The History of Krynn: Vol V

by Dragon Lance

  Something glimmered within that room, and Chaltiford’s heart pounded. His palms grew slick with sweat as he squinted, straining desperately to penetrate the gloom. His eyes slowly confirmed what his mind had dared to hope.

  The ogre’s jaw dropped in amazement. Here was gold – a small mountain of it, just as he had pictured so vividly in his imagination! Even the shadows could not conceal the luster of the smooth coins.

  Other colors glittered and teased him. He saw the lustrous green that could only mean emeralds, and many a crimson speck signified rubies. Larger objects of green and black he suspected were jade, while garnets, agates, and turquoise all added their multihued brilliance to the heaping mound of treasure.

  Chaltiford licked his lips, unaware that drool had begun to trickle down his many-folded chin. Only a supreme effort of his dim brain stopped him from flinging himself across the pit in a desperate effort to leap to the other side.

  He forced himself to look for a path around the obstacle. Either of the rubble-strewn ledges, he decided, offered a potential way. So, with a shrug of his stooped shoulders, Chaltiford headed toward the right. Peering into the pit, he noted that though its depth varied, it did not threaten a fatal fall. The bottom was strewn with irregular rocks, however, which would make for a very uncomfortable landing, so the ogre took great pains to make sure that he didn’t miss a step.

  Fortunately, there was room for him to walk without clinging to the wall with both hands, so he kept his club ready, swinging it with his left hand as he eased forward simply because the heft and feel of it reassured him and increased his confidence.

  Not that he had anything to worry about, he reminded himself.

  He heard scampering steps behind him and twisted around so that his back was against the wall. He was startled to see another minuscule dragon, leaping along the ledge just a few feet behind him. The head was no larger than a snake’s, supported by a supple, curving neck. The creature’s forefeet were tipped with sharp claws, and despite its tiny size it regarded the hulking humanoid without any obvious trace of fear.

  Chaltiford’s club smashed downward, splintering stones and scattering gravel, but the little dragon darted spryly backward before the blow struck.

  The hatchling was darn fast for such a tiny creature, the ogre admitted to himself. If that had been a rat or squirrel – creatures of comparable size – the blow would have certainly splattered it all over the ledge. Yet the dragon had seemed to disappear even as the club started its downward plunge!

  The important thing was that it had gone, Chaltiford told himself. It couldn’t have hurt him very much, but the last thing he wanted was a pesky wyrmling nipping at his heels while he made this treacherous crossing.

  Another step of his heavy boot knocked loose stones free from the ledge, and Chaltiford realized that the traverse was a little more challenging than he had first suspected. The ledge narrowed, and he was forced to turn his face to the cavern wall as he balanced on his toes for support. The rock surface was pitted and scarred with numerous cracks and holes, so at least he found plenty of handholds. He still clutched the heavy club in his left fist.

  Irritatingly, the little dragon had appeared once again, scampering behind him on the ledge. It stood, a miniature image of its mother, staring upward at the ogre from about ten feet away. Tiny wings unfurled, flapping awkwardly, though – like its sibling down by the mother’s corpse – Chaltiford knew the creature was still too young to fly. A tiny, forked tongue slipped between needle sharp teeth, and the creature’s eyes glowed with a strange urgency.

  There was enough menace in those little fangs for the humanoid to consider turning back and chasing the creature off the ledge – or preferably killing it – before he continued on to claim the treasure.

  But the nearness of that gilded mound proved too strong a lure. With a sharp kick, the ogre sent the wyrmling scrambling away. Only then did Chaltiford continue his cautious traverse of the ledge. Loose stones tumbled away with each step, and the ogre concentrated on maintaining a tight grip with his free hand while he carefully examined the footing below.

  More noises scratched the ledge behind him. Cursing, the huge humanoid wished he had left the club in his right hand – the hatchling was close by, but the ogre’s precarious balance made it difficult for him to transfer the weapon. Even so, with his toes wedged firmly against the ledge, Chaltiford reached around behind himself to pass the club to his other hand. Now he raised the knobby stick, waiting for the little dragon to move just a tad closer.

