The Ancient City of Purstal, 11sc
For days Gilthanas walked across the dry wastes. Each morning he awakened to the same vista: flat,
brown land stretching to the far horizons. And each day he wondered if he might not have been smarter to stay
in the city and wait—the gods only knew how long—for some ship that might carry him all the way to
Qualinesti.
But he had also learned things, disturbing things, about developments in his homeland. Most significantly,
the Knights of Takhisis, dark warriors who served the five-headed queen of Evil dragonkind, had conquered
the elven realm during the Summer of Chaos. The elven Speaker, the prince's nephew Gilthas, was serving as
a puppet on the throne, manipulated by his Dark Knight masters. Waiting for a ship had become too
aggravating when the memories and fears about his homeland had so filled his thoughts, and so he had set
out on foot.
At least he had begun to banish the memories of Silvara and convince himself that his life must run its
course without her. Somehow he believed that when he reached his homeland, everything would make sense
and his life would have fulfillment and purpose. At night, sometimes, this hope seemed translucent and
intangible, but with the coming of dawn he once again seized it like the bottom rung of a solid ladder.
He knew little of the lands he passed through, but with his vigor and strength regained and the protection
offered by a cheap iron sword he had purchased for the wages of a week's hard labor, he felt capable of
overcoming any obstacle fate might lay in his path. In the city he had learned that he could walk to the Torath
River and follow that watercourse until it eventually reached Elial. There, he would strike out along the
Duntollik Run and continue west until he made it to Qualinesti. He had been warned about dragons and bizarre
creatures of chaos that might lie along the way, which would destroy him if he was so much as noticed.
The elf had reached the riverbank some ten daysago, now, and had failed to see any sign of a
rivercraft—or any kind of habitation or village. He found the river clean enough to refresh his water supply
every day, and sometimes he caught fish. Though there were dumps of brush along these waterways— the
only vegetation other than grass he encountered here—he endured the chill of the near arctic clime rather than
risk a fire. His supply of elven hardbread was sufficient for more than a month of travel, so he didn't particularly
worry when, most days, that was the only food he could provide for himself.
As to hideous creatures waiting to prey upon him, he saw no sign. True, he occasionally heard rumbles of
supernatural storms beyond the horizon to the south or west, but he maintained his vigilance and never
observed any immediate threat. If a dragon appeared, the elf had a simple plan: He would lie down on the dry
ground and cover himself with as much dusty dirt as he could quickly gather. Then he would simply wait, eyes
on the sky, confident that the serpent would never notice him—even should it fly directly overhead.
It was on the eleventh day after he had reached the river that he first noticed an irregularity in the horizon.
The river had grown to a wide, sluggish expanse to his left. The sun was beginning to set, reflecting off the
broad flowage when before him he observed a series of shapes scattered across the flat ground. They stood
perhaps a mile away from the water, and as he walked closer he got the unmistakable impression that these
were ruins. That was a wall, here before him, and beyond he saw the tattered remnants of great stone houses
surrounded by tangles of bramble.
Below his feet the dust had scattered away from some patches of ground to reveal smooth, interlocking
paving stones—a wide avenue leading from a crumbled gate, between the buildings. A stone basin, cracked
and dry, indicated where a splendid fountain or wading pool must once have gathered cool waters. A gust of
wind carried dry powder through the air, stinging his eyes and irritating his nostrils.
Before him rose the greatest edifice in this ancient city of the dead. Surely it must once have been a
palace—the gaunt outline of an ancient doorway gaped like a hungry mouth in the broken facade of a wall. His
eyes widened with wonder as he slowly climbed the marble stairs leading to the doorway. The roof had long
since collapsed, but within, outlined by fading sunlight, Gilthanas saw the remnants of corridors and columns,
and of a sweeping expanse that might have been a throne room or a chamber suitable for hosting a great ball.
He passed beneath the still-intact arch of the doorway and kicked through the rubble on the floor. These
were mostly loose tiles of slate, obviously scattered here when the roof had caved in. He crossed the hallway
and passed into the entryway of the great room.
Something scuttled through the shadows at the base of the wall beside him, a little shape scurrying through
the hall. Reflexively he placed his hand on his sword, even as he heard more noises to the rear. Gilthanas
spun, but he saw nothing save thickening shadows as the sun continued its relentless descent.
