The History of Krynn: Vol V

by Dragon Lance

  Eventually, numbers prevailed, and the brutish ogres fully encircled the small band of riders. Axes and hammers rang against swords and shields, and the field resounded with the clash and chaos of a fine battle. Cries of men, ogres, and horses mingled in a cacophony of pain and rage.

  Still, less than half of the humans had been knocked from their saddles when Chaltiford’s eyes swept skyward, compelled by some gut premonition.

  Sleek metal death swooped toward him. The dragons of Huma had come, and now they dove from the heavens in gleaming savagery, golds and silvers, brasses and bronzes, all bearing riders – and many of the riders wielding the deadly lances that had so decisively turned the tide of the war.

  The entire force of ogres quailed before the sight of the mature serpents. Many of the huge humanoids fell to the ground, groveling pathetically, too terrified even to try to fight the great wyrms.

  The mounted knights found new life and lunged forward in an unexpected charge. Chaltiford raised his club, barely knocking aside a blow that would have split his face. Delmarkiam stabbed at a charging horse, but sliced at thin air. In an instant, it seemed, the knights had erupted through the ring of ogres.

  The full fury of the dragons was vented on the fleeing ogres. Chaltiford’s lair mates bled to the cut of talon and fang, or died in agony beneath scalding fireballs of dragon breath and the spittle of caustic acid. For frantic minutes Chaltiford’s own life became a terrifying collage of near-fatal encounters with death.

  He saw Delmarkiam borne to earth, crushed by powerful claws. The dying ogre cried out to his friend, but Chalt scrambled away, terrified by the nearness of the dragons.

  Other wyrms soared past, blotting out the sun. Chaltiford dove to the moist earth and buried his face in the mud, quivering in horror as ogres to his right and left were rent by the claws of a huge gold dragon. Snapping jaws tore away most of one of his ears as he desperately crawled away.

  The ogre dove for some bushes, feeling the searing explosion of a dragon’s breath blossoming over his head – just high enough to spare his life, though crackling blisters rose on his back, and the long pigtail on the rear of his scalp was singed to ashes.

  Clear of the immediate battle, Chaltiford rose to his feet and lumbered for the shelter of a nearby forest. Even then he was not completely safe, however, as an intrepid knight galloped after him on his great, barded charger. The ogre barely reached the entwined branches in time, plunging through a thicket of thorns with the knight’s lance prodding him in the heel. Prickly branches tore Chaltiford’s burned, bruised flesh, but his pain only drove him to greater panic and more desperate flight.

  Only after hours of gasping, terrified running did he dare to slow his pace to a stumbling walk. As he blindly plodded along, his storm of emotions obscured any immediate sense of fatigue.

  Chaltiford was wounded, angry, defeated, humbled, frustrated... a bleak and depressing litany. Yet he could not forget that, most of all, he was alive!

  “A hundred curses on the Knights of Solamnia!” he snarled aloud, half expecting the trees on either side of the trail to cower in terror at the fierceness of his voice. After all, there had been a time here in the Kharolis Mountains when the bark of an ogre was a feared and respected sound! Of course, that had been in the time before the knights, and the dragons of metal, and the accursed lances, Chaltiford reflected ruefully.

  Why did they have to fight an enemy so brutally capable? He groused that complaint over and over, telling himself that the Dark Queen’s war had become a gigantic waste of time and blood. Ogres against knights and dragons? Too many ogres were getting killed.

  What he needed were some easy pickings, Chaltiford decided. He was a big, strong ogre – he should be able to find something small and weak, like in the old days, and bash it pretty good. From now on, that’s what he’d make sure to do. Chaltiford was done with wars and campaigns and battles against fire-breathing, flying serpents!

  He maintained his trudging march for many days. His course took him deep into the Kharolis Mountains – not for any particular reason, but because his fear-crazed instincts told him that the rugged heights offered him some refuge from the hateful humans and their wretched allies, the dragons of metal.

  Of course, in mountains the threat of dwarves was always present. Chaltiford knew dwarves, had killed many of the scrappy, bearded warriors, and he loathed them nearly as much as he did the Solamnics. But he knew that Thorbardin lay far to the south, and dwarves in this range were pretty scarce. For the time being, Chaltiford would have to take his chances against the possibility of dwarves over the certainty of the dragons and knights who ruled the plains of Solamnia.

