Fistandantilus Reborn - Douglas Niles [113]
Abruptly Foryth raised his head. His eyes bored into the dragon, and his thin body went rigid and taut in a way Danyal had never seen.
“For years I have strived to remain aloof, to let history weave its tales without my interference or my judgment.”
His tone hardened, and he shook a narrow fist in the air. Foryth’s eyes were wild, and his forehead was slick with sweat. “But this is too much!
Fate is too cruel, and I blame all you who would be the great shapers of history!”
The historian drew a firm breath and stood. “This one is innocent, and he has been wrongly used!”
Foryth Teel was shouting aloud now, in a voice that seemed powerful enough to overwhelm the volcanic tremors of the angry mountain.
“How dare you!” The historian’s voice was choked with passion, a whiplike force of anger lashing at the monstrous serpent.
Flayze merely uttered an amused snort in response.
At the same time, Danyal noticed a newcomer in the cave: an incongruous image of a slight, elderly man dressed in a robe of drab gray.
The stranger was standing nearby, clearly within the line of sight of the dragon, yet the serpent seemed not to be aware of his presence. And then, when Foryth Teel swept his gaze across the room, he, too, looked past the man without any sign that he was aware of the mysterious observer.
He is an observer! Danyal made the realization as the stranger raised his hands, revealing that he held a long scroll of parchment. With the scratching of a quill, he started to write, his eyes shifting smoothly from dragon to historian to bandit lord. Dan felt wonder at his own acceptance of the strange appearance; still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the man seemed to belong here.
Foryth Teel whirled, pointing an accusing finger at Kelryn Darewind.
“And you!”
It seemed to Danyal that all of Foryth’s self-control, his vaunted dispassion, had vanished under the onslaught of his rage. He raised his fists, then leaned back and shouted toward the ceiling arching so far overhead. “And all of you priests, and even the gods themselves! Paladine and Takhisis! I spit on your arrogance, your cruel manipulations. And Gilean, do you hear me? You are the worst of all!”
At that statement, the strange scribe turned with a start toward the priest. His eyes narrowed momentarily, and then he went back to observing the dragon.
“You strive for aloofness, dispassion, but how can you ignore the hurts?” the historian went on.
Fumbling in his pouch, Foryth Teel pulled out his Book of Learning, scornfully waving the tome in the air.
“All of you are corrupt. I condemn your immortal pretensions!”
Now the historian’s voice took on a slower, but still accusing, tone. “I see that it’s no use to simply watch. I have to do my part, to be a part of the story. And it matters who lives and who dies. People like this kender are more than just pawns. He deserves better than to have his life cast away in the middle of your contest!” Foryth choked the sound of a strangled sob, then straightened to stand tall. “I can’t make a difference; it’s a pity he didn’t have more powerful friends.”
Abruptly he hurled the book against the rock wall beside the alcove where they had found the skull. The pages stuck to the wall, and suddenly sparks crackled along the rock surface, a cascade of brightness that drew everyone’s unblinking attention. Even Flayze watched, yellow eyes hooded, long fangs partially bared.
And letters were written there on the cave wall, words of magic and power. Foryth slowly knelt and began to pray. His hands went to Emilo’s bleeding chest, and the magic and the healing flowed from his hands.
Danyal watched in astonishment as the gaping wound in the kender’s chest slowly knit. The blood ceased pulsing, and the heart, and then the ribs, swiftly vanished beneath clean, smooth skin. The scratching of the strange observer’s quill was, in the lad’s ears, an unnaturally loud sound.
Foryth looked up. “And now, my Lord of Neutrality,