"Anyway," the boy went on, "I was playing and then the next thing I remember I saw my father. He was shot in the leg by some elves with skin the color of the night sky. They dragged him into a tunnel near the pool. I didn't see the tunnel when I found the pool. Then I saw myself lying in the water. I wasn't moving... and I knew I was a ghost."
"I tried to stop them from taking my father, but I couldn't do anything," his eyes glistened with immaterial tears. "I couldn't do anything.... And then the ground shook and the tunnel collapsed... squashing all the bad elves."
"That's so terrible," Kirnoth said. "Surely you know there was nothing you could do to save your father."
The ghost child looked unconvinced.
"Drow are truly evil," the mage went on. "How could you know you had stumbled into their territory? I am so sorry you have suffered so long, reliving this horrible scene. I wonder if there is a way that I can help you. I heard a story about your father last night, but now I believe the only true part of the tale was that your father actually appears in certain conditions."
"When the moon is full," the child interrupted. "I think it's because he had a special Moonblade."
"A Moonblade?" Kirnoth jumped at the word.
He knew - most elves did - about the legendary Moonblades. Forged millennia before the Invoked Devastation, they were all but vanished from the Realms now. Few had been forged and the secrets of there manufacture lost in the intervening centuries. They were priceless artifacts to be passed down from warrior to warrior along familial lines.
"I am a magician. Perhaps if you tell me your true history," he said, "we can figure out a way to end your and your father's suffering."
"I already told you everything," the boy whined. "I don't remember anything else! I just want to go home!"
"Yes, Yes" he replied quickly, his tone soothing. "You're right. You did tell me everything. And of course you want to go home. Is that what you will do now or can you not get home? Because if you can't get home, come out here and I will build a fire. You and I can trade tales and I will try to help you find your way home."
"I can't go home," the muttered in a voice almost as soft as a whisper. "I can't go home until..."
His voice trailed away until Kirnoth could no longer understand him.
"Perhaps if you tell me about your home, that will help," the elf said. "What did it look like? Was it a city or a small village? If you would like, I can tell you about my home. What do you think?"
"I can't!" the boy shouted. "I can't! Not until somebody takes me!"
"I'll take you," he soothed. "Come outside and we'll go."
"No! Not this me..." his voice became very soft again. His mouth seemed to struggle with the words, twitching for a time without emitting a sound. "The other me," he said finally, waving his tiny hand behind him.
"I think I'm beginning to understand," Kirnoth said. "Somebody needs to take the... other you... back to your home and then this will all be over?"
The ghost boy nodded his head, his huge sad eyes staring out at the mage from inside the cave.
"I wonder, how do you know that?" Kirnoth thought outloud, stroking his chin with his mittened hand.
"I don't know," the boy replied. "I just know."
"Well," the elf continued, "If somebody needs to take the other you home, I must first learn exactly where that home is and then I must get in there," he indicated the cave beyond the small opening, "and get the other you."
"I don't think there's another way in," the child responded. "The ceiling fell when the ground shook."
"I see," Kirnoth said and looked around near the jumbled pile of rocks for another way inside. The light from the full Handmaiden and the slim crescent of Celune was adequate to search by, but he found nothing else. He retraced his steps back down the path the dozen or so paces to the fallen tree he'd had to climb through. Taking his knife from his pouch, he went to work at a stout-looking branch and soon had a suitable tool with which to clear the debris from the cave mouth.
"I think that I've found a way to get inside," he shouted through the small opening. The ghostly boy was squatting down over the spot where the King had vanished from sight, his tiny hand resting on the earthen ground.
He looked up at the mage and smiled half-heartedly. "Good," he said.
Kirnoth set his lips in a grim scowl and went to work at the rock pile. Using the branch as a lever, it was easy to overbalance the larger stones and send them tumbling harmlessly into the undergrowth below the trail. The smaller stones and pebbles he cleared away with his mittened hands. Despite the frigid temperature on the summit of Silverhill, he had soon worked up a sweat from the exertion.
"I'm going to dig you out," he said to the boy as he worked. "Then I'll help you get home."
