The History of Krynn: Vol V

by Dragon Lance

  “It is a pleasure to encounter you,” Heart declared breathily. “I see that you bear the mark of the rose.”

  “Aye, lady. Methinks you know somewhat of the three orders that make up our ranks.”

  “Indeed I do, brave sir. And I know that, though crown may be mighty and sword strong, it is the rose that is most pleasant upon the senses.”

  “Indeed!” The knight positively beamed, the tips of his curling mustaches rising with his expression. “Er, is there a matter upon which I may be of assistance? Ogre trouble, perhaps? The brutes are reported to abound in this area.”

  “We have seen ogres, but they’re dead now,” Lectral replied grimly.

  For the first time, the knight regarded the strapping form of the maiden’s escort. Lectral’s gray eyes met the human’s frankly, and he allowed the sinew to ripple along his arms.

  “No mean feat,” admitted the armored rider. He hesitated, but Lectral made it clear that he wasn’t about to wander away.

  “Quite. Well, er, if your matters are in hand, there is business that calls me to Dargaard, else I would be certain to linger,” he pledged, with a deep bow to Heart.

  “Wait!” she cried as he swung back into his saddle. “Would you carry this … for luck?”

  She lifted a scarf of shimmering silver, so light that it seemed to float like a spiderweb on the gentle breeze.

  “It would be my honor, fair lady!” cried the knight, clearly moved.

  Heart kissed the plume of silk, then handed it to the rider, who wasted no time in lashing it to the tip of his lance. By that time, his retainers had mounted, and with a cheery farewell, the band took to the road. Only after they were out of sight did the two dragons change shape and once again wing into the sky.

  “Why did you do that?” grumbled Lectral, strangely disturbed by the memory of Heart’s flirtations.

  “Oh, Lec, it was such fun! And it’s harmless!”

  “It’s not harmless. It’s mischief!” retorted the glowering silver male.

  “What about you and the wild elves? You’re always talking to them, traveling among them. Don’t tell me they all know the truth of your identity.”

  “That’s different,” Lectral declared. “You know of the special bond we have with the Elderwild, going all the way back to Darlantan and Kagonos.”

  “Now you sound like an old fuddy gold!” teased Heart. To punctuate her words, she dipped a wing and dived away from Lectral, flicking her tail teasingly across his belly as she began an upside-down loop, then dropped into a straight plummet toward the ground.

  He plunged after her and had to work hard in order to catch her. Wingtip to wingtip, they glided toward the dusk, relishing the rosy expanse of sky as the last rays of the setting sun glimmered off their scales.

  They came to rest on a high ridge of the Kharolis, knowing that a teeming nation of dwarves dwelt below them. Yet it was still one of Lectral’s favorite places, as it had been for years and years, and had been for the generations of metal dragons preceding them. Aloof and removed from such concerns, the mighty serpents watched the growing swath of rosy purple, deeply content as the sunset expanded to encompass the western horizon.

  CHAPTER 29

  HEIR TO A QUEEN

  (ca. 1300 PC)

  Deathfyre stirred, awakening in the depths of his fiery chasm. Over an immeasurable time, the spell of suspension that had entrapped him was gradually weakened, allowing the mighty crimson head to rise with glacial deliberation. The Dark Queen’s summons was a faint and distant knell, and only slowly did the red dragon become aware of the keening, pervasive call. He puffed a slow exhalation of dry air, unaware of the ashes that wafted from his nostrils or the soot that layered his crimson scales.

  Suspended thus, he had slept for a dozen centuries while the metallic wyrms of Paladine had grown complacent in their superiority on the surface of Ansalon. Deathfyre had grown larger and more terrible during his torpor, yet in his awareness, it was as if little or no time had passed.

  He knew nothing of his old rivals, Callak and Auricus, nor was he aware of the spreading presence of humankind. Beyond the mountains, more and more lands of ancient wilderness, as well as realms once held by ogres, elves, or dwarves, had been claimed by the relentlessly energetic race of men. Closer by, the Khalkists remained a region of raging fire and eternal smoke, but even here the presence of humankind was penetrating with relentless determination.

