Dragons- Worlds Afire

by R. A. Salvatore

  Tas started to edge his way toward the exit once more.

  “Wait!” The dragon shifted his paw, blocking Tas’s escape route. He peered intently at the corpses. “These knights have been dead a long time. So has the wizard. A long, long time.”

  Tas looked at one of the corpses holding a sword in its bony hand and was forced to concede that the dragon had a point. The dragon’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, he was starting to grow suspicious.

  “Undead!” exclaimed Tas, inspired. “Skeletal warriors. Led by a skeletal wizard. It was a desperate battle against the forces of the evil god of Undeath, Chemosh, but we were victorious.”

  Tas mopped his brow with his shirt sleeve. All this thinking was starting to wear on him.

  “You can see where you blasted the undead with your lightning breath,” Tas pointed out, indicating scorch marks on the floor and walls. “And here’s where you back-stabbed a knight. He never knew what hit him.”

  “But what would undead want with treasure?” the dragon asked.

  Tas was beginning to believe being eaten would be less trouble. “Look, George, I wasn’t going to tell you this. I didn’t want to worry you. But, the truth is, the undead were sent to assassinate us. We have a rival—Ragar the Ugly.”

  Admittedly the name didn’t sound all that impressive, but Tas was fast running out of inspiration.

  “Ragar sent these undead to finish us off.”

  “Where is this Ragar the Ugly?” the dragon demanded grimly. “We should deal with him.”

  “He’s back in his hideout—Castle Ugly. It’s a really long way from here and, frankly, you’re not up to it, George. Really, you’re not. I’m going to go out to get a soothing poultice for you to put on your head. Doesn’t that sound nice? Tomorrow we’ll deal with Ragar.”

  “Soothing poultice,” the dragon reflected. “Yes, that does sound good. Something cooling.”

  “You just lie down and rest a bit. Take it easy. There’s a city not far from here. I’ll just pop into the apothecary, borrow… er… steal a poultice, and be right back.”

  “I think I will rest,” said the dragon and he brushed aside a skeleton or two to clear a space. “Don’t be gone long… Er, forgive me, friend, but what is your name?”

  “Igor,” said Tasslehoff, another of his favorite names. “Igor the Merciless.” He was actually quite pleased by his new name.

  “Don’t be gone long, Igor,” said the dragon, and he closed his eyes and winced as he gingerly laid his massive head down on the treasure pile.

  Tas darted over to his lantern, picked it up, and glanced back at the dragon. The creature did truly have a very nasty swelling, about the size of a house, on its head. The dragon gave a groan and burrowed down more comfortably into the treasure.

  Tas waited no longer. He dashed out of the chamber and into the corridor and never stopped until he was standing, puffing, by one of the signs that said HERE BE DRAGONS.

  “A truer word was never spoken,” said Tasslehoff, and he gave the sign a pat.

  Being a little weary from all that hard thinking, he decided that what he really needed was a good sleep in a good bed in a good inn. He made his way beneath the starlit sky—he guessed it must be about the middle of the night—and walked back to the town of Pigeon Falls.

  As good fortune would have it, he came across a small gate in the wall that he’d missed the first time around. The gate led out to the path that went to the river. His lock pick tools were never far from hand and Tasslehoff had the small gate open in seconds.

  He found an inn that looked nice, went around back, jimmied open a window and let himself in (so as not wake up the owner).

  Once inside, he absent-mindedly pocketed several pieces of cutlery that were lying about on a table, rummaged around in a few drawers, went through the belongings of the slumbering guests, and slipped a few interesting items into his pouches. Then, yawning, he found a bed that wasn’t being used, tucked himself in, said his prayers, and closed his eyes.

  “I’d make a really great thief,” Igor the Merciless reflected as he was drifting off. “It’s a good thing for society that I’m a hero.”

  The next thing Tasslehoff knew, a noise as of a ton of bricks falling down, accompanied by a terrified scream, hoisted him right out of his bed. The tumbling bricks and the scream were followed by a lot more screams and, added to that, came shouts and bellowings, the ringing of bells and blowing of horns and beating of drums.