"Good," the boy responded.
"By home, do you mean your city or do you mean your actual house?"
"I just want to get back to the forest," the child's voice wavered out from the widening cave mouth. "It's just down the hill. You should have come right through it on your way here."
"You mean the village? Shiningwater?" the elf asked, wiping sweat from his forehead on his shirt sleeve. He surveyed his handiwork and was quite pleased. He had created an opening large enough for him to comfortably slip through. He'd have to duck to get in and step over a particularly large stone that resisted his efforts to move it, but the space was large enough.
"No," the boy's voice seemed filled with an eon's worth of sadness. "My village is gone. I just want to be in the forest."
"Then the forest is where you shall be," the elf said slipping nimbly through the opening to the cave proper.
Inside it was easy to see the whole of the place. It was small and irregularly shaped with a stone floor that gradually turned to dirt at the rear of the chamber. A loose jumble of stones similar to that which he had cleared from the mouth marked a spot where the roof had collapsed, killing the Drow that the child had described. The ghostly boy stood easily a few feet from where Kirnoth leaned on his improvised digging stick.
"Once I have the other you, will this you follow me?" he asked the undead child.
The spectre shrugged his insubstantial shoulders. "I don't know. Nobody's ever found the other me."
"Where exactly is the other you?" Kirnoth asked. Looking around the place offered no immediate clues.
The ghostly boy moved over to a spot beside the cave-in and pointed to the earthen ground at his feet. "Right here," he said sadly. "I can feel me... right here... just under the dirt."
Kirnoth felt a heavy sadness settle on his heart. This child had endured much... far beyond what anyone should be forced to suffer... especially a child. That his torment had gone on even after his death was almost too much for the mage to bear. The boy had been cut down in the bud of his youth and held there for hundreds... maybe thousands of years, never growing to adulthood, never enjoying the thrill of a child. He bit back on the urge to cry and spoke in as even a voice as he could muster under the circumstances.
"You know," he said, "I've been thinking, you must have been here for a very long time, if your village is gone."
The phantom nodded his head.
"I'm sorry about that. My home has also been destroyed and it is a very sad thing. But now I have a new home. And you will too. It will not replace your old home, but perhaps you will find some happiness there."
The child looked up at him and smiled wanly. He seemed unconvinced.
"I wonder, after all this time, I suppose the other you probably has changed too, like your home," he went on. "I am worried that the sight will also make you sad. Perhaps it would be best if you didn't look as I retrieve the other you. What do you think?"
Again the ghost shrugged his shoulders. After a moment's pause, he moved away from the spot and went back to where his father's shade had vanished.
Kirnoth smiled at the child and walked to the back of the cave.
"I am going to prepare a way to take both of you back to the woods, so I will not get the other you just this moment," he told the boy and quickly stripped off his mittens and coat. Instantly, he could feel the cold, like a thousand-thousand needles pricking his flesh. Working swiftly, he pulled off his tunic and slipped back into the protective warmth of Torrik's woolen coat. The lambswool lining itched at his skin, but it was far superior to the cold of a moment before. He spread his tunic out beside the spot the ghost had indicated, donned his mittens and knelt down to examine the ground. It was hard-pack and he was glad that he had the tree branch to aid him. It wouldn't take long to unearth the body, but he was concerned that the moons, rising higher into the sky would plunge the cave into darkness before he had completed his task. Or, worse yet, that the boy would vanish before he could re-inter the remains in the proper spot.
"I wonder, like your father, can I only see you when the moons are right," the elf asked as he dug. "Or will I always be able to see you?"
The boy shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I think I'm always here, even when my father isn't."
"If I will soon not be able to see you, you'd better show me exactly where in the woods you want to be?" Kirnoth told him. A few inches below the surface, he uncovered the grisly remains of a small skull, picked clean of flesh and stained the color of weak tea. He felt his stomach roll and thought for a sickening moment that he would vomit uncontrollably. He swallowed the sensation away and continued speaking to the boy.
"Is there a special spot or just anywhere?" he asked.