  Yet the creature hung back, regarding him with those penetrating eyes. Again the ogre almost started after it, but he knew by now that the wyrmling could flee far faster than the humanoid could pursue. Instead, Chaltiford turned back toward his goal, relieved at least that he was about halfway around the pit.

  Once again he heard that familiar clattering of claws on stone – but this time the sound originated in front of him. On the ledge in his path another little dragon sat patiently, well out of striking range. And even if the serpent had been closer to him, Chaltiford snorted angrily, once again he held the accursed club in the wrong hand!

  Of course, this hatchling wasn’t about to stop him either! Grimly, the ogre continued on, kicking the ledge clear of loose rubble. His face was pressed close to the stone wall, and out of the corner of his eye he saw that the first wyrmling had again followed him onto the ledge.

  Cursing, Chaltiford made out the outlines of several more little dragons, cautiously emerging from the darkness behind their bold sibling. When he twisted his face back to the left, he saw that more of the hatchlings had joined the one that blocked his forward path.

  There was no doubt in the ogre’s mind as to his course of action – he had to go forward. That treasure still beckoned, and he was not about to be deprived of his rightful reward. The insignificant lizards regarded him with huge, fascinated eyes, but made no move to retreat as he drew closer. Waving his club at the serpents to his rear, he again propped himself on his toes and reached his hands around his back to transfer the weapon to his other side.

  It was then that he noticed the tiny dragon crouched in the shadows of a crevice right before his face.

  Chaltiford blinked, crossing his eyes to focus on the serpent barely a foot from his nose. Tiny jaws gaped, showing an array of truly large teeth.

  The wyrmling’s eyes flashed wickedly as it gulped a huge breath. Golden scales bulged outward on the swelling chest, and then a small puff of flame belched from the serpent’s widespread mouth. Fire seared Chaltiford’s face, burning away his eyebrows and sizzling the skin of his bulbous nose.

  With a bellow of pain, Chaltiford lunged away from the dragon – and away from the ledge upon which he stood. Tumbling backward, he flailed through the air until he crashed onto a pile of jagged boulders that comprised the floor of the pit. Bones snapped in his legs and shoulders, while his club clattered to the ground some distance away.

  And again he heard that sound – the clicking of tiny claws against the stone. Even blinded by fire, the ogre could easily locate the dragons by the clicking sounds. The hatchlings were creeping closer, climbing down the walls of the pit with no apparent difficulty.

  Agony tore at Chaltiford’s body, but he could do little more than groan. None of his limbs responded to the desperate commands from his mind. Though he strained to see, his eyes refused to function.

  Instead, he listened in horror as the serpents advanced. They came from all around him, a hideous parody of the golden coins that had surrounded him in his dream.

  Now he understood that peculiar urgency he had sensed in the hatchlings’ eyes. The dragons’ expression was only natural, he realized as he gritted his teeth in pain. After all, their mother was dead, and they had been left alone in the lair for a long time. The explanation was a simple one:

  They were hungry.

  The Legend of Huma

  (1020 PC)

  Prologue

  It is very rare that I,
Astinus, Master Historian of Krynn, find myself penning a personal note for inclusion in my chronicles. I have done so only once in recent memory, that being after the mage Raistlin came within a breath of becoming an all-powerful deity, mightier even than Paladine and Takhisis. He failed, else I probably would not be writing this, but it was a failure deserving of note.

  While commenting on that incident, I came to realize that a vicious error had been discovered in my older volumes. By the handwriting, I suspect that one Paulus Warius, an assistant of mine some three centuries before and notable more for his clumsiness than his ability to keep records, must have accidentally destroyed part of some three or four older volumes and then replaced the damaged pages with what he assumed were correct copies. They were not.

