The History of Krynn: Vol V

by Dragon Lance

  No storm of arrows came streaming down on him, no horde of mad knights charged him. Despite the light of the torches and the relative quiet that made each of his steps sound like thunder, he went unhindered. He nearly slipped in his haste to be up the steps. Darius covered his back as he completed the last few yards of his run.

  Kaz huffed and snorted. “Well? Where is this all-knowing benefactor that you’ve supposedly led us to – or are we supposed to wait out here all night?”

  “I am standing in the doorway, minotaur, and I would suggest that you and your companions enter immediately. The night is young, and you have seen only the first signs of the madness.”

  The voice was very calm, almost matter-of-fact in its tone. How he had come to open the door and be there, none of them could say. In the glare of torchlight, their benefactor looked like little more than dark, swirling cloth and a long head of hair. There was something else in his voice that Kaz felt he should recognize, but what it was he could not say.

  Delbin obeyed the suggestion almost instantly. Not to be outdone by a kender, Darius followed, one arm protectively guarding Tesela. Kaz reluctantly followed, pausing only when he thought he heard laughter coming from the darkness out beyond the library. When it did not recur, he tried to convince himself that it was just the wind.

  The door was bolted behind them, and they got their first good look at Delbin’s friend and their rescuer. He was tall, almost as tall as Kaz, and he wore robes of silver and gray. Strangely, his hair, stretching long past his shoulders, was silver, with a patch of gray in the center, as if the clothing had been designed to match. The face was inhumanly handsome, with slightly delicate features. It was a young face, until one studied the eyes, green eyes that burned with an age almost unbelievable. Then one realized that this was no human, but an elf.

  The elf folded his hands, almost as a cleric would do. His expression held only a hint of emotion, a slight, upward curling of the mouth, which Kaz gathered must indicate a smile.

  “Welcome, my friends, to a haven in the midst of insanity. My name is —”

  “Argaen Ravenshadow!” the minotaur finished abruptly.

  Looking a bit amused, the elf nodded and said, “I think I would recall meeting a minotaur. We have not met before.”

  “No, but I did meet one of your kind who knew you well. His name’s Sardal Crystalthorn.”

  A stream of emotions flashed quickly across the elf’s visage. “Sardal. How odd to hear his name – to hear any name – after these past three years here.”

  “What is going on here?” Kaz almost bellowed. “What’s happened to Vingaard Keep and the Knights of Solamnia?”

  Argaen’s face was once more an emotionless mask, but his tone hinted of dark things. “Minotaur, you cannot imagine what you and your companions have walked into, and the odds are against you ever walking out again – at least sane.”

  Chapter 11

  Once, it appeared, this room had been a place where knights could come and pore over the records of their own past. There was still a wall of shelves containing specially preserved scrolls. The rest of the room, though, had been taken over by the elf and his work.

  “There. Do you see it?”

  Kaz followed Argaen Ravenshadow’s gaze. They stood on the upper floor of the library at a window that faced into the center of Vingaard.

  “I see it. That’s where the Grand Master lives and commands from, isn’t it?” Over five years might have gone by, but Kaz doubted his memory was that hazy.

  “It is where he now sits in a world of distorted visions, commanding an ever-decreasing band of men, each as mad as himself, and unconsciously protecting what I suspect is responsible for the insanity and the sorcery you have witnessed so far.”

  The elf stepped abruptly away from the window. Kaz remained for the moment, staring out at the circle of torches now surrounding the sanctum of the Grand Master. Darius, who, along with Tesela, had been watching from another window, followed the elf. “What is it? What has the power to turn the Grand Master himself from the path of Paladine?”

  Argaen walked over to the single table in the room, where a number of unusual and malevolent objects rested. He picked up the most ordinary, a stick that curled inward at the end, and seemed to contemplate it. He seemed to have forgotten the knight’s question. “Did Sardal mention why I was here, minotaur?”

  “With all that’s happened, I can’t really say. I don’t think so.” Kaz looked at the objects on the table. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “You may not want to, but you have to now that you are here.” The elf held up the stick, still examining it. “Harmless-looking?”

  “Since you ask, I doubt it.”

  “You would be correct. I will not go into detail, but I can tell you that this tiny item was used by some to distort the weather during the war.”

  “That thing?” Kaz recalled the unpredictable weather during his early days in the war and the terrible storm traps created by the dark mages in the final months. He recalled the one great storm that had preceded the darkness, in which the dragons of Takhisis and the monsters of Galan Dracos had passed the tattered remains of a vast Solamnic campsite. The knights themselves had been in full retreat, in what some termed the worst disaster in the history of the orders.