"Anywhere that's in the forest," the child said. "Anywhere that isn't here."
"I understand," the mage said. He had, by now, uncovered the entire skeleton. It was sprawled face down in the dirt as if struck from behind. He silently cursed the Drow for their evil and cowardice. Stabbing a child in the back; was nothing beneath their vile natures?
Preparing his stomach as best he could, he gently pulled the fragile skull free of the dirt. As he did so, he heard a sighing sound behind him and turned in time to see the boy's phantom fade away into the ether. Before he could say a word, the ghost child was gone, leaving him alone in the cave.
Kirnoth hoped that the boy had been right about where he needed to be interred. He didn't relish the idea of having to handle these tragic bones for naught. He carefully, with the proper dignity and respect, removed the bones from the soil and placed them on his tunic. He then carefully drew up the sides of the tunic and tied them in a knot so that he had created a make-shift sack to use as transport.
So burdened he cast one last look about the cave, which was now darkening with shadow as the moons rose upward into the heavens, and ducked outside. It was cold - colder still because he lacked his shirt - but he was warmed by his good deed as he made his way down the trail and into the forest below.
He had ventured perhaps half-way to Shiningwater and was looking for a suitable grave site for the young boy's bones when he caught sight of someone in the underbrush. He had the feeling that the man thought himself hidden from view, but Kirnoth's elven eyesight spotted him easily enough. He was unsure what to make of it when a voice he recognized called out from the bushes to his left.
"Ho, there, tree-hugger!" the man who Torrik had identified as Marst shouted. The sneering man stepped out onto the path a few paces distant, a short sword in his hand. "I sees that the ghost didn't getcha after all."
"You had us worried though," said another man as he stepped out behind the elf. He carried a club that he thumped menacingly into his cupped hand.
"Yeah," said a third. "Took so long, Kellen an' me thought maybe you wouldn't be bringin' us our loot!"
Marst laughed and pointed his shortsword at Kirnoth. "Now let's see whatcha got in that bag."
Kirnoth swallowed his fear, realizing that he had little chance of fighting his way to freedom, and with opponents before and behind, he couldn't flee. Forcing a friendly smile onto his lips, he crouched down on the frozen path, removed his mittens and began to untie the knot in his improvised sack. His fingers trembled as he worked, though whether from the cold or from fear he couldn't say.
"Unfortunately, my friends, the story is not very accurate," he began in a conversational tone. "I found no treasure."
"What?!" one of the men shouted. "No treasure?"
Other shadowy figures moved onto the path, dropping down from the trees and stepping up from the underbrush. They were muttering curses under their breath. Taking a hasty head count, Kirnoth spotted eight men in all.
"Only these remains," the elf assured them as he undid the last knot and displayed the bones. In the moonlight, the skeleton was very dark against the white tunic.
The humans looked suitably horrified at the sight. There were gasps and oaths from amongst them. Several of them turned away, making the sign of the evil eye.
"By Umba!" one man cursed.
"But the story I learned is a very good one indeed," Kirnoth told them in his most congenial tone, ignoring their obvious discomfort. "If you would like, I would happily share the tale with you by the light of a warm fire, and perhaps you will choose to help me properly bury these remains."
"Like hell, I will!" a voice cried out.
"You're a fool, Marst!" one of the men said, shoving the sneering man in the back. Marst staggered and growled, swinging his short sword half-heartedly at the man.
"Aye, Marst! Dermot's right!" said another. "You said that if we did this, we'd have enough loot to join the Knave!"
"Now we've nothing to show for our troubles!" said another, angrily. "Naught but the twice cursed bones of some poor fool."
Marst was looking around at the faces of his companions. The man's look of confusion and fear told the mage that he sought a friendly eye amongst them. He found none.
"We'll be stuck in this beshitted town for good now!" one man said and spat on Marst's boots. "And you're no longer welcome in our company!"
"Aye!" chimed in another. "There's no place for fools in our midst!"
There were grumbles and more spitting as the men began to disperse. Some cast fearful glances at the bones as they went, making religious gestures as they did so.