  The error concerns the transitory period between what are now called the Age of Light and the Age of Might. Ergoth, for instance, was a much older empire than is noted in the false history. Vinas Solamnus in fact commanded Ergoth’s armies by 2692 P. C., not fourteen centuries later as the false history claims. The Second Dragon War, noted incorrectly as a Second and Third war by Warius because it lasted more than forty-five years, ended in 2645 P. C. It was here I first learned of the grave mistakes, for I had opened the pages concerning those last few years in order to make reference to Huma, Knight of Solamnia, a man of very mortal flesh who faced and defeated Takhisis, goddess of evil, the Dragonqueen. I had intended, after the end of the Second Dragon War, to note Huma’s exploits but, as it always happens, my mind was on my work.

  I have spent more time with this than I had originally allotted myself. Perhaps it is because I, too, felt some relief after that struggle, for I had been ready to close the final volume of this world’s history at one point. It would have been a shame, as my collection at that time consisted of only a few hundred thousand volumes. For this alone I remember Huma.

  His story, fortunately, is still intact in this volume, and I will let that speak for him.

  Astinus of Palanthas360 A. C.

  Chapter 1

  The army passed through a village on its way northwest to Kyre. The village, called Seridan, had been set upon by plague, starvation, and madness, each seeming to take turns and each killing many of the inhabitants. In a lifetime long ago, the village had been prosperous. Now, shacks and makeshift shelters stood where clay brick buildings had fallen to the raids of bold goblins and marauding dark dragons. For some reason, the village had never been destroyed. It just continued to waste away – much like the people who tried to exist there.

  The appearance of a column of knights did little to cheer the village. In fact, the inhabitants seemed to feel more than a little resentment at the way the riders and footsoldiers paraded through the mud track that was all the village could call a road. The strife-worn residents felt resentment for the way of life they assumed the Knights of Solamnia led, a way of life that they believed must be better than what each of them faced daily.

  At the head of the column, resplendent in his chain and plate armor, rode Lord Oswal of Baxtrey. The intricate pattern of roses displayed on his breastplate revealed him to be a member of the Solamnic order that took that same flower for its symbol. The purple cloak that flowed behind him was attached by a clasp bearing the likeness of a kingfisher with its wings partly spread and a crown above its head. Below the bird, grasped tight in its claws, was a sword with a rose atop it.

  Most of the knights were clad as Lord Oswal, although their armor was much more worn and their cloaks tended to be plain in comparison with their commander’s. Lord Oswal’s cloak was a sign of his rank – High Warrior, master of the Order of the Rose, and currently second in command to the Grand Master, he who ruled the knighthood itself.

  As they rode, the High Warrior glanced quickly at the rider to his side. They might have been from the same mold, with their hawklike features and the long flowing mustaches that were popular among the knights. Oswal’s features, though, were tempered by age and a truer understanding of the world he lived in, whereas the other, younger by some twenty-odd years, still held steady to the belief that his was the hand that would change the world. They were, in fact, related. Bennett was his nephew and son of Trake, the Grand Master himself. The arrogance so set in Bennett’s face indicated that he already saw himself as his father’s successor.

  Lord Oswal hoped Bennett would learn temperance by then. The young knight was of the mind that the knights followed the will of Paladine and, therefore, that they would triumph because their cause was just. Lord Oswal knew that that was not always the case.

  The expressions of the younger knights in procession were carefully prepared, emotionless masks. Soon enough they would learn the cruel facts of the world. Lord Oswal knew that the younger knights – and many older ones – still saw themselves as heroes – heroes for a world already lost.

  One, in particular, Lord Oswal thought, and opened his mouth to shout.

  “Rennard! Up front!”

  Huma watched the tall, almost gaunt knight ride forward. If Lord Oswal wished to speak to Rennard, then something was afoot. That something might involve Huma himself, for Rennard seemed to watch him keenly – although Huma was already blooded. Perhaps, like Huma himself, Rennard still believed that here was one who never should have been accepted into the ranks.

