The Companions are back in an
untold story from the War of the Lance!
The beloved heroes return: Tanis, Raistlin, Caramon, Sturm Brightblade, Tasslehoff, and Flint Fireforge. Old friends such as Riverwind, Goldmoon, and Laurana travel with them. Old enemies are here too, as the companions encounter new adventures and new dangers in the beginning months of the War of the Lance.
The companions believe they have slain the evil Dragon Highlord Verminaard. They have rescued the refugees from Pax Tharkas and taken them to a valley in the Kharolis Mountains.
Tanis and Flint are sent to search for the long lost Dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin, hoping to persuade the dwarves to give the refugees shelter for the winter. As the heroes race against time to save the lives of the innocents depending on them, Flint is forced to make a difficult choice, one on which the future of Krynn may rest. And the only one he can depend on for help is the happy-go-lucky kinder, Tasslehoff Burrfoot.
Though they hoped to find a safe haven in the dwarven kingdom, the companions soon discover that there is no safe place anywhere on Krynn, as the Queen of Darkness and her dragons set the land aflame.
“… a compelling tale that is a fun and entertaining read.”
—dlnexus.com
By Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
CHRONICLES
Dragons of Autumn Twilight
Dragons of Winter Night
Dragons of Spring Dawning
LEGENDS
Time of the Twins
War of the Twins
Test of the Twins
The Second Generation
Dragons of Summer Flame
THE WAR OF SOULS
Dragons of a Fallen Sun
Dragons of a Lost Star
Dragons of a Vanished Moon
THE LOST CHRONICLES
Dragons of the Dwarven Depths
Dragons of the Highlord Skies
To the memory of my father, George Edward Weis, this book is lovingly dedicated.
—Margaret Weis
To all those whose sacrifices are praised only in the heavens.
—Tracy Hickman
Foreword
Joseph Campbell charts the course of the epic myth as a circle.
It begins at the comforts of the hero’s home—the top of the circle, if you will—and the Call of the Adventure. From those safe and familiar surroundings, he sets off, perhaps urged along by a Helper character, and encounters the Threshold of Adventure. There, passing the obstacles of the Guardians that protect the way, he then crosses into the Realms of Power. In that wondrous new land he encounters both more helpers to support him on his journey, and tests and adversaries that seek to deter him from the path. He obtains the great prize—Sacred Marriage, Father Atonement, Apotheosis, or Elixir Theft. Yet having attained his goal, the hero is only halfway through his true journey. Then comes the flight from the realms of power, the crossing back over the threshold into the mundane world, and, like Odysseus of old, the return to home, where he started—only to find that either home has changed in his absence—or that his absence has changed him.
The journeys of Tanis, Laurana, Flint, Tasslehoff, Raistlin, Caramon, Sturm, and Tika—our Heroes of the Lance— began in similar fashion over twenty years ago. They, too, were motivated to leave their home, forge a path into mysterious, powerful, and unknown realms, so that they, too, might gain a great prize—though not without tremendous cost. And they might have come home to a place changed irreparably, as they, too, were changed.
So it was with Margaret and I as we set out on our own epic path over two decades ago. We forged into unknown realms far from the security of our familiar lives. There were many helpers along the way; we remember and honor you all. So, too, were there many trials that stood to dissuade us from our course. These came in many shapes and forms. Each cost us—sometimes dearly—and still we pressed on.
Now, we find ourselves returning again to that home from which we started on our adventure, all those many years ago.
We fear to find it changed: we remember it as it was when it was wild and unexplored—before so many thousands of words described so much of this world.
We fear to find ourselves changed: we vaguely recall how young we were, how we could not conceive of failure in those days, and how raw our craft, then, seemed to us.
Yet, as we stand here on the hillside, the sunrise illuminates the Vallenwood Trees one more time. The brass fixtures gleam again on the Inn of the Last Home, restored magically to its previous glory. The clock and calendar have rewound here in Krynn. We have returned to find the world truly as it was in the beginning—our heroes are as yet unproven, innocent yet filled with strength and hope. Here, through the eye of our memory, the world is reborn.
And we, for a time, are young again.
—Tracy Hickman, January, 2006
The Song of Kharas
by Michael Williams
Three were the thoughts of
those in Thorbardin
In the dark after Dergoth when
the ogres danced.
One was the lost light, the
limping darkness
In the caves of the kingdom
where light crumbles.
One the despair of the
Dwarfthane Derkin
Gone to the gloom of the tower
of Glory.
One the world, weary and
wounded
Down to the deep of the
Darkling’s waters.
Under the heart of the
highland,
Under the ceiling of
stone,
Under the wane of the
world’s glory.
Home under home.
Then was Kharas among us, the
Keeper of Kings.
The Hand on the Hammer, Arm of
the Hylar.
At the gleaming gravesite of
gold and garnet
Three sons of the thane he
buried thereunder.
While Derkin saw dark upon dark
in the tunnels,
In the halls of the nation saw
nooses and knives,
killers and kingmakers came to
Kharas
With agate and amethyst, asking
allegiance.