"Wait!" Marst shouted, his voice verging on panic. "There's yet more we can do!"
"Go back to your mother's teat, Marst!" the last man shouted as he trotted away. "Even if the Knave won't have us, we'll do better without a fool the likes of you!"
"There's money to be had right here!!" the would-be bandit leader shouted, but this time the shadowy figures of his men neither halted nor turned.
Marst's face went through a violent series of emotions as Kirnoth looked up from where he crouched beside the elf-boy's skeleton. Fear, hopelessness, and confusion all danced there briefly, but when he turned his eyes on the mage, it was anger that roiled in them.
"You!" he shouted. "You... dirty... dandelion-eater!! You've ruined EVERYTHING for me!"
He looked up and down the path frantically, his short sword hovering at his side.
"If I can't have the Silver King's hoard at least I can add your bones to this lot here!" he growled and raised the sword to strike.
"There is a curse on the bones!" Kirnoth cried out and Marst hesitated. "Anyone who interferes with their interment will be doomed to wander the earth aimlessly for all eternity!"
For a moment the unkempt human paused, considering. Then he shook his head.
"It's no matter!! You've doomed me to that already!" he wailed...
...and swung his blade.
The elf tried to dance out of the weapon's way. If Marst had been handier with his sword, he likely would have spilled Kirnoth's guts with it. As it was, the enraged man swung wild and missed by a wide margin.
Almost without thinking, Kirnoth spoke a few words, summoning manna from the Weave. He felt the warm, electric sizzle of energy travel through him, down his right arm and out through his fingertips. Eldritch fire briefly lit the forest as a magic missile launched itself unerringly from his hand and slammed into his opponent's chest.
Marst screamed and staggered backward, smoke rising from the hole that had been burned into his dirty furs. Unsteadily, he clutched at the wound with his free hand, looked at it and then glared at Kirnoth.
"You... dirty... dandelion-eater!!" he screamed. "You... filthy wizard!! You'll pay for that!!"
The mage's shoulders slumped. He'd hoped that the first bolt would finish off the bandit, or at least deter him from attacking. Instead, it seemed to have enraged him further. And channeling the manna necessary to power the spell had left the elf drained. He'd only be able to cast it again at great risk to himself.
Marst came at him again. His short sword was much slower now than it had been before. His intent to kill the mage, however, seemed unchanged.
Kirnoth had no choice. He repeated the incantation.
He could feel at once that the Weave wasn't responding as it should. Manna pulsed through him faster than he could channel it, pulling some of his own lifeforce along with it. And the glassy pain that it brought with it was quite unlike the pleasant tingle he normally felt.
He heard himself cry out a moment before blue-white light once again strobed in the forest and a second magic missile arced from his right hand. It was off the mark a bit, catching Marst in the left elbow. The effect was spectacular nonetheless.
The bandit let out a scream as the missile's impact spun him away. His short sword went tumbling, point over pommel, out of his hand, and he fell heavily on the path several feet away.
He didn't seem to be moving.
Kirnoth tried to feel relief, but he couldn't. As the Weave ceased its insistent throbbing and the burning wave of manna ebbed away, he could feel his own strength going with it. He'd tried to harness more power than he could control and the strain had taken its toll on his body. He fell to his knees on the frozen ground, no longer able to support his own weight. Groaning, he slumped against the trunk of the tree behind him.
He was lucky, really. Drawing too much from the Weave (so much that it drained away some of his own lifeforce - what his grandfather had called "biomana") was extremely risky. He knew that it could easily have left him in a coma or dead. He only felt weak and sore and hollow; all three of which were preferable to dead.
Absently, he realized that his fingers were beginning to ache from the cold, but his mittens lay several feet away beside the remains of the ghost child. To his exhausted eyes, it seemed to be a mile distant.
Kirnoth closed his eyes.
He was completely exhausted and he felt the pull of sleep tugging at his consciousness. It was an odd sensation - one that he was poorly-equipped to resist. It had been decades since he'd last felt the draw of slumber...