  Huma bounced as his warhorse stumbled in the mud. The visor of his helmet slammed down in front of his face, startling him. He reached up and raised it, allowing the cool wind to bite at his handsome, if somewhat weathered, features. Though his mustache was not as grand as that of Bennett or the High Warrior, there was some dignity in the slight gray that prematurely touched it and the rest of the hair on his head. His visage was surprisingly soft – so much so that the others occasionally commented on his youth, although not when he was nearby.

  Huma could not help staring at the grimy, torn clothing of Seridan’s women and children. Even his own armor, worn as it was and much less intricately decorated than that of Lord Oswal, seemed made of gold when compared to what they had. Their rags hung loosely, and Huma wondered how often these people ate and how much – and what they ate, for that matter. The rebellious part of his nature wanted to take his pack from the saddle and throw it to the villagers. Let them have the rations stored in there. It probably would be the best meal they had eaten in weeks.

  “Keep up, you!” the knight behind him growled – and Huma realized how close he had actually come to giving away his rations. He knew it was wrong, as the knighthood rules proclaimed, but it was still a strong desire. Another sign of his inadequacies, he thought with a sigh, and wondered why his petition to join the knighthood ever had been granted.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Rennard. Like Huma, the older knight carried a shield whose markings proclaimed his place in the Order of the Crown. Rennard, though, had many years of practical experience and therefore was a commander in his own right. His visor hid all but the two piercing, ice-blue eyes and only hinted at the face. Rennard had few friends even among the Order of the Crown.

  Rennard returned Huma’s stare, then looked at the section as a whole. “Gaynor. Huma. Trilane. …” He barked eight names in all. “Break from the column for patrol duty.”

  The words betrayed no emotion. Rennard was methodical, a strategist of high caliber. One could not ask for a better leader in time of combat. Nevertheless, his presence always seemed to chill some part of Huma’s soul.

  “Lord Oswal wants the dead woods to the south searched over. Possibly goblins, maybe the ogres. We have to return to the column before sunset.” Briefly, Rennard looked up at the perpetually overcast sky. Always, it seemed about to rain, but it never did. “Before total darkness. We do not want to be in the woods at night. Not this close to the western border. Understood?” When the knights assented, he turned his horse, a tall, pale animal much like its rider, and signaled the others to follow.

  In minutes, thankfully, they were far away from Seridan. The ground was hard and easier for the mou
nts to trod upon. That was not surprising – the fire, which had killed much of the forest they rode toward, had baked the nearest fields. No food would grow here for years to come.

  It was all so useless sometimes, Huma thought. Where was Paladine? Huma wondered that the god could allow this to happen, and he glanced at the ashy stubs of trees as the patrol rode along. Krynn might as well be in the claws of Takhisis already, the way things were going.

  He clamped his mouth tight. That he dared call himself a knight after thoughts such as that!

  As they reached the first patch of gnarled, twisted trees, the knights lowered their visors. From a distance, they might have looked like demons, for the horns or wings that decorated the sides of each knight’s helmet were now more evident. The more elaborate, the higher the rank, save in Rennard’s case. Typical of his ways, he had only a crest that rode from the front all the way down the back.

  The woods were but one more sorry victim of the seemingly endless war that had razed the continent of Ansalon. Huma wondered what this land had looked like before the Dragonqueen’s creatures had ravaged it. The dead trees gave the woods an evil look. The patrol was unusually tense. Eyes darted here and there, as each knight sought a foe behind the blackened trunks.

  Huma clutched at the hilt of his sword. For a brief moment, a motion seemed to catch his eye. A wolf? In this barren land? As the knights moved on, he noted no new movement. Nerves. There was no life in these woods. There was nothing but sorrow.

  Rennard called for a halt with the raising of one hand. Even he did not seem to wish to speak, as if the sound would release an unwanted presence.

  “Spread out. You four to my right,” he said, gesturing at Huma and three others. “The rest to my left.” He drew his sword.