  He was trekking wearily through a rocky, barren vale when the ogre chieftain saw something that stopped him in his tracks. At first he feared that all his evasions had been for naught. Sunlight, slanting low over the western ridge, reflected over a gleaming surface before him – a skin of rippling scales, each as bright as a polished coin of purest gold.

  Dragon! The big, serpentine body sprawled on a mountainside no more than a half mile away. The wyrm lay at the base of a sheer precipice, and for the moment at least had not noticed Chaltiford’s presence.

  The ogre’s knees went rubbery, and he slumped to the ground with a low moan. Eyes wide, he gaped at the immense golden serpent that he hated and feared more than anything else. The creature lay, apparently sunning itself, on a rough and steeply sloping ridgetop of boulders. The cliff beyond the dragon extended upward for thousands of feet, culminating in one of the highest peaks in this part of the Kharolis Range.

  Had the dragon spotted Chaltiford? The ogre wasn’t sure – though the dragon had not moved. Then Chaltiford realized something, as the dragonfear slowly dissipated. There was nothing in this dragon’s manner, Chaltiford told himself with growing cockiness, even to suggest that it was alive!

  The ogre’s drooping lids descended over his wicked, piglike eyes as a look of crafty appraisal replaced the stark terror that had distorted his face moments earlier. Climbing to his feet, Chaltiford scuttled to a nearby boulder. The stone jutted upward from the ground, high enough to screen him from the recumbent dragon. Peering around the rock, he studied the motionless creature.

  Sure enough, Chaltiford spotted a gaping tear in the creature’s neck, and its wing lay sprawled beside it in an awkward fashion, wrenched from its proper alignment.

  Shrewdly, the ogre studied his ancient enemy. Chaltiford shuddered with revulsion even as he gloated over this dragon’s predicament. The creature must have been truly awesome when it was alive, for its body was uncommonly huge. How much treasure might a wyrm like that acquire during a lifetime? Surely, an unimaginable amount!

  As the thought entered his mind, another followed in unusually rapid sequence. Whatever treasure this dragon had amassed had to be presently unguarded!

  Of course, the creature could have ended up here after flying from a virtually unlimited distance. But from the severity of its wounds, Chaltiford guessed that the dragon had not traveled very far in its weakened state. No, the golden serpent had been right in this vicinity, he suspected, when grim fate claimed it.

  Trembling, Chalt crept closer. Even dead, the monster remained massive, awe-inspiring, and horrific. It was all the ogre could do to force his wobbling legs forward. Yet as he continued his cautious approach, and no sign of movement rippled those golden scales, Chaltiford began to master his fear.

  By the time he had reached the massive corpse, the ogre was practically swaggering, puffing his chest outward and balancing his club on his shoulder at a jaunty angle. He stepped right up to a massive, lifeless limb, and even thought about delivering a scornful kick. Chaltiford contented himself by spitting in the dragon’s direction.

  The ogre’s bloodshot eyes glittered as he inspected the corpse of his race’s dread enemy. He saw that one of the dragon’s wings was crumpled and scarred, as if it had suffered a grievous wound a long time ago. Chaltiford reasoned that, even afte
r that wound had healed, the dragon had been unable to fly.

  Other wounds were far fresher, and these the ogre deduced to be the mortal ones. Though no master of logic, Chaltiford had seen enough mangled flesh and dead or dying bodies to understand the general nature of fatal injury. A long gash tore the dragon’s neck, and the ogre knew this to be the deathblow. Yet the golden wyrm had not succumbed to a weapon, for not even a dragonlance would inflict a wound so deep and wide.

  Instinctively the ogre’s eyes tilted, examining the steep face of rock stretching skyward to a high, snow-swept summit. Halfway up the cliff he saw a protuberance of rock. Dull brownish stains intermixed with a few flecks of golden scales marred the surface of that outcrop and confirmed Chaltiford’s hunch: The weakened dragon had toppled, breaking its neck in the plunge.