He knew that he'd likely lose his fingers to frostbite if he didn't get his gloves back on. He forced his heavy-lidded eyes open and searched the darkness for his mittens. They lay to his right on the path beside the bones of the elf-child.
He needed to bury the boy's remains as well. But first things first; he'd be of little use to the ghost if he froze to death on the path.
Groaning loudly, he heaved himself to his knees. The effort left him feeling more drained than before. The path seemed to swim before his eyes as his head spun sickeningly. He fell onto his side. His gloves were only a few feet away now, and stretching out his hand, he was able to grasp them.
He struggled into them and smiled. One task down, he mused. Now he had only to make sure that Marst was dead, bury the boy's bones, and build a fire so that he didn't freeze. That seemed like an awful lot, and he felt that he deserved a little rest before he attempted his next task.
He closed his eyes...
...and awoke to daylight.
He ached everywhere, he realized at once. But he didn't have to energy to groan. Or to open his eyes more than a sliver.
Despite that, he could see that he was in his room at the Old Raccoon. Light was streaming in through the small window on the far wall. He was lying in his bed, piled high with blankets. They kept him warm, but their weight made it impossible for him to move in his weakened state.
"You had me worried," Torrik said to his right. "Worried indeed."
Kirnoth managed to open his eyes a little further and turn his head enough to see the old man enter his room via the door that led to the landing.
"You've had a pretty rough time of it, my friend," Torrik said, standing solemnly at his bedside. "I regret now sending you up to face the King of Silverhill alone."
Kirnoth forced his leaden mouth to form the word: "How?"
"How did you get here? Trapper Falimath found you when he went to check his traps at dawn yesterday in Hriveblum Forest," Torrik said. "You were frozen half-to-death and unconscious. You've remained so for the past two days."
Kirnoth's shock evidently showed on his face, for Torrik added: "Aye, my friend, two days. As I've said, you've had a pretty rough time of it."
The storyteller moved over to the window and squinted out into the sunshine.
"May Rushlyn strike me mute for sending you up there with naught but my amulet to protect you," he said shaking his head. "Tell me, at least: was the tale of the Silver King accurate? Were you able to get me a memento of the King before he struck you down? Or was this all for nothing?"
Kirnoth dragged his tongue across his lips. It did little to wet them.
"Torrik," he managed to croak, "I thought... I thought I was dead for sure."
The storyteller turned from the window and frowned at the elf.
"You very nearly were," he said glumly. "Very nearly. Trapper Falimath said that he thought you were dead when he found you."
"Everything is a blur," Kirnoth was able to whisper hoarsely. He struggled vainly to wet his mouth. It tasted as though he'd been eating dust.
"I'm not a bit surprised," the man said. He went to the table beside the mage's bed and poured water from the pitcher there into a wooden flagon. "Not a bit."
He offered the water to Kirnoth and poured the tiniest bit into his mouth. It tasted like honey.
"The weather here is not to be trifled with, my friend," Torrik continued. "Coldeven has its teeth. Mayhap in Elfland that is not the case, but here..."
His voice trailed off and he shook his head.
"Here we know better than to strip off our shirts in the dead of Coldeven," he said with a tone of irritation and disbelief in his voice.
Kirnoth cleared his throat weakly and said, "What can you tell me about where I was found... and of the circumstances surrounding me?"
Torrik shrugged.
"Not much more than I've said already," he admitted. "Trapper Falimath told me that he found you lying on the path through Hriveblum that leads up to Silverhill."
"Perhaps if you can refresh my memory," Kirnoth prompted, "I will be able to give you the details you seek."
"There's little more refreshing that can be done, my friend," Torrik chuckled. "You've been unconscious for two days."
"Had I been unconscious long when I was found?" the elf asked, regaining some portion of his voice as he worked his tongue and lips.
"It's hard to say," Torrik replied. "Hard to say. Falimath found you a little before dawn yesterday. I sent you up to Silverhill on noon of the day before. If you could remember what occurred during the intervening time..."
Kirnoth shook his head. "Where was I when Trapper Falimath discovered me."