  “It can’t be a parade,” said Tas groggily. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  The inhabitants of the inn were running about in their night clothes, peering out the window and demanding to know what in the Abyss was going on.

  “Dragon!” someone yelled from outside. Torch lights flared. “A blue dragon is attacking the city!”

  “Oops,” said Tasslehoff Burrfoot.

  Of course, it could be some other blue dragon who just happened to be wandering by, but he had the sinking feeling it wasn’t. One of the guests, a mercenary warrior, was raving that he couldn’t find his sword. It had been right on the floor beside him as he lay sleeping and now it was gone.

  “Here it is,” said Tasslehoff, handing it over. “You dropped it.”

  The warrior glared at him, snatched up his sword—never saying thank you—and raced out of the inn. The other guests decided to remain inside the inn, mostly crawling under the beds and heavy articles of furniture. The owner, dashing off to the wine cellar to make certain the dragon didn’t get into the best wine, caught a glimpse of Tas, skidded to a halt, and came dashing back.

  “What is a filth of a kender doing in my inn?” the owner roared. “What is a filth of a kender doing in my city?”

  Outside, Tasslehoff could hear the shouts and the screams and bellowings growing louder and, over that, the call to arms.

  Tasslehoff drew himself up straight and tall. He fixed the inn’s owner with a steely eye. “I’m dealing with the dragon,” he said.

  And he walked resolutely and courageously out into the street.

  Sure enough, there was George. The dragon’s blue scales showed up quite well in the light of hundreds of torches. The dragon’s legs squashed flat one section of the town wall. His front claw thrust clear through a wall on the second floor of a large house, smashing woodwork and plaster and glass. His tail knocked over a guard tower, so that the tower hung at a precarious angle, with the guards jumping for their lives.

  Roused by the alarm, the citizens of Pigeon Falls were armed for battle with weapons of all varieties, from swords to pitchforks to rolling pins. Fortunately, battle had not yet been joined. Although the captain of the town militia was exhorting his men to charge, most were overcome by dragonfear and were hiding behind buildings, clutching their weapons in shaking hands, and staring open-mouthed and white-faced at the dragon.

  The dragon, meanwhile, had just managed to extricate his claw from the second story of the house—bringing down the roof as he did so—and was staring about in growing rage.

  Tasslehoff Burrfoot heaved a sigh. He shoved and wriggled his way through the terror-stricken crowd and came to stand alone in the middle of the town square.

  The crowd went “oooh” and “aaah,” and the people fell all over themselves backing up to give the kender more room. Someone did mutter, “How did a kender get into town?” but several voices shushed him.

  The dragon looked down accusingly at Tasslehoff.

  “You didn’t come back.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tas meekly. “I fell asleep. It was a tiring battle. All those skeletal warriors… and all.”

  He wasn’t feeling very chipper. It was obvious that the dragon had recovered somewhat and was having second, third, and probably fourth thoughts about Tasslehoff’s story. There is no telling what would have happened if, at that moment, some fool hadn’t fired off one of the catapults. A largish rock sailed through the air and hit the dragon smack in the middle of its forehead.

  The dragon reeled
and, in that moment, remembered everything.

  Thunderbolt (the dragon’s real name) remembered the knights (who had been quite alive at the time) and that blasted white robed wizard invading his snug cave. He recalled the battle and how he’d breathed his deadly lightning breath on the knights and picked them up in his jaws and flung them back to the ground. He recalled gobs of blood and the sweet screams of the dying and the lovely sound of breaking bones. Finally, he recalled the immense satisfaction he felt as skewered that wizard in the gut with a claw. The wizard slumped down the wall. He was bleeding profusely, but he was still conscious, blast him, and he was able to get off a last magic spell—waving his staff and chanting.

