The War Of The Lance by Michael Williams, Richard A. Knaak, Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman Page A
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pay for it in the worst
way.
That was my last mortal thought. *****
I was having the worst of all nightmares, worse than the red dreams I'd once had of
Neraka. I dreamed I was dead and buried. Ice-cold rain fell without end on me, trickling
down on lifeless flesh. My body was dead-numb, my limbs chained down. I was hollow, a
shell of nothing in the earth. I fought to wake up or even move a muscle. I begged the
great gods of Krynn to let me wake up.
No one heard me. I begged them for mercy. I pleaded for justice. No voice spoke in the
darkness. Then I cursed them, I cursed the gods, and I cried for
revenge. I became aware of a colorless light. Without thinking,
I opened my eyes, my lips still moving. Gray clouds rolled swiftly above me, ragged-edged.
Cold droplets slapped my face and fell into my unblinking eyes. I couldn't move my limbs.
I felt nothing, nothing at all but the cold, and I listened to the drumming of the rain
against and around me.
The gray clouds rolled on for ages. The rain fell. Then a weight seemed to fall away, and
I knew I could sit up. Very slowly, I rolled onto my side and pushed myself
upright. Every movement was unbalanced, and I swayed dizzily until I braced myself with my
arms. The tilting scenery settled in my vision, and I looked around.
The landscape appeared odd in the rain-washed light, but I was still at the foot of the
rocky cliff. It was late in the evening now. I didn't know the day. The long grass of the
plain had been beaten down by rain some time ago. A
light wind blew across the field, rippling the bent and broken stalks.
I sat there stupidly for a long time, then looked down at myself.
The butt of an arrow was projecting from my chest. After a few moments, I remembered how
it got there, and thought I was lucky that it hadn't killed me.
Then, of course, I knew the truth.
I stared at the arrow for a long time. The rain eventually slowed. All was quiet except
for the cawing of distant crows. I wasn't afraid, only dully surprised. No heartbeat
sounded within me, no blood ran from my wound. I felt surprised, but nothing more.
I hated looking at the arrow in me. It wasn't right. It ought to come out. Carefully, I
reached up and touched it, then tapped it hard. There was no pain, only a sense of its
presence. I reached up and carefully tugged on the shaft. It didn't budge. Then I took it
in both hands and broke off the arrow at the point where it entered my chest, having it in
mind not to open the wound any further. I felt a need to keep my body looking as good as
possible. Self-respect, maybe.
That done, I reached behind me with one hand to find that the arrow point stuck out of my
back by an inch or two, between two ribs. After some difficulty in getting a proper grip,
I slowly pulled the arrow out, then held both pieces of it before me.
The arrow was shorter than I'd expected; the arrowhead was small and grooved. It was
actually a crossbow bolt, not a longbow arrow - a well-made bolt, too; dwarven-make.
Doubtless the hobgoblins had been picking up good weaponry on their raids.
I rolled to my knees, then staggered to my feet and looked myself over. I was filthy with
mud. My sword scabbard was empty, my boots were gone, my food pouch was untied, and my
waterskin had been cut loose. I knew that my pouch had been tied before I had been killed.
My murderer must have checked me for loot. I had done it myself at Neraka, searching dead
hobgoblins after the battles. I hadn't brought anything with me but a few odds and ends. I
opened the pouch flap and found it was empty now. I looked down at my feet and saw my food
in the mud and water. None of the food had been eaten; all was
ruined. The boots and waterskin lay further away, slashed open. The sword was nowhere
around, but the killer had undoubtedly taken it, probably discarded it later. It was
cheaply made. My murderer was thorough.
I
way.
That was my last mortal thought. *****
I was having the worst of all nightmares, worse than the red dreams I'd once had of
Neraka. I dreamed I was dead and buried. Ice-cold rain fell without end on me, trickling
down on lifeless flesh. My body was dead-numb, my limbs chained down. I was hollow, a
shell of nothing in the earth. I fought to wake up or even move a muscle. I begged the
great gods of Krynn to let me wake up.
No one heard me. I begged them for mercy. I pleaded for justice. No voice spoke in the
darkness. Then I cursed them, I cursed the gods, and I cried for
revenge. I became aware of a colorless light. Without thinking,
I opened my eyes, my lips still moving. Gray clouds rolled swiftly above me, ragged-edged.
Cold droplets slapped my face and fell into my unblinking eyes. I couldn't move my limbs.
I felt nothing, nothing at all but the cold, and I listened to the drumming of the rain
against and around me.
The gray clouds rolled on for ages. The rain fell. Then a weight seemed to fall away, and
I knew I could sit up. Very slowly, I rolled onto my side and pushed myself
upright. Every movement was unbalanced, and I swayed dizzily until I braced myself with my
arms. The tilting scenery settled in my vision, and I looked around.
The landscape appeared odd in the rain-washed light, but I was still at the foot of the
rocky cliff. It was late in the evening now. I didn't know the day. The long grass of the
plain had been beaten down by rain some time ago. A
light wind blew across the field, rippling the bent and broken stalks.
I sat there stupidly for a long time, then looked down at myself.
The butt of an arrow was projecting from my chest. After a few moments, I remembered how
it got there, and thought I was lucky that it hadn't killed me.
Then, of course, I knew the truth.
I stared at the arrow for a long time. The rain eventually slowed. All was quiet except
for the cawing of distant crows. I wasn't afraid, only dully surprised. No heartbeat
sounded within me, no blood ran from my wound. I felt surprised, but nothing more.
I hated looking at the arrow in me. It wasn't right. It ought to come out. Carefully, I
reached up and touched it, then tapped it hard. There was no pain, only a sense of its
presence. I reached up and carefully tugged on the shaft. It didn't budge. Then I took it
in both hands and broke off the arrow at the point where it entered my chest, having it in
mind not to open the wound any further. I felt a need to keep my body looking as good as
possible. Self-respect, maybe.
That done, I reached behind me with one hand to find that the arrow point stuck out of my
back by an inch or two, between two ribs. After some difficulty in getting a proper grip,
I slowly pulled the arrow out, then held both pieces of it before me.
The arrow was shorter than I'd expected; the arrowhead was small and grooved. It was
actually a crossbow bolt, not a longbow arrow - a well-made bolt, too; dwarven-make.
Doubtless the hobgoblins had been picking up good weaponry on their raids.
I rolled to my knees, then staggered to my feet and looked myself over. I was filthy with
mud. My sword scabbard was empty, my boots were gone, my food pouch was untied, and my
waterskin had been cut loose. I knew that my pouch had been tied before I had been killed.
My murderer must have checked me for loot. I had done it myself at Neraka, searching dead
hobgoblins after the battles. I hadn't brought anything with me but a few odds and ends. I
opened the pouch flap and found it was empty now. I looked down at my feet and saw my food
in the mud and water. None of the food had been eaten; all was
ruined. The boots and waterskin lay further away, slashed open. The sword was nowhere
around, but the killer had undoubtedly taken it, probably discarded it later. It was
cheaply made. My murderer was thorough.
I
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