  Through the murk of his long suspension, Deathfyre was vaguely aware that all of his kin had been slain. The magic of the brother mages had been an irresistible force, and the proud dragons of Crematia’s mighty horde had been swallowed by the bedrock of Krynn, where they had withered and perished over the passing centuries.

  At the same time, he could not know of the convulsions caused by the violent magic of the three arcane sorcerers. It would have pleased him to learn that the trio of wizards had been relentlessly hunted by the elves, eventually forced into magical banishment or killed outright. So devastating had been the wild magic unleashed by their great casting that elven historians regarded them as villains of the same scope and wickedness as the dragons of Takhisis themselves.

  And only Deathfyre had been spared, by fortune, magic, and the blessing of his five-headed mistress. As the epic forces of unnatural magic had wrenched the world, pulling the other chromatic dragons into captivity, he had been dragged to the same cavern in the bowels of the Lords of Doom where Crematia had sheltered more than a millennia before.

  Deathfyre’s matriarch had emerged from that hibernation to loose a flood of destruction across the face of the world, commencing a nearly triumphant campaign for the mastery of Ansalon. Soon her descendants would be ready to do the same, but the Dark Queen had learned a lesson from Crematia’s arrogance and knew that her dragons would not be able to achieve a swift and easy victory.

  Instead, Deathfyre’s campaign would employ a new tactic, characterized by patience far beyond any Takhisis had displayed in the past. The plan itself filtered into the red dragon’s mind over centuries, instilled by long and repetitive dreams. These visions gave to him memories of blood and killing, of plunder and wealth, and they warmed him within as the fundamental fire of the Khalkists radiated against him from without.

  Inside his cavernous vault, with its scorching heat and eternal fire, Deathfyre’s awareness was gradually restored. The Dark Queen’s message was clear, her scheme clever and complicated. Through the timeless centuries, he absorbed her wishes, heard her commands, until, with a shiver of memory, he awakened to the recollection of the sweet taste of fresh blood. Raising his head, feeling the hunger gnaw at his gut, the crimson serpent reflected upon his mistress’s desires.

  A timeless interval later, after he clearly understood the wishes of Takhisis, Deathfyre took wing within the fiery chamber, circling many times over the lake of fire. He recalled the dreams, knew the path that had been laid out for him, and heard the reminders in the bubbling fury of the lava and the rising tumult of the flaming subterranean storm.

  Finally his flight took him soaring from the mighty caldera, crimson wings once again spreading wide, claiming their rightful place in the skies of Krynn. Deathfyre exulted in his freedom and his flight, banking and soaring, slicing through the clouds that roiled and churned around the three volcanic summits. The red dragon longed to fly south, to wreak vengeance on the ancient homes of the elves, but he had heard his queen’s commands and he knew that this was not his task.

  Instead, he would be patient and – for the first time in his long and destructive life – discreet. He limited his flight to the impenetrable murk surrounding the trio of summits, insuring that he was not observed from the ground. When at last he grew tired, ready to come to rest upon the firmament, he used his magic to change his body to that of a great vulture. The black-winged bird settled through the clouds, soaring unnoticed into a valley that had become home to a teeming populace of humans and ogres.

  This place was called Sancti
on, Deathfyre remembered, for it had been founded before the brother mages had cast the wild magic and entrapped him. It was a city and a valley that figured greatly in his destiny. Rivers of fire scoured the streets, and buildings teetered at the brink of destruction as lava churned past, steadily eroding the landscape of the city. Yet new constructions were rising from the rugged slopes, and Deathfyre observed one swath of blackened ground – clearly a slum that had been swept by ruinous fire – where new shacks were already beginning to appear. Furthermore, temples to a host of gods, real and imagined, had sprouted like weeds amid the tangled alleys and byways. The peripheries of the city had become a chaotic nest of arsenals and smithies, while great stockpiles of coal were gathered in huge piles on the city’s eastern, mountain-guarded flank.