  Thunderbolt remembered being blinded by white light and then suddenly everything—including time—ground to a halt. When the dragon could see again, he discovered that he was hanging in mid-air, wings extended, jaws open, claws stretched to kill, and he was stuck this way. Suspended, held prisoner in time and space. And the wizard who had cast the foul spell died before he could uncast it.

  Years passed. Thunderbolt didn’t know how many. He was frozen in his cave and he couldn’t get free. He might have to hang this way for all eternity. He had nearly given up hope of ever being found when the kender had appeared inside his chamber.

  This kender. The one standing right in front of him. The kender who had touched the wizards staff and freed the dragon.

  True, Thunderbolt knew, the kender had not done so on purpose. The kender had freed him accidentally. Then he’d lied to the dragon, making up that folderol about being a thief, a kender tale that had led the dazed and headachy and befuddled dragon to try his hand at thieving, with the result that he was now in peril of his life, not to mention looking utterly ridiculous.

  Tasslehoff saw the dragon blink with pain. Then the dragon’s eyes opened wide and then narrowed to slits and then the large blue dragon glared down at the kender.

  Tas realized in that moment that the dragon’s amnesia was cured. The dragon remembered everything. Tas knew this by the glint in the dragon’s now focused eyes and the barring of his fangs.

  “Well, it’s been a good life,” Tasslehoff said to himself, as he waited to be eaten. “Too bad it couldn’t have lasted longer, but that’s the way Otik’s spiced potatoes crumble.”

  The dragon lifted a powerful claw…

  … and handed Tas a jeweled necklace.

  “I found this,” said the dragon. “You must have dropped it.”

  Tasslehoff was struck speechless for the first, last, and only time in his life that he could recall at this particular moment. He bent down and picked up the necklace.

  “I’ll just be leaving now,” said the dragon.

  He shifted his enormous body around, completing the ruin of the guard tower and destroying a few more sections of wall as he attempted to extricate himself. He walked off.

  “Cease fire!” the captain of the militia yelled, though no one had fired or was about to fire, except the man at the catapult and, as it turned out, he’d fainted from terror and fallen on top of the triggering mechanism.

  Thus ended the attack of the blue dragon on the city of Pigeon Falls.

  Thunderbolt returned to his cave. On his way, he smashed every one of the HERE BE DRAGONS signs. By Takhisis, no wonder those confounded knights had discovered him! Might as well list him in the tourist guides!

  As he returned to his comfortable cave, Thunderbolt reflected on his actions. He could have eaten the kender, should have eaten the kender. But the kender had saved him from that cruel spell and, besides, Thunderbolt was forced to admit, he had always kind of liked the name George.

  So few dragons were named George nowadays.

  Tasslehoff Burrfoot was now not only a Hero of the Lance, he was also the Hero of Pigeon Falls. People crowded around him, slapping him on the back. They hoisted him onto their shoulders and carried him through the streets of town. They gave him the key to the city, which he really didn’t need, due to the lock picks, and threw a banquet in his honor.

  He was urged to make a speech, which he did.

  “Thank you,” he said, “but really all I wanted was to see the pigeons fall.”

  Then it was explained to him that it was water falls not pigeon falls that gave the town its name. The falls were named for the pigeons, which Tas thought was pretty lame. He didn’t say so, however. Heroes are always polite.

  After his speech, he was hugged by the Lord Mayor’s wife, who was a large-bosomed, stout woman. It was at this point that Tasslehoff remembered there were other cities to see, other caves to visit, other dragons to outwit.

  So Tasslehoff Burrfoot, Hero of the Lance and of Pigeon Falls, left this part of Krynn, never to return there again.

  If he had, he would have seen new signs posted all around the city—just in case any wandering dragons happened to be passing by.

  WARNING TO DRAGONS!

  HERE BE KENDER!

  And from that day to this, kender have always been welcome in Pigeon Falls.

  About

  the Authors

  Margaret Weis was born and raised in Independence, Missouri. In 1983, she moved to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, to take a job as book editor at TSR, Inc, producers of the Dungeons & Dragons® roleplaying game.