  Why was the dragon alone, here, when so many of its kin waged war over the plains? Of course, with its impaired wing the serpent would have been little use in the great flying formations – but then, why had it tried to ascend such a lofty and steep-sided peak? Ideas tugged at Chaltiford’s avaricious mind.

  A clattering of stones caught the ogre’s ear. Whirling, the brute raised his club and squinted along the mountainside. Several pebbles rolled out from beneath the dead serpent’s tail.

  Chaltiford crept forward, club raised. He stooped to investigate, peering into a shadowy niche where the dragon’s tail slumped over a pair of rocks.

  Two golden eyes blinked fearlessly back at him. The dragon he saw was a miniature of its mother, though at barely two feet long it held none of the fearsome majesty of the adult wyrm. Too, its wings were tiny and not yet usable. The little creature took a step forward. When the tiny head emerged from the shadows, Chaltiford brought his club down in a sharp strike, smashing the serpentine skull with a single blow.

  Then he froze, excitement tingling through his veins. Why would this dragon’s hatchling be around? The answer was obvious – somewhere nearby was the dragon’s lair!

  He saw gouges near the top of the cliff – surely the dragon’s claws had made them, scratching desperately as it lost its balance and fell. With fierce glee, he made out, above the talon marks, the shadowy outline of a cave’s mouth.

  He had found the dragon’s lair.

  Trembling with joy, Chaltiford appraised the towering mountain. To the right and left of him were more gradual shoulders of rock. These, too, were steep, but the ogre – no stranger to mountainous terrain – knew that he could climb either side. Obviously, the flightless hatchling had made the easy descent.

  The certainty that above him waited the dragon’s lair proved a powerful intoxication. A mighty serpent such as this must assuredly have been guarding a veritable hoard of treasure!

  The day’s sunlight was already fading, so the ogre forced himself to rest for the night, intending to begin the climb with the dawn. Curling up between a pair of jutting rocks – not too close to the dragon’s lifeless form – Chaltiford fell into a deep, restful sleep. His slumber was broken by pleasant dreams, in which he was surrounded by mountains of gold, which shimmered like a hundred brilliant suns.

  When he awakened, he wasted no time. He bounced to his feet, hoisted his club, started toward one of the mountain’s steep, curving shoulders, and began plodding up the rock-strewn base.

  Steadily he climbed. Behind him lay a vast panorama of mountains, ridges, and valleys. Yet the ogre’s eyes did not turn from the rocks in front of him, and he moved continually upward, toward that black hole on the mountain’s peak.

  The going was rough, and in places Chaltiford was forced to sling his club through his belt so that he could use both hands to assist his climb. Nevertheless, he had climbed many such challenging slopes – and never with such a compelling inducement.

  The lure of treasure grew vivid in the ogre’s mind. The images of his dream, shimmering mountains of gold, fevered his imagination. Riches! Chaltiford knew he was on the verge of great wealth. When he returned to his village, the ogres would chant his name, telling the tale of his triumphant accomplishment. He would have his pick of the females, he knew, and even the swaggering young males would stare dumbly in awe at the wondrous wealth of Chaltiford!

  Ogres loved gold without reason. In this, though in few other ways, they were much like dwarves. Gold seduced them, more than anything else. Just the nearness of the precious metal caused them to salivate. To possess gold overshadowed all other possible rewards.

  The ogres of Chaltiford’s village had been suffering from near-starvation when the Dark Queen’s scouts had come to recruit them for war. Yet, when offered their choice of payment, none of the humanoids had asked for food. Instead, each had desired gold. The human commanders had engaged their services for paltry nuggets. Now those tidbits would be mere baubles compared to the treasure that was about to become Chaltiford’s – and his alone!

  How much gold would he find in the great dragon’s hoard? Would there be piles of coins or trunks of nuggets? Perhaps – the very thought took his breath away – he would find a stack of gleaming ingots, each weighing as much as a kender!

  Of course, there would doubtless be gems and silver and other ornaments, and these, too, Chaltiford intended to claim. Silver would provide gifts for the wenches back home, while the other trinkets might prove useful for barter on the road. But the thought of these paled beside the gold that drew him upward.

  His mind thus occupied, Chaltiford took little note of the passing of the day. When he finally paused to reflect on his progress, he realized he had almost reached the top of the mountain – and that the sun had already dropped far into the western sky.

