After some time there was a great deal of noise:
benches falling, bodies bumping or, more likely, striking the inn floor, a crowd gasping as a flare of blue light illuminated the night even through the stained glass of the inn's windows. A quavery old voice cried, "Call the guards! Arrest the kender! Arrest the barbarians! Arrest their friends!" The rest was lost in confusion. Someone ran down the long stairway, shouting for the guards and panting.
The dagger waited, but Flint and the others did not appear. It heard a thump and muttering from under the kitchen of the inn, and then a ruckus nearby, but the dagger could not imagine anything so devious as a trapdoor.
Shortly, there was the sound of heavy, clumsy feet running. Armored goblins ran up the stairs and then back down; they dispersed. A pair of feet stopped in front of the dagger. "What's this?"
A voice as harsh said, "Somebody dropped an old knife. So what?"
The first voice chuckled. "You got no imagination, Grum." A homy hand lifted the dagger. "Nice piece." The dagger, after being flipped over twice, found itself tucked inside ill-fitting body armor.
The goblin's body was rank, but it was flesh. Thedagger, still too weak to attack, lay hungrily beside the fat laden rib cage, waiting.
It did not wait long. There was the sound of a door creaking open and of goblin voices. "The Seekers demand right of entry."
The second voice: "This place is empty. Let's move on."
"You got no imagination, Grum. Here's our chance to pick up a few pieces of silver."
Another light flared, seeping around the armor cracks. Both goblins screamed, and suddenly their bodies seemed to leap together, then collapse. From the floor, the dagger heard a muffled voice, then a deeper one say, "I'm afraid so. I hit them too hard."
After more muffled talk, the light died and there was the sound of feet running to and fro, furniture overturning, and finally silence. The dagger waited as long as it could bear, but even indoors the goblin's corpse was cooling.
With its talons stretched as far as they would go, it slid itself bit by bit under the body's ribs, into the goblin's black heart. This time it drank consciously, thirstily; each drop brought new awareness.
First came a greater sense of smell — no advantage just now, but a world of sensation. The ruby eyes glowed dimly, then grew brighter. Finally the entire dagger rippled with new life and knowledge.
"I am not a dagger," it thought. "She spoke the truth. I am a feeder."
Crawling out from under the body was easier, but a greater surprise waited as the feeder scuttled to the door. As it stumbled on the sill, its wings began to unfurl from the hilt, beating once, then lifting the creature off the wood.
The dagger flew tentatively back to the goblin body and dropped onto the neck with its full weight. After a moment it withdrew and flew strongly into the night, scanning and smelling for the dwarf, Flint, its owner, and — the kender, wasn't it? — its user.
The night was full of hurrying bodies; the feeder could smell their warmth, and its appetite was growing. Though it did not know why, the feeder knew it urgently needed blood, and afterward there was something it must do, something important. As it circled between the village and the lakeshore, suddenly a very old, familiar scent came to it: the smell of ownership. It flapped strongly toward the source.
But when the feeder reached the source, it wasn't the dwarf or the kender after all.
Parris the trader shouldered his duffel wearily, brooding over a bad night. First he had been abused and robbed by goblin guards. When he finally came to the inn, it was in chaos — something about a dwarf, a mixed-race company, and magic had the place upset. Then he was told to leave; the goblin guards had closed the inn to strangers. Solace had never been good luck for him; years ago he'd made a very bad bargain with a sharp-eyed dwarf here.
He rambled toward the lake, looking for a sheltered spot to spend the night. Suddenly, silhouetted against the water, he saw a strange group: slender man or elf, barbarian, knight, more humans, kender, dwarf. The dwarf was closest, hanging back from the water.
He squinted at the figure, who was arguing about a boat. The gruff voice was familiar; he squinted, trying to think where he had heard it before. He could almost hear it again, wheedling, grunting, bargaining over a dagger…
"By all the gods the Theocrats sell," he breathed. "It's himself. It's Flint. What's he doing here, and that crew he's got with him?"
In a quick mental leap, he connected the grumpy dwarf and his party to the incident that had closed the Inn of the Last Home, and realized that the goblins were looking for Flint.
Parris smiled, not nicely. Surely he could talk Dragon Highlord Fewmaster Toede into giving him some reward. Solace might bring him luck after all.
Parris stretched his skinny neck, opening his mouth to call to the hobgoblin guards.
But something hit the back of his neck with an audible thud. A second mouth opened in Parris's neck, just below his chin. As it widened, a pointed silver tongue protruded from it. It looked as though the second mouth were screaming.
Above it, the real mouth was screaming. No sound came out. Parris dropped to his knees, then sprawled forward in the road. He just had time to grab at the back of his neck and feel a strangely carved hilt he thought he recognized…
Hotter, thinner blood than the goblin's burst over the blade and was absorbed. The ruby eyes burned brighter, and the feeder thought suddenly, clearly, "I know why I must do this. I am more than a feeder. I'm a mother."