  At TSR, Weis became part of the Dragonlance® design team. In collaboration with Tracy Hickman, she wrote the Dragonlance Chronicles, which has sold over twenty million copies world wide. Weis is also the author of many best-selling series, including the Deathgate Cycle, the Sovereign Stone series, and her new Dragonvarld series for TOR Books.

  Weis is also the owner of Sovereign Press, the publisher of the Dragonlance d20™ roleplaying products licensed from Wizards of the Coast, Inc.

  Born in Salt Lake City, Utah, Tracy Hickman spent two years as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (the Mormons), before becoming a game designer. He has been designing role-playing fantasy-world games for twenty-five years. He joined TSR in 1983 and served as a leader of the team that created the Dragonlance world. Besides the Dragonlance novels he has also co-authored the following best-selling books with Weis: The Darksword Trilogy, The Rose of the Prophet Trilogy, The Death’s Gate Cycle (seven book series), The Sovereign Stone Trilogy, and The Starshield series.

  Hickman has designed many non-Dragonlance game products and written extensively for different game worlds. He has also written solo novels and books with other writing partners. His novels as a solo author include The Immortals, Requiem of Stars, and Starcraft: Speed of Darkness. With his wife Laura Curtis Hickman, also a co-creator of the Dragonlance world, Hickman is writing the ongoing Bronze Canticles series.

  the Artist

  Matt Stawicki was born and raised in the Delaware area. He attended the Pennsylvania School of Art and Design and graduated in 1991. Since beginning his professional career in 1992, he has created many images for a wide range of products and clients including video gamecovers, collectible card images, book covers, collectors plates and fantasy pocket knives to name a few.

  The paintings of noted illustrators like NC. Wyeth, Norman Rockwell and Max-field Parrish are among his traditional influences. Also the films of Walt Disney, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg are sources of inspired imagery.

  Clients include Harper/Collins, Penguin, Leisure, Bantam and Doubleday books. Other clients include GT. Interactive Software, Wizards of the Coast, Milton Bradley, and The Franklin Mint.

  Matt is also a member of the Society Of Illustrators, New York and the Association for Science Fiction and Fantasy Artists (ASFA). He currently lives in Delaware.

  Principles of Fire

  Keith Baker

  “Tolar!” Zaehr rolled to her feet, her burned lips drawn hack across her fangs.

  The dragon flung the corpse to the side, a casual gesture that sent the broken body skidding across the cobblestones. It turned toward Zaehr and fixed her with its luminous gaze. Pure, unreasoning terror gripped her—the raw pa
nic a predator instills in its prey.

  “Tolar had no place in such a battle,” the dragon said. Its voice was thunder and steam, at rumbling hiss that Zaehr felt in her bones. Its crimson scales glittered in the torchlight, as if painted in fresh blood. Black ivory punctuated this ruddy armor—two dark horns stretching back over its massive head and ebon talons longer than any of Zaehr’s blades. Even its teeth were dark, as if burned black by the flames that licked around its jaws. But the true fire was in its eyes: The blazing orange orbs consumed her thoughts, reducing her to a frightened child. It took all her strength of will to tear her gaze away, to wrap one hand around the hilt of a curved dagger.

  How had it come to this?

  “This ends now.”

  The rumbling voice tore Zaehr back to the present. The knife slid into her hand. Her wounds burned, and she fell into a defensive crouch, ready to leap. The dragon towered above her, rearing back on its hind legs, jaws wide. Time slowed to a crawl, and Zaehr could see the light rising in the gullet of the beast.

  Fire, she thought. It had begun with fire.

  The sky above Sharn was on fire. The shockwave swept across them. A dwarf woman standing nearby was thrown off the edge of the bridge and tumbled howling to the streets below. Dozens of others smashed against the cobblestones, Tolar along with them. Only Zaehr kept her footing; she let the force throw her back and turned the motion into a spinning leap, landing smoothly on her feet. Throughout the twisting roll she kept her eyes on the sky, watching the terrifying spectacle above.

  Pride of the Storm was coming apart.