  From the crest of the ridge, the ogre saw the dragon’s lair – with its wide, shadowy mouth. Excitedly, the ogre started to inch toward it along a flat shelf of rock. With his long arms, he reached to grasp a tight crack in the rock wall as a handhold. Shuffling his feet sideways, he edged closer to the lair. The ledge was not very wide, and in some places Chaltiford’s heels hung suspended over a many-thousand-foot drop.

  Each step was made with painstaking care, and each move necessitated a firm handhold. In this slow fashion, Chaltiford made remarkably good time, and within an hour the shadowy, arched entrance of the cave was within reach – just slightly overhead.

  Now he strained to lift the bulk of his massive body upward. His rough-toed boots clawed at the rock, scrambling for lift, and a haze of red floated across his eyes as he grunted and gasped. With one mighty push, Chaltiford rolled up and forward and – despite the proximity of the lair – panted for several minutes before he felt ready to stand and begin plundering.

  Rising to his feet, he peered into the shadow-darkened cave. Behind him, the full glory of the Kharolis range spilled into the distance, yet his attention remained riveted on the immediate goal of the lair.

  For the first time a glimmer of fear tugged at him. He unslung the club from his belt, and the easy heft of the weapon considerably bolstered his courage. The smooth cavern floor beckoned him inward, and he carefully stepped under the arched roof.

  Quickly his eyes adjusted to the darkness. His feet crunched over brittle rocks, and he looked down to see well-chewed shards of bone covering the floor. Several skulls – of deer, mountain sheep, and elk – lay scattered about. The rest of the bones had been broken and splintered by something eager to get at the rich marrow inside.

  Another few steps brought Chaltiford within sight of a huge bundle of twigs and hide. It resembled a bird’s nest, though it could easily have held the ogre and a pair of his kinsmen. Looking within, he saw shards of eggshells.

  The nest proved beyond a doubt that this was the dragon’s lair. Somewhere within – probably in the farthest recess of the cave – Chaltiford would find the serpent’s riches. The thought sent tingles of pleasure rippling through his body, bringing goosebumps across the surface of his pale, bristle-stubbled skin.

  Crushing shell fragments beneath his boots, Chaltiford stomped through the nest and probed deeper into
the cave. The winding passageway continued inward, branching into numerous large chambers. Some of the corridors must have been uncomfortably narrow for the huge serpent, Chaltiford mused to himself.

  The ogre advanced cautiously through several of these chambers, swinging his club this way and that. His eyes, shining with avarice, strained to penetrate the gloom.

  He heard a scuttling, rodentlike sound. Whirling, he saw nothing but shadows and motionless rock. There! Something raced through the air with frightening speed, and Chaltiford yelped in surprise. Instinctively the ogre threw himself to the floor, only then realizing that he had been startled by bats. Hundreds of the tiny creatures winged overhead, flying out from the depths of the cave. In a few seconds, the plague of bats had passed.

  The ogre snorted contemptuously, dusting himself off as he rose to his feet. Again he hefted the club, feeling the reassuring weight of its grip.

  The next chamber in the cavern network proved unexpectedly large. A high ceiling, studded with iciclelike spires of dangling stone, arched well over his head. Pools of still, clear water dotted the floor. Beside these he found many fish skeletons, picked clean of meat.

  Moving through this large cave, Chaltiford thought once more that he heard something moving behind him, but he saw nothing. Transferring his club to his left hand, the ogre found a good-sized chunk of rock and hoisted it in his right fist. Still walking, he swiveled his blunt neck to the right and left, daring the darkness to show any sign of movement.

  The cave was silent as he crossed to the far end. A narrow arch led to a winding corridor, and he followed this for a dozen paces before the walls opened to each side, and he once more found himself in a large, subterranean chamber. Unlike the previous rooms, however, this portion of the cavern had no smooth floor.

  Instead, the stone before the ogre’s feet tumbled steeply away. Chaltiford could barely make out the rough, rocky bottom of a pit, some twenty or thirty feet below. The depression filled most of this cavern, though narrow, crumbling shelves of rock extended around the sides. Beyond the pit, the brutish humanoid saw the darkened archway leading to yet another underground chamber.