moving forward slowly to keep from startling the child. “Hush, now. I’m going to help you.”
The girl was tiny. She couldn’t have been more than eight years old. Brightdawn crept toward her, making soothing sounds. At last, the child stopped sobbing and stared up at the Plainsfolk, her bottom lip quivering.
“That’s better,” Brightdawn said, smiling. “What’s your name, little one?”
The girl hiccupped a few times, trying to find her voice. “B-Billee,” she stammered. “Billee Juniper.”
“Hello, Billee,” Brightdawn said, stopping in front of the child. She crouched down and held out her hand. “I’m Brightdawn. That man there is Swiftraven. Don’t worry, he’s here to protect you, not to hurt you. Where are your parents?”
For a moment, Billee didn’t answer. Then she started to cry again.
“All right, shhh,” Brightdawn said, fighting back sudden tears herself. “We’re going to take you out of here to someplace safe. Would you like that?”
The little kender stared up at her, eyes gleaming. Then she clasped her own tiny hand around one of Brightdawn’s fingers. Gently, the Plainswoman gathered the child to her chest. Billee wrapped her twig-thin arms around Brightdawn’s neck and held tight, trembling, as the Plainsfolk turned and moved back out of the cleft.
Kronn and Catt were waiting where they’d left them; Riverwind was with them, his expression sick with worry A look of immense relief settled over his face when his daughter returned.
“You should have waited,” he told her.
At the sound of his stern voice, Billee started to cry again. Shooting her father a reproachful look, Brightdawn stroked the child’s long, black hair, clucking her tongue soothingly. “It’s all right,” she cooed. “It’s going to be all right, Billee. Don’t be afraid.”
Kronn looked up at her, startled. “What did you say?”
“I’m just trying to calm her down,” Brightdawn answered tersely.
Catt, however, had the same strange look on her face as her brother.
“Let me see her,” Catt said. “Please.”
Her skin growing cold, the Plainswoman knelt down. Catt reached out, hesitantly, and touched Billee’s shoulder.
“Trapspringer’s ghost,” she gasped. “She’s shaking. She is afraid.”
“I don’t understand,” Swiftraven said. “I thought you people weren’t supposed to be able to feel fear.”
Catt looked up at the Plainsfolk, her eyes wide and confused. “That’s what I thought, too.”
The light of the waning moon streamed through the window of Moonsong’s bedchamber, falling across her body as she writhed among the blankets. She moaned in anguish, fighting against the throes of a terrible nightmare.
“No,” she mumbled. “Bodies… fire…”
The sound of her despairing voice woke Stagheart from his own slumber. Blearily, he wiped his eyes and rolled over to look at her. “Moonsong,” he whispered. His strong hand reached for her, brushed the smooth curve of her shoulder. “You’re dreaming, love.”
She cried out, her voice slashing the stillness like a razor. “No!”
“Moonsong!” Stagheart sat up quickly, then bent over her and shook her gently. “Wake up!”
For a moment she resisted, beating at him with her fists, but he held her fast until her eyes fluttered open. She looked at him blankly, seeming to stare through him. “Where…“ she began, her voice trailing away.
“It’s all right,” Stagheart said. “You’re in Que-Shu. I’m here.”
“Stagheart?” She blinked. “You came back.”
He nodded, folding his arms about her. His face, however, was troubled. He had returned to Que-Shu more than a week ago, bearing the head of the griffon that had been troubling the herdsmen to the south. He had brought the grisly trophy into the Lodge of Brothers at the center of the village and laid it at the feet of Moonsong’s mother. Goldmoon, in return, had declared that, with his Courting Quest completed, he was free to marry her daughter.
Moonsong, however, appeared to remember none of this, even though they had spoken of the wedding earlier in the night as they lay flushed and breathless in each other’s arms. They had agreed the day would come as soon as possible. “But not until Brightdawn returns,” Moonsong had said, kissing him. “Your brother, too.”
Now, she barely seemed to recognize him at all. Stagheart held her, running his fingers through her long, golden hair. She trembled like a newborn foal, her skin rising in gooseflesh, and clutched at him in return.
“Oh, Stagheart,” she moaned.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Was it Brightdawn?”
She nodded, sucking a shuddering breath through her teeth. In the moonlight, her tanned skin looked pale and wan, and she glistened with cold sweat.
“Moonsong, you have to tell me. Was she in danger?”
She shook her head. “No. Not yet… but-”
Suddenly, the door swung open. Orange light spilled through the entrance, falling across the bed. Standing in the doorway was Goldmoon, clad in a sky-blue robe and cupping a tallow candle in her hands. The dim light flickered as she stepped into her daughter’s bedchamber.
“Mother!” Moonsong gasped, her mouth dropping open.
Goldmoon said nothing, only stared at the two of them as they clung to each other. There was an odd look in her eyes, an incongruous mixture of disapproval and grudging empathy.
“My chief,” Stagheart said, letting Moonsong go. He scrambled out of the bed to kneel before her, grabbing a blanket as he did so to conceal his nakedness.
“You know the custom, both of you,” Goldmoon said sharply. “You should not share a bedchamber until you are married. This is an ancient tradition, not to be taken lightly, Stagheart of Que-Teh.”
Stagheart dropped even lower, prostrating himself before her. The rushes on the floor pressed against his face. “Forgive me, my chief,” he pleaded.
She paid him little attention, however; her concentration focused on her daughter. “Child,” she murmured. “Have you dreamt of your sister again?”
Moonsong looked up at her mother, her eyes dark, and nodded wordlessly.
Goldmoon’s stern expression softened. She and Stagheart exchanged a knowing look. Moonsong and Brightdawn had shared dreams since they’d been babies.
“Moonsong,” Goldmoon said. “Tell me. Where is she? What has happened?”
“Near Kendermore,” Moonsong answered, her voice faint and wavering. “She is well-and so are Father and Swiftraven. Their journey shall end tomorrow. But-the Kenderwood has burned, and ogres lurk among the ashes. And the kender are-” She stopped abruptly, her gaze drifting. “The kender are in terrible danger,” she said.
Goldmoon, lost in thought, regarded her daughter.
“You want to go to her, don’t you?” she said.
“Yes.”
Goldmoon sighed heavily. Her shoulders slumped, and a weary look settled over her. “There’s little to say, then,” she said. “Go. Take Stagheart with you.”
Stagheart looked from mother to daughter, saw the conviction in both women’s eyes, and knew it would be little use to argue.
Moonsong, however, regarded Goldmoon with an expression of worry and guilt. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said. “We’re all leaving you. I can wait until Wanderer returns to Que-Shu-”
“No.” Goldmoon shook her head firmly. “I will not hold you here. Go to Kendermore, child. Find your sister.” Her eyes shining, she started to turn away-then stopped, her hand on the door. “Take my blessing with you.”
Then she was gone. Moonsong stared at the door as it eased shut, then slumped back among the blankets with a quiet sob. Stagheart climbed back into bed beside her, gathered her in his arms again, and held her close, whispering softly as, outside, the moon slid slowly among the clouds.