  The tangled alleys leading through the teeming city’s darkened heart were lined with hovels and shacks of incredible wretchedness, many of these sprawling in the very shadows of splendid manor houses and palatial residences of prominent merchants and nobles. Within the slums, the population grew and swelled, expanding within its limited confines, building pressure that must inevitably be released in an explosion of consuming violence.

  This was a perfect city for his purposes, Deathfyre saw, a place of murder and mayhem, of worshipers who hailed dark gods and practiced rites of grim decadence. It was a city that had a prominent place in his plans, and he would return here.

  Yet for now, the wishes of his immortal mistress required him to journey to higher valleys, mountainous reaches much farther to the east. The condor veered with a shriek of arrogant disdain, a cry to subjects who did not know they had just heard the voice of their future master. His black wings trailed long feathers, like the fingers of a bony hand, as they cut through the smoke and murk with easy grace. Steadily he flew, up the valley leading into the mountain range, leaving the city of fire until a future time.

  Deathfyre marked a course over a trackless tangle of mountains, soaring by memory to the lofty cave, a place Crematia had created in her prime. In her later years, she had shown it to her mighty son, and he had marked the place well. Now he approached the apparently featureless cliff, his keen eyes seeking the subtle shimmer of magic. The ledge was concealed by illusion, but the red dragon’s power was sufficient to part that disguise, and then to melt away the wall of stone that blocked the passage beyond.

  Within the secret cavern, Deathfyre found the great treasure room that he remembered, a cavernous chamber with a floor carpeted by coins of steel and gold and gemstones of every color and size. He rolled amid the mass of treasure, allowing the metal disks to run through his talons, burying himself in a mound of precious jewels and gleaming coins. He searched for and found one particular item that he had remembered only vaguely, but here again he was guided by the images sent to him in the Dark Queen’s dreams. This was a fine leather satchel with a pair of latching handles, an item Crematia had tossed aside with almost contemptuous indifference.

  Slowly and patiently the red dragon began to gather the coins and gemstones, scooping them into his massive claws and pouring them into the magical sack. Though it took him a day and a night, he was able to conceal the entire vast hoard in the single satchel, doing as he had been commanded in the dream sent by Takhisis.

  Carrying this great wealth, he departed the secret chamber and came to rest on the valley floor. Deathfyre used further magic to take the form of a dwarf, and from there he embarked on foot into the realms of the great miners of the Khalkists. He traveled as a rich merchant, gradually acquiring a small caravan of fine horses, several stout wagons, and a retinue of loyal, well-paid servants.

  He was welcomed among these dwarves as one of their own – more to the point, one of their very wealthy own. In the central cavern of their great underground city, the dwarven king himself hosted a great feast in his honor. The visiting merchant was introduced to the dwarven lords with high ceremony. Many of these worthies brought blushing daughters of marriageable age to meet the exotic visitor, though each of these overtures was met with polite disinterest. Instead, the dwarven visitor announced plans to embark upon an ambitious business venture.

  With great expenditures, he bought the services of many a doughty miner, forming a large expedition of experienced delvers. He led this courageous band over rugged trails into the heart of the Khalkists, realms that a thousand years before had been the domains of chromatic dragons. Paying handsomely, as always, the dwarven entrepreneur divided his hundreds of workers into mining parties and set them to work in a series of lofty valleys, commencing a search for precious gems.

  And there was added incentive, for the master dwarf was interested only peripherally in such baubles as diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. These finds were to be kept by the workers themselves, and many a dwarven laborer grew rich in the service of this mysterious stranger. Unfortunately, some of the workers also lost their lives, as is ever the way with mines, but the families of these victims invariably received generous compensation from the dwarven overseer.

  As to his purpose, the master delver’s instructions were specific: He desired for himself only those rare stones that were perfect spheres, pure and unblemished in color. They were discovered in five varieties: black, red, blue, green, and white, and the rich dwarf paid handsomely for every sample brought to him.