Under the heart of the
highland,
Under the ceiling of
stone,
Under the wane of the
world’s glory.
Home under home.
But the stalwart in heart is
strong as a stone.
And bold and unbending his mind
to the better:
The Hammer of Hylar was firm in
the halls,
Denying all discord, all doubt
and division,
He turned from intrigue, from
the wild tunnels,
Out to the open, one oath
swearing
That time not treachery shall
ever tarnish
The Hammer’s return in a time of
great troubles.
Under the heart of the
highland,
Under the ceiling of
stone,
Under the wane of the
world’s glory.
Home under home.
BOOK 1
PROLOGUE
tanding over the bloody body of the fallen Dragon Highlord Verminaard, the aurak draconian, Dray-yan, saw his destiny flare before him.
The brilliant flash hit him with the force of a comet falling from the sky, burning his blood and sending a tingling sensation throughout his scaly body down to his cla
wed fingers. After the initial burst, a cascade of more ideas followed, showering down on him. His entire plan formed in seconds.
Dray-yan whipped off his ornate cloak and dropped it over the body of the Dragon Highlord, hiding the corpse and the large pool of blood beneath it from view. The aurak draconian was panicked, or so it must appear to those watching. Shouting furiously for help, he grabbed several baaz (draconians of lowly stature, notable for their obtuse gullibility) and ordered them to fetch a litter.
“Make haste! Lord Verminaard is grievously wounded! We must carry Lord Verminaard to his chambers! Swiftly! Swiftly, before his lordship succumbs to his wounds.”
Fortunately for Dray-yan, the situation inside the fortress of Pax Tharkas was chaotic: escaping slaves, two red dragons battling each other, the sudden thunderous fall of tons of rocks blocking the pass and crushing a vast number of soldiers. No one was paying any attention to the fallen Highlord being carried inside the fortress or to the aurak who was accompanying him.
When Verminaard’s corpse was safely inside his chambers, Dray-yan shut the doors, posted the baaz draconians who had carried the litter outside as guards, and gave orders that no one was to enter.
Dray-yan then helped himself to a bottle of Verminaard’s finest wine and sat down at Verminaard’s desk and began to go through Verminaard’s secret papers. What Dray-yan read intrigued and impressed him. He sipped the wine, studied the situation, and went over his plans in his mind. Occasionally someone would come to the door demanding orders. Dray-yan would shout that his lordship was not to be disturbed. Hours passed and then, when night had fallen, Dray-yan opened the door a crack.
“Tell Commander Grag that he is wanted in Lord Verminaard’s chambers.”
It took some time before the large bozak commander arrived. During the interval, Dray-yan pondered whether or not to take Grag into his confidence. His instinct was to trust no one, particularly a draconian Dray-yan considered inferior to himself. Dray-yan was forced to concede, however, that he could not do this alone. He was going to need help, and though he held Grag in disdain, he had to admit that Grag was not as stupid or incompetent as most other bozaks Dray-yan had encountered. Grag was, in fact, quite intelligent, an excellent military commander. If Grag had been in charge of Pax Tharkas instead of that muscle-bound, muscle-headed human Verminaard, there would have been no slave uprising. This disaster would have never happened.
Unfortunately, no one would have even considered putting Grag in command of humans, who believed that the “lizard-men,” with their shining scales, wings, and tails, were bred for killing and nothing else. Draconians were incapable of rational thought, unfit for any type of leadership role in the Dark Queen’s army. Dray-yan knew Takhisis herself believed this, and he secretly despised his goddess for it.
He would show her. Draconians would prove themselves to her. If he succeeded, he might well be the next Dragon Highlord.
One clawed step at a time, however.
“Commander Grag,” announced one of the baaz.
The door opened, and Grag walked inside. The bozak stood well over six feet in height, and his large wings made him appear far taller. He had bronze scales covered by minimal armor, for he relied on his scales and tough hide to protect him. His scales at the moment were smeared with dirt and dust and streaked with blood. He was obviously exhausted. His long tail swept slowly from side to side. His lips were tightly pressed over his fangs. His yellow eyes narrowed as they stared hard at Dray-yan.
“What do you want?” Grag demanded churlishly. He waved a claw. “It had better be important. I’m needed out there.” Then he caught sight of the figure on the bed. “I heard his lordship was wounded. Are you treating him?”
Grag neither liked nor trusted the aurak, as Dray-yan well knew. Bozak draconians were bred to be warriors. Like auraks, bozaks were granted magical spells by their Queen, but bozak magic was martial in nature and not nearly as powerful as that of the auraks. In personality, the large and burly bozaks tended to be open, forthright, blunt, and to the point.
Auraks, by contrast, were not intended to fight battles. Tall and slender, they were secretive by nature, sly and subtle, their magic extremely powerful.
Aurak and bozak draconians had been raised to hate and mistrust each other by humans who feared they would otherwise become too powerful—or at least that’s what Dray-yan had come to believe.
