"The horn? I am on my way to find its source."

"I heard it calling, and I had to do the same. But what do you think it is?"

Hammana came closer, and Ash was once again struck by her beauty and serene grace. Since childhood she had possessed that sense of self-assurance he found so refreshing and impressive. Perhaps because she was blessed with her unusual skill, she lacked the self-effacing shyness that characterized so many young Kagonesti women. Often Ashtaway had watched her in the village, and sometimes had even gone into the woods to spy on her as she wove nets by the marshy edge of the Bluelake. The few times they had walked that shoreline together were experiences burned indelibly into the young warrior's memory.

Now fate had drawn them both to this compelling sound, and this fact excited and disturbed him. Surely that was a portent of destiny-that the two of them were meant to be together. Only as these thoughts filtered through his mind did he remember her question.

"It-it sounds like the Ram's Horn, or a bigger version of it," he suggested. "I've heard my uncle play it many rimes."

"I, too," she reminded him. 'Though this did not sound like the signal of our Pathfinder."

They fell into step side by side, jogging along quickly- though not so fast that they couldn't converse. "Where were you when you heard it?" he asked.

"At the lake shore," she said. "There were fishers there, too, but none of them noticed the sound-I asked them."

"Only you… and me," he said, his tone serious, the significance of the fact not lost on either of them.

She started to ask something and then, as they came around another bend in the trail, halted with a gasp of breath.

Ashtaway protectively took another step before he, too, ceased moving. The woods opened into a wide clearing, н-ith a cliff of black rock rising steeply beyond. He could only stare in awe at the creature that lay, coiled, in the center of the open space.

Silver scales rippled in the sun, though in many places the argent surface was broken by cruel cuts and ugly, bleeding gashes. One leathery wing, also silver, was half- spread onto the grass, while the other was twisted awkwardly at the great creature's side. The serpentine neck curled through a full circle, and the broad snout was turned to face them-though both silver eyelids remained dose.

The dragon was big-larger than the two reds Ashtaway had seen before-but terribly rended by battle. At first the elf thought it was dead, until he noticed the slow, rhythmic pulsing of one wounded flank.

Look!" Hammana whispered, her voice taut-but with excitement, not fear. "There, held in the forepaw."

Carefully Ashtaway stepped forward, looking down to get a clear look at the object held by the dragon.

"It's the Ram's Horn!" he replied. "Or one very much like it."

"Yes-but it's not the tribe's horn. Look, it curls in the opposite direction… as if it came from the same ram, but from the other side of its head!"

They looked at each other, awestruck. The legend of the second Ram's Horn was a part of Kagonesti lore, familiar to them both. At the time Darlantan bestowed the powerful talisman upon Father Kagonesti, he had claimed that the second horn would be held by the silver dragons, a symbol of the bond between wild elf and those mighty serpents. Yet it had never been heard in the dozens of centuries since, so the Kagonesti had come to view the story as a mystical legend.

"The second Ram's Horn. The tales are true," Hammana breathed, taking Ash's hand as she stepped to his side. He welcomed the touch, feeling this as a moment of wonder, not danger. "Is it dead?"

"Not yet, thank you." The words rumbled from the great mouth, though the jaws barely moved. With a grunt of effort, the silver dragon lifted its huge head from the ground and blinked with a pair of luminous yellow eyes.

Hammana rushed forward, kneeling before the great head as Ashtaway stepped more deliberately behind. "You called us, and we have come! How can we help you?" she asked, gently placing her hands to either side of the mighty jaws.

"Who are you?" asked the Kagonesti warrior, squatting before the silver dragon's head.

"I am called Lectral among my people, and it would please me to be called that by you as well." The dragon dipped his head, formally polite. "And you are of the wild elves?"

"I'm Hammana, and this is Ashtaway, a mighty warrior!"

"A mighty warrior of the Kagonesti. I am indeed honored."

"My friend is overly kind," Ashtaway declared, shaking his head in embarrassment. "1 have only recently spi- raled my tatoos, and my prowess is far from legendary." In fact, while Ash had accompanied war parties against humans and House Elves, his only kills had occurred in a few fights against the scaly, lizardlike bakali-evil creatures that sometimes penetrated the Kagonesti woodlands and were slaughtered by the wild elves whenever they were encountered. While he had fought well, there were many other braves in the tribe who had earned higher battle honors.

"Perhaps not legendary yet, but you will be." The dragon said this with a shrug, as if it were a statement of fact, not conjecture. Ashtaway felt a shiver of apprehension tinged with profound wonder.

"Who hurt you?" the warrior asked protectively, as if he himself was ready to avenge the attack.

"Four red dragons fell upon me, just two days since. I killed two, but I'm afraid the other two got the best of the fight. They must have been in something of a hurry, though-they left me wounded, when they could have finished the job."

"Are you badly hurt? The cuts look deep," Hammana observed.

"It will be long before I fly again." The dragon wriggled his mangled right wing, but the leathery membrane barely twitched weakly. "And some of these bites, I fear, may begin to fester."

"Hammana is a healer of much skill," the warrior said hurriedly. He turned to the woman. "Can you help him?"

"I need mud, for poultices-and bring me strands from the inner bark of young pines. I saw some mushrooms beside the trail that I'll fetch, and I think I noticed the smell of lilyweal. I'll gather some of that as well."

Leaving the dragon, who seemed not the least bit concerned by his grievous wounds, the pair scoured the woods for a time, gathering the items Hammana needed. While he searched, Ash located a deep, dry cave in the base of the sheer obsidian cliff. He returned to Lectral, who was intrigued by this suggestion of shelter and limped after the warrior to the foot of the black stone wall.

"This will do quite nicely/' the silver dragon admitted.

Hammana, bearing an armful of herbs, roots, and tubers, found them at the cave. Ash built a small fire-for roasting some of the herbs-while the woman began applying poultices of mud and leaves to the worst of the dragon's hurts.

"That feels much better," Lectral allowed, stretching his neck around to let her swab a wound in his shoulder. "Now, if only you had a deer, perhaps, or a wild pig?"

Ashtaway shook his head, shameful. "This has been a hard time for hunting. 1 had stalked for three days when I heard your horn, and had not even seen the spoor of game."

"It is the war," Lectral said with a shrug. "With dragons in the air, the forest creatures must resort to extreme caution-those who survive, that is."

"Aye. And the dragons fly closer than ever," Ash noted. He described the encounter he had witnessed, carefully relating every detail of the red dragon attack and the heroic defense of the knights. "You told me of battling four, killing two. Perhaps they were the survivors." Lectral listened in silence until the tale was fully told.

"This is both bad and good," the great silver serpent declared sagely when Ash had concluded.

"I understand the bad-but how can it be good as well?" wondered the Kagonesti.