  When he had collected many dozens of each variety, the dwarven businessman organized another great expedition and made ready to march down from the Khalkists. He prepared to travel with a great caravan of wagons, announcing his intention to seek and purchase trade goods of all kinds. Of course, the party would also carry a generous selection of the rare, spherical baubles of color.

  The dwarves who worked for him were hired for a new task now, informed that the caravan would spend years in making a great circuit about Ansalon, and they were promised that the party would return bearing fabulous profit for all. The master delver had proven to be a beneficent and generous employer, so once again he was greeted by many willing offers of assistance.

  Eventually more than a hundred dwarven laborers signed on for the duration of the expedition, with the understanding that they might be gone for a score of years, or even longer. The caravan departed with a creaking of sturdy wagon wheels and lowing of oxen under the skillfully wielded whips of dwarven teamsters, with the fond farewells of a great populace still ringing from the mountain heights.

  Trekking through rugged terrain, the dwarves carved a road where they had to, hoisting the wagons over mountain ridges, guiding them along precarious ledges above deep, rock-lined gorges. They progressed eastward for a long time, but – true to the master delver’s words – they at last emerged from the mountains into well-populated realms that were exotic, remote, and wealthy.

  In each city, town, and village that the expedition reached, the dwarven delver, now proving himself a master merchant as well, traded away his precious spherical gems. Sometimes he exchanged them for great sums of steel coinage or bedazzling jewelry, but at other times he seemed touched by a most undwarflike generosity and consented to give up a stone for a mere night’s lodging, or in trade for a beaten old nag of a horse. Always the spheres were received with awe and wonder, for they were unique, and therefore precious, among all the treasures of Krynn.

  Over winters and summers, through good weather and bad, the trading caravan marked its long and methodical path across much of Ansalon. Beginning with Balifor, the dwarven delver’s route extended to Mithas, then passed through the increasingly prosperous realm of Istar, before finally curling back southward through Neraka, Sanction, and Xak Tsaroth. Eventually he even trekked into the distant reaches of mountainous Thorbardin and the southern seaport of Tarsis.

  Thus were the round baubles seeded throughout the world. Some were locked in treasure rooms, or placed upon newly sanctified altars by their proud owners. Others were rolled into playrooms, left as children’s toys, or placed in galleries and halls for public or private exhibition. Each was kept, mostly treasured but o
ccasionally forgotten, as the caravan rolled on. As the years passed, the spheres were regarded like any other exotic object of great beauty and indisputable rarity – that is, they were prized treasures.

  And then, at last, the dwarven merchant and his weary caravan approached the valleys of the Khalkist foothills. Yet the great merchant was tired by the long trek and didn’t want to bother to journey all the way to the dwarven realm. Instead, he ate his horses, burned his laborers to death, and settled down to wait.

  Storytellers

  (ca. 1196 PC)

  Night had fallen long since, and the moon – harvest moon, red and full – was up in the mountains to the east. Traders, pilgrims, all manner of travelers had taken advantage of the extra light to make longer journeys, but by now all sensible travelers had made camp or had arrived at inns and homes. Moonlight or no, travel by night could be dangerous.

  At the Inn of the Waiting Fire, the logs were blazing and the stew pot already empty. A second crock of cider simmered beside it; the barmaid hurried over, filled a pitcher with several scoops of the huge ladle, and crossed to the tables where tonight’s guests took up every bench, talking quietly and finishing the last of the bread.

  The barkeep called across to her, “Refill the cider pot, Peilanne.” She nodded, spinning nimbly and gracefully as she set the hot pitcher down, carefully out of reach of the little girl gnawing determinedly at the end of a fresh loaf as the girl’s mother stroked and untangled the girl’s hair.

  She stuck another pitcher under the cider barrel and opened the tap. “Are we expecting anyone else, Darien?”

  He smiled at her. “You never know.” He set ale steins one by one on a large tray. “Though the gods know where we’d put them.”

  But a breeze shook the lamp flames as the front door opened. A general cry went up: “Shut that door!” “Frosty out there.” “Always a latecomer.”