“His lordship is grievously wounded,” said Dray-yan, loudly for the benefit of the baaz, who were probably eavesdropping, “but I am praying to Her Dark Majesty and there is every hope he will recover. Please come in, Commander, and shut the door behind you.”
Grag hesitated then did as he was told.
“Make certain that door is shut and bolted,” Dray-yan added. “Now, come here.”
Dray-yan motioned Grag to Verminaard’s bedside.
Grag looked down then looked back up.
“He’s not wounded,” said Grag. “He’s dead.”
“Yes, he is,” said Dray-yan dispassionately.
“Then why tell me he’s alive?”
“I wasn’t telling you so much as I was telling the baaz guards.”
“What slime you auraks are,” Grag sneered. “You have to twist everything—”
“The point is,” said Dray-yan, “we’re the only two who know he’s dead.
Grag stared, puzzled.
“Let me make this clear, Commander,” Dray-yan said. “We—you and I—are the only two beings in this world who know that Lord Verminaard is no more. Even those baaz who carried his lordship inside this room think he still lives.”
“I still don’t see your point—”
“Verminaard is dead. There is no Highlord, no one in command of the Red Dragonarmy,” said Dray-yan.
Grag shrugged then said bitterly, “Once Emperor Ariakas finds out Verminaard is dead, another human will be sent to take over. It’s only a matter of time.”
“You and I both know that would be a mistake,” said Dray-yan. “You and I both know there are others who are better qualified.”
Grag looked at Dray-yan and the bozak’s yellow eyes flickered. “Who did you have in mind?”
“The two of us,” said Dray-yan.
“Us?” Grag repeated with a curl of his lip
“Yes, us,” said Dray-yan coolly. “I know very little of military tactics and strategies. I would leave all that up to your wise expertise.”
Grag’s eyes flickered again, this time with amusement at the aurak’s attempt at flattery. He glanced back at the corpse. “So I am to command the Red Dragonarmy, while you are doing … what?”
“I will be Lord Verminaard,” said the aurak.
Grag turned to ask Dray-yan what in the Abyss he meant by that last remark, only to find Lord Verminaard standing beside him. His lordship, in all his hulking glory, stood glaring at Grag.
“Well, what do you think, Commander?” Dray-yan asked in a perfect imitation of Verminaard’s deep, rasping voice.
The illusion cast by the aurak was so perfect, so compelling, that Grag glanced involuntarily back at the corpse to reassure himself the human was, indeed, truly dead. When he looked back, Dray-yan was himself once more—golden scales, small wings, stubby tail, pretentious arrogance and all.
“How would this work?” Grag asked, still not trusting the aurak.
“You and I will determine our course of action. We make plans for the disposition of the armies, prosecute the battles, etc. I would, of course, defer to you in such matters,” Dray-yan added smoothly.
Grag grunted.
“I issue the commands and take his lordship’s place whenever he needs to be seen in public.”
Grag thought this over. “We put out the word that Verminaard was wounded but that, with the Dark Queen’s blessing, he’s recovering. Meanwhile you act in his place, relaying his commands from his ‘sick bed’.”
“Within a short time,” Dray-yan said, “with the Dark Queen’s blessing his lordship will b
e fit enough to resume his normal duties.”
Grag was intrigued. “It just might work.” He regarded Dray-yan with grudging admiration
Dray-yan didn’t notice. “Our biggest problem will be disposing of the body.” He cast a scathing glance at the corpse. “There was such a lot of him.”
Lord Verminaard had been an enormous human— standing nearly seven feet tall, big-boned, fleshy, and heavily muscled.
“The mines,” suggested Grag. “Dump the body in a mine shaft and then bring down the shaft on top of it.”
“The mines are outside the fortress walls. How do we smuggle out the body?”
“You auraks can walk through air, or so I’ve heard,” Grag replied. “You should have no trouble carrying the body out of here unseen.”
“We walk the halls of magic, of time and space,” said Dray-yan reprovingly. “I could carry the bastard, I suppose, though he weighs a ton. Still, one must make sacrifices for the cause. I’ll dispose of him tonight. Now, tell me what’s going on in the fortress. Have the escaped slaves been recaptured?”
“No,” said Grag, adding bluntly, “and they won’t be. Both Pyros and Flamestrike are dead. The fool dragons killed each other. The triggering of the defense mechanism caused the boulders to clog the pass, effectively blocking our troops who are now trapped on other side.”
“You could send the forces we have here after the slaves,” suggested Dray-yan.
“Most of my men lie buried under the rock fall,” said Grag grimly. “That’s where I was when you summoned me—trying to dig them out. It would take days, maybe weeks of work even if we had the manpower, which we don’t.”
Grag shook his head. “We need dragons to help us; that would make a difference. There are eight red dragons assigned to this army, but I have no idea where they are—Qualinesti, maybe, or Abanasinia.”
“I can find out.” Dray-yan jerked a claw at the piles of papers that lay scattered about on the desk. “I’ll summon them in the name of Lord Verminaard.”
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