And it remembered: the long-ago mating flight, once for a lifetime; the search for food, and for hosts;
the red-filled nights of circling, seeking, diving into a host body, drinking deep, and laying its young in the corpse. It remembered, dimly, its own long weeks in rotting flesh, eating and absorbing, growing until one day it and its brothers and sisters crawled out of the hollowed body and into the night, looking for fresher and more lively food. There had been many brothers and sisters…
The feeder felt a rush of warmth from hilt to blade. There would be many again. It was time to seek a host. Soon the race of feeders would darken the sky.
Suddenly from the shoreline came cries and the twang of bows. The feeder rose, its eyes blood-bright, and flew straight for the noise, gaining height for another dive.
On the shore were goblins, shouting and shooting arrows. The feeder ignored them, moving over the boat and its occupants. The kender, crouched at the oars, was too well covered by the others, and Flint was struggling in the water. The feeder hovered, waiting for a sure target.
"That does it!" The large one, the deep voice the feeder had heard before, pulled the dwarf halfway into the boat. Flint hung onto a seat, but his lower half was sticking out over the edge of the boat, unprotected.
A vague memory surfaced in the feeder: inside the biped's legs was a large, rich artery that could empty a body in moments. The feeder, not hesitating as a human might have for an enemy in such a vulnerable position, zeroed in, plummeted, blade flashing in the starlight.
At the last moment the one dressed as a knight grabbed the dwarf by the belt and dragged him aboard as the boat rocked wildly. The feeder, unable to stop, imbedded itself firmly in the seat of the vessel.
The one with the deep voice noticed the feeder, stuck and helpless. He grunted with surprise, then pulled it free. Before the feeder could move, the stranger had slid it into a thonged leather sheath, firmly binding the thongs around cross-piece, pommel, and hilt. He did it one-handed, as though from long practice; his other hand was embracing a cloaked man with strange, hourglass eyes. That one, who had been casting a spell as the feeder dove in, pulled away.
The feeder could see, bound as it was, that the one with the hourglass eyes was looking at it. The feeder struggled against its bonds, in vain. A skinny finger poked at the feeder, traced its outline in the sheath. The cloaked man made a small surprised noise in his throat, and coughed rackingly.
A moment before, this man had been casting spells, strenuous ones from the look of him; now, although he was exhausted, his eyes were lit with recognition. The feeder tensed. Any moment, the mage would tell the others…
Just then there was a gasp of alarm from the only woman in the boat; the feeder heard her but could not see her. The big man, who now owned the dagger, poked the mage. "Raist, what is it? I don't see anything."
The mage stood up, out of the feeder's line of sight. A moment later he said, stricken, "Tanis… the constellations
.."
The musical voice said, "What? What about the constellations?" So that was Tanis, the feeder noted. The one who had shaken the feeder awake.
"Gone." The mage was racked with coughs, spasm after spasm shaking the boat slightly. The feeder relaxed; for whatever reason, the mage had forgotten about it for the present.
Then Raistlin said shakily, "The constellation known as the Queen of Darkness and the one called Valiant Warrior. Both gone. She has come to Krynn, Tanis, and he has come to fight her. All the evil rumors we have heard are true. War, death, destruction…"
The mage and the others said more, but the feeder did not hear. "The Queen of Darkness," it thought with certainty. "The voice I heard. The Lady who ordered me."
Then it thought as certainly, "These are the ones she bade me kill."
For now, however, there was nothing to be done until the boat reached shore and the company found shelter. All but those on watch slept. The feeder nestled patiently in its thong-bound sheath, dreaming of the blood and of its children while it waited for release.
Ill
The mage said nothing about the feeder, having forgotten it among more important things. In the mom-ing the company of beings journeyed again through woods to a road. On the way they called each other by name, and the feeder linked names and voices: River-wind, Goldmoon, Tasslehoff or Tas, Raistlin, Caramon, Sturm, Tanis, Flint. The way before them was hard, and the feeder smelled their sweat and, beneath it, their blood.
The feeder grew impatient, then frantic. Sometime in the night it felt the first movements of its brood, growing and dividing. By mid-day the feeder was flushed with new life from point to cross-piece, and the tiny bodies were expanding even into the hilt. It had fed well, and this would be a large brood — if it found a host in time.
Squirming uncomfortably against the thongs, the feeder discovered new urgency, the reward of feeding and the necessity of birthing. Its jaws on the snake's-head pommel were separating from each other, and it could feel its fangs growing, filling with venom.
Nature had provided well; once sated on dead flesh, its children could kill any being on Krynn. The feeder struggled helplessly, unable to control its need for birthing.
After some time on the road, Caramon ran suddenly and crouched in the brush. Tanis came and whispered to him. "Clerics!"
Caramon snorted and repeated the word, but brushed the feeder once with his hand. The feeder went rigid, willing with all its mind that Caramon would draw his dagger. There was a faint, wonderful scent in the air.
Several people on the road spoke. The feeder listened intently to the strange yet familiar voices of the clerics, but was distracted: Caramon was undoing the thongs that bound the feeder in the sheath. The feeder twisted its pommel-head around, trying to find free flesh to bite, but the man's chain mail left no gaps.