He passed into the great room and saw that columns had once stood around the entire periphery of the
place. Now many of these had fallen, but enough remained—some splintered at knee or head height, others
rising more than a dozen feet toward a vanished ceiling—to provide a glimpse into the splendor of the past. He
advanced across a floor of mosaic tiles and was vaguely surprised to see the colored stone at his feet. With a
sense of eeriness he realized that something, or somebody, had cleaned off this surface, tending it with more
care than anyplace else in these ruins.
Once again saw movement in the corner of his vision and he turned, the heavy iron blade drawn from its
sheath and waving in the cool air.
"Who's there?" he asked.
"Just us."
The reply came from behind and he spun about again, then burst out laughing at the sight o the short,
pudgy, and unkempt figure regarding him from a dozen paces away.
That fellow immediately twisted to look anxiously over his own shoulder, then turned back to glare at
Gilthanas. "What so funny?" he demanded.
"Just... nothing," replied the elf, mastering his amusement to render a deep and acceptably formal bow. "It
is a pleasure to meet you ... one of the Aghar, I am assuming."
The gully dwarf's chest puffed out nearly as far as his bulging belly. "And yes so it is to I myself... I am ass ...
ass ... ass-you-ming," he parroted, insofar as he could remember what Gilthanas had said.
"I am Gilthanas of Qualinesti," said the wanderer, still maintaining the air of dignity.
"Me too!" cried the gully dwarf. "That is, me got name too ..." If the little creature remembered his cognomen,
he apparently had no desire to share it.
"Is this your city?" inquired the elf.
"Me . . . my clan . . . we build this place!" boasted the other.
"I see." Gilthanas forced himself to keep a straight face. The Aghar, after all, were known across Krynn as
the ultimate scavengers, moving into any dwelling or ruin that had become viewed as uninhabitable by its
original owners. "And what is the name of your great metropolis?"
"This Purstal... Great Capital of the Aghar. This is, and Elial is too! That our other great capital, many days
that way from here." He pointed in a vaguely northwestern direction.
Gilthanas was suddenly struck by a sense of melancholy. He wondered about the folk, humans most likely,
who had built these once-splendid edifices. What had happened to them, that they left their cities to fall into
ruin and be claimed by the lowest of the low. Would this happen to Qualinesti one day? The pang of
homesickness grew, quickened by a more urgent question: Was it happening already?
"I... I have to go," he said, suddenly wanting to be out of this place, to be on the way to his homeland.
At that moment another gust of wind snaked between the ruined walls and more dust wafted past
Gilthanas's face. He felt that irritation in his nose and then, before he knew what was happening, he exploded
with a convulsive sneeze.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, shaking his head to clear the water from his eyes. He noticed with some surprise
that the gully dwarf was staring up at him with an expression bordering on awe.
"It... it is you. The Sneezer has come!" proclaimed the Aghar. He shouted, waving his hands, dancing a
shambling jig around the stunned Gilthanas. "The Sneezer comes! The Sneezer comes!"
"I don't understand," the elf tried to interject, beginning to worry. "And I really have to move—"
"But wait... you sleep here, sleep good. My tribe cook you one really fine feast tonight! We wait alla time for
the Sneezer ... now you come, now you get big party! And then you sleep ... and we give you stuff, gifts we
make for you. Only then you be on your way!"
"I don't think...." Gilthanas's voice trailed off. He was mystified, but admittedly intrigued.
"Where you go in such hurry, anyplace? I mean, 'anyway?'" demanded the rotund dwarf, glowering
suspiciously. "You not like our stuff?"
"No, it's just that...." For a moment Gilthanas felt his thoughts run away with him. He remembered a dragon
of silver, supple, curves and a graceful neck. She was an elf maid, and his beloved, and at that instant his
longing for her was an emotion more powerful than he thought he could survive. But he shook his head—she
was gone, and he had his life before him. "I'm going home," he said quietly, almost sadly.
"Well, go home—but not before you have our feast, take our stuff. You da Sneezer, right? We been waitin'
for you. Now you come, see our stuff!"
Gilthanas didn't have the strength to resist.