  “Galan Dracos either created or stole the spell to make this. It is far stronger than any I have heard of. Fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately – the only one in existence – this one – was sealed inside one of three vaults.”

  The elf was playing games, Kaz knew. It was a trait of the elder race.

  “Tell us of these vaults, Argaen Ravenshadow, and what they have to do with Galan Dracos.”

  The bell tolled again, but the elf ignored it. “The citadel of Galan Dracos, the master renegade who planned to turn even those sorcerers who followed the dark path into slaves of his ambition, was originally situated on the side of a peak in the mountains between Hylo and Solamnia.”

  “Really?” Delbin, who had remained unusually silent, perked up. “There’re ruins of a sorcerer’s castle in Hylo? Can we go there sometime? I wonder if any of my family’s been there. I should write this down!” The kender reached into his pouch for his book and instead pulled out a tiny figurine. “Where do you suppose this came from? Isn’t it neat?”

  “Give me that!” With a ferocity that stunned Delbin into silence and made the others stare wide-eyed, Argaen stalked over to the kender and tore the figurine from his hand. While the party continued to look on in shock, the elf thrust the tiny item into a pocket of his robe and glared down at Delbin. “Never touch another thing in this room! You have no idea what you might accidentally unleash! I promise you, even a kender would regret it!”

  Delbin seemed to shrivel up before Argaen’s burning eyes. Argaen took a deep breath, and for the first time, he seemed to notice the effect his tirade had had on the others. The elf put a hand to his head and frowned.

  “My … apologies to all of you! For over three years have I labored here, and while three years is not much in the physical life of an elf, it can be an eternity in other ways. Over three years of struggling to maintain sanity while those around me, already mad, have sunk ever deeper. Over three years of knowing how close the possible solution lay but being unable to do anything about it. Each day I wait for the madness to overwhelm me while I seek in vain for some way to reach the vaults and solve the secrets of the locks. Each day …” Ravenshadow closed his eyes.

  “I was telling you of the citadel of Galan Dracos,” he suddenly commented. His eyes opened, and the pain that had racked his visage was no more. The mask was back in place.

  Tesela walked over to the elf and put a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to tell us now. Perhaps later, and perhaps you might let me see what I can do.”

  “You can do nothing. This is a spell, not a wound. Trust me. I know.”

  “Are you sure —”

  He waved her away. “I am. Now if you
will let me continue …” The elf purposefully stepped away from her and nearer to Kaz. “As I was saying —”

  “I’m familiar with the citadel,” Kaz replied quietly. Images still overwhelmed him. “I was there. I rode a dragon, a fighter after my own soul. His name was Bolt. With a Dragonlance, we, along with a few others, followed Huma of the Lance to the battlements. At first we all feared we would never find the place – there was a spell of invisibility or something on it – but Dracos was betrayed by the Black Robe sorcerers, who knew that they, too, would be slaves if he triumphed.”

  Ravenshadow’s eyes lit up, but he said nothing, merely indicating with a gesture that the minotaur should go on.

  Kaz grimaced as the memories dredged up unwanted emotions. “Huma was the only one to succeed in penetrating the lair of Dracos, and it was he who fought the mage by himself, somehow winning out and shattering the renegade’s schemes.” He smiled grimly. “It seems Dracos intended even to betray his mistress, Takhisis. When he realized, though, that he’d lost, he destroyed himself rather than face the wrath of the goddess.”

  “And the stronghold?” Argaen asked.

  “Without the power of Dracos to support it,” Kaz concluded to a suddenly intent elf, “the citadel could not maintain its hold on the side of the mountain. It crashed to the earth, and that was the end of it.”

  “And there I must take over, although your story fills some gaps and is quite entertaining in itself.” Argaen picked up another object, which looked like a polished black rock. He began tossing it from one hand to the other. “You see, that was not the end of it. Despite the height from which the structure fell, much of it remained intact – a tribute, again, to the powers of Dracos.”

  “Dracos deserves no tributes … only curses.”

  Argaen gave Kaz a quick look. “As you say, minotaur. Be that as it may, not only did his citadel remain partially intact, but countless items he had either gathered from those under his control or had devised himself survived as well. They were ignored at first as the Knights of Solamnia began the process of systematically crushing the now leaderless armies of the Dragonqueen. Only when news filtered into Vingaard that mysterious happenings were taking place near the site of the ruins did the Grand Master realize the danger.”