"He claims that he carried you a full hour out of the forest to Mirror Lake," Torrik told him. "He's generally a man to be believed. I don't think that he'd have the wit to lie."
The Storyteller offered some more water to Kirnoth.
"He did say that he very nearly left you lying where you were," he said. "If he hadn't recognized you from The Old Raccoon the night before, he likely would have. He said that there was a bundle of old bones nearby on the path. The bones of a child."
Torrik shuddered visibly at the thought. Kirnoth's eyes however lit up at the mention of the remains.
"Torrik, what happened to those bones?" he asked.
Torrik frowned.
"I don't know," he said. "Likely they're still lying in the forest."
Kirnoth worked his hand out from under the blankets and grabbed the storyteller's robe weakly.
"If you can get them and help me to bury them in the woods where I was found," he said, "I will give you the best story you will ever be able to tell."
The old man's face lit up at the prospect. Kirnoth's enthusiasm was, evidently, contagious. He smiled broadly, his voice lowered to a conspirator's whisper.
"You found something up there," he said. Then his voice raised and he added: "I KNEW it!"
He laughed merrily and gave the elf's hand a squeeze.
"You found the King's hoard didn't you?" he said. "You spoke with the Silver King, I just know it!"
Kirnoth shook his head. "Unfortunately, my friend," he said, "your help and my tale will come without a financial reward."
Torrik made a dismissive wave of his hand. "I told you before, I've no interest in monetary gain. All I ask is a small tangible memento. A single coin will do."
The old man spun away from the elf's bedside. His fingers waggled excitedly as he paced the room.
"You spoke with the King of Silverhill!" he muttered. "AMAZING!! Simply AMAZING!! Was he terrifying? He WAS, wasn't he?!"
Kirnoth nodded. "I would like to thank you sincerely for the use of your amulet," he said. "I dare say the very fact that we are now talking attests to its value."
"You count your own elven courage too lightly, my friend," Torrik replied. "The Amulet of Strongheart served me poorly when I tried to face the King. Still, perhaps it was of some small use, and for that I am glad."
He patted the mage's hand in a fatherly manner.
"Tell me, Kirnoth," he said, "what is the significance of these bones? Trapper Falimath said the bones were small, so they are not the bones of the Silver King."
Kirnoth felt his weariness like a physical weight on his chest.
"Please, Torrik," he sighed, "I said I could give you a story, and I will. But we must bury the bones first!"
"Quiet yourself, my friend," the old man said. "Quiet yourself. You're in no condition to go traipsing around in the woods just now. Tell me more of what happened on Silverhill. Did you find the King's treasure up there? What did the King say to you?"
"I saw no coins," the elf admitted. "However, I did indeed see the King. He died in that cave."
Torrik clenched his fist in excitement. "So that much of the legend, at least, is true!" he said triumphantly. "But you say that you saw no coins?"
"No," he replied. "His sword must still be inside. Possibly we could retrieve that sword. But the real treasure is in the story."
"Yes, my friend," the man said. "Of course. Of course. The tale means more to me than treasure ever could. I had hoped for some kind of tangible evidence... perhaps we COULD retrieve the King's sword..."
"Listen to me, Torrik," the elf interrupted, his patience wearing thin. "The bones are those of the King's son. And he must be given a proper burial. Help me to do this and you shall have the treasure you truly desire."
"The King's son?!" Torrik's eyes grew wide. "I'd never heard tale of a child. How thrilling!"
Torrik's mouth began working nervously.
"And Falimath left them lying on the path," he said at last. "Curse it all! Anything could have happened to them by now... Animals or..." He looked excitedly at Kirnoth and nodded his head. "I'll see if I can't muster up a younger back to go and fetch the bones. It's nearing sundown and I'm not up to such a task, I fear. It may cost a coin or two, but I'll do my best."
He paused by the door.
"You rest, my friend," he added with a smile. "I'll check in on you in the morning. We'll talk more about this Prince of Silverhill then."
The elf stared up at the ceiling and found that at last he had the energy to groan.
He hoped that he'd have the strength to fulfill his promise to the ghost-boy...