Still, sooner or later he would take the feeder in hand.
Tanis cried, "Caramon! Sturm! It's a tra —»
Faster than the feeder could react, Caramon whipped the dagger into his left hand and held it at guard, facing the clerics. The feeder opened its mouth wide, aiming its fangs at the underside of his thumb where the vein would be.
A cleric jumped forward and Caramon slashed him, leaving behind a sickly green stain on the cleric's robe following the line of the cut. There was a violent smell, and Caramon gasped.
The feeder rolled helplessly in Caramon's hand, overwhelmed and on fire with the taste. It was ecstasy. It was the blood of life. It was — the feeder trembled — it was like its own blood. The many children inside the feeder struggled, aroused by the taste.
Preparing a spell, Raistlin called out, "Don't stab them! They'll turn to stone!" Caramon dropped his sword and the dagger.
The feeder, dizzy with the strange green blood so like its own, lay on the ground, its mouth opening and closing. Dimly, it saw clawed hands and reptilian faces. Before the dagger could collect itself, the big man picked it back up and threw it at the clerics. The feeder braced for the rush of green blood.
It heard the warning in its mind again: "Don't stab them. They'll turn to stone." The children would die in stone. At the last moment, it flipped a wing and wavered past the clerics — draconians. They were draconians. The dagger opened its wings and soared up, fast as a hawk, circling for prey. It would never be more alive, more desperate and deadly, than it was now.
Tanis was on the road. He was no user, no owner, but he had blood and a body for children, and the Queen would want him dead. The dagger circled once and dove straight down, its whole body humming with the force of the dive.
Flames from Raistlin's spell flared out. Tanis flung himself to the ground.
The feeder slammed into a boulder beyond Tanis and gave a sharp, angry cry. Tiny flames came from its mouth. In all the confusion, Tanis saw and heard nothing.
The feeder shook its head, then peered left and right. Tanis had run on. The feeder spread its wings, rose, and circled, trying to pick out its prey in all the confusion. The clerics were distracting it.
Flint and Tasslehoff, each standing over Sturm, were open and exposed; the dwarfs attention was riveted by an oncoming draconian. The feeder raised itself up, folded its wings, and stooped toward the dwarf, who had his eyes on the sword-swinging, manlike creature.
The draconian's wicked, curved sword lashed out in a flashing arc, aimed for the dwarfs neck. Flint swung his axe, but at that moment Tasslehoff, his eyes on Sturm's sword, rose to his feet. The kender's hoopak staff struck the dwarf in the back of the knees, causing Flint's legs to buckle beneath him. The draconian's sword whistled harmlessly overhead as the dwarf gave a startled yell and fell over backward on top of Sturm.
The feeder shot helplessly past with the sword swing, moving too quickly for sight. By the time it stopped, it was even with Tanis, who had caught up with Riverwind and Goldmoon. Hissing with frustration, it beat its wings swiftly and aimed at Tanis's heart.
Tanis leaped toward the draconians and smote one of the creatures from behind, using the flat of his sword, then made a backhand swing at another.
The feeder missed Tanis's heart but caught in his clothes. Its red eyes glowed brighter as it twisted its head sideways and back, ready to expose its fangs and sink them into Tanis's side.
As Riverwind, low on arrows and lacking a sword, bounded toward Tanis, the half-elf's hand brushed the smooth back of the feeder's head.
Tanis let his enemies get past him, fending off the creatures with the flat of his sword. "Here, take this dagger!" he shouted to Riverwind. Riverwind grabbed it.
Pulled from Tanis's waist just prior to its final deadly thrust, the feeder strained to reach Riverwind's intruding hand. The fangs were out; the Plainsman's thumb was in reach. After all, now Riverwind had possession…
.. He reversed it and struck one of the creatures on the
jaw…
Too greedily, the feeder sank its teeth into the draconian flesh. The taste was tangy, yet frighteningly familiar; there was a bond here. The feeder's body struck against a neck ornament on a thong, a silver copy of its own head.
The draconian jerked forward in a poison-induced spasm, and the feeder's fangs sank deeper. Even in the frenzy of feeding, it thought calmly; there was plenty of time to withdraw its fangs and pull back before the draconian turned to stone…
.. Jabbing upward with the hilt, Riverwind broke its
neck.
The Plainsman grunted with the effort as the draconian gasped and died. The feeder, trapped by its own bite, spasmed in Riverwind's hand. Startled, the Plainsman dropped it. The stone draconian fell forward heavily, shattering the blade of the feeder. Tiny replicant daggers the size and softness of earwigs flopped on the ground, dying before birth.
The Queen's voice sighed across the broken feeder, all but freezing it.
YOU HAVE FAILED, she said indifferently, BUT I SHALL NOT, AND IF I NEED THESE LIVES, I CAN TAKE THEM ELSEWHERE. DIE, THEN. The voice was still, and the feeder knew it would hear no more from her.
Even so, the light in the pommel's eyes lasted some time.