  “The summoning,” Darius interrupted. “Five years ago the Grand Master requested aid from the southern keeps. He wanted them to help maintain the peace while those from Vingaard and some of the other northern keeps worked on some important project! Dracos’s stronghold!”

  “The stronghold,” Ravenshadow concurred. He continued to toss the smooth rock back and forth. “Lord Oswal had men scour the area. More than fourscore clerics of Paladine aided in the search, utilizing their lord’s power to seek out small yet exceedingly deadly instruments that had been buried. They gathered fragments of the more powerful items that had been shattered. I do not doubt that, as thorough as they were, a few pieces escaped their notice.”

  Kaz glanced at Delbin, whose eyes were bright. The thought of the kender returning to his people and telling them about the possible treasures in the ruins made the minotaur shiver. Dark sorcery in the hands of kender?

  “When the clerics were satisfied that they had done all they could, the gathered remnants of the relics were brought to Vingaard Keep under an armed guard so great in number that one would have thought the knights were marching on their own keep. The caravan arrived during the night, the better to avoid the close scrutiny of any spies, and the artifacts were carried down to the vaults, locked inside, and purposefully forgotten by the Grand Master and the Knightly Council.”

  What they overlooked, the elf went on to say, was that the Conclave of Wizards had its own sources of information. The mages were aghast at the thought of so many potentially dangerous objects in the care of an organization that knew so little about the balances of sorcery. In this, all three Orders of Wizardry were in agreement. It was only reasonable, though, that the Knights of Solamnia would be a bit leery about letting any magic-user touch the cursed toys of the renegade. Argument followed argument until the elven members of the conclave proposed that one of their own, a neutral who lived solely for research, study the relics.

  Argaen Ravenshadow had jumped at the opportunity.

  “More the fool, I,” the elf muttered. “Rather would I trust myself than most of my stiff-necked brethren. They would have passed into madness long ago.”

  Argaen said he had been greeted by the Grand Master upon his arrival. Lord Oswal proved to be a formidable man and one that even an elf could admire with ease. The first few weeks seemed to pass easily. While the knights would not give Argaen immediate access to the vaults, they were willing to remove the objects one by one for his inspection. As time passed, however, the elf began to notice a couple of things. The pieces he was given tended to be of lesser power than he would have expected, and it soon became obvious that someone was carefully picking and choosing what he was to study. Also, there was a growing attitude of distrust on the part of the knighthood. Not merely distrust for Argaen, but for anyone. Projects designed to rehabilitate the lands of northern Solamnia were abandoned as the Knightly Council began to see turncoats and raiders everywhere. The locals were pressed and then punished for imaginary wrongs. Most of what little the land provided was snatched up by Vingaard as the knighthood began gearing up for a return to war with a new, imagined enemy.

  All the while, the elf worked on, feeling that there was something amiss here.

  “They refused to allow me access to the lower chambers where the vaults lie, and my sole attempt to steal past the sentries and safeguards proved for naught. I learned then how well the Knights of Solamnia guarded their prizes.” Argaen had finally stopped tossing the black rock back and forth and now began to squeeze it with his left hand. Kaz, his gaze briefly moving to Ravenshadow’s hand, watched in growing amazement as the rock began to crumble under the surprising strength of the elf. “Yet, I learned one other thing in that attempt – something was alive in those vaults. Not alive in the same sense that you and I are alive, but alive in the sense of being active … as a lingering spell.”

  Darius had returned to the window as Ravenshadow spoke, his eyes fixed on the center of the keep, and specifically the building housing the Grand Master, but he turned at this final pronouncement. “Why did you not warn them, elf? The Grand Master surely would have listened carefully to a warning concerning a threat beneath his very feet!”

  “Your Grand Master was beyond reason by then, knight. He came very close to accusing me of being a spy for his enemies.” The elf glared at Darius coldly, and it was the knight who finally backed down. Argaen’s expression softened. “I know it is difficult for you to comprehend, human, but such was the case.”

  Kaz chose that moment to yawn. “I have one question for you, elf, and then I, at least, must eat and rest.”

  “How remiss of me!” Argaen Ravenshadow boomed. He looked over the others. “You all need something! I shall return in a moment.” With an abruptness that caught all of them unprepared, the elf stuffed the remains of the black rock into one of his pockets and departed the room.

  For several seconds, the party simply stared at the doorway Argaen had scurried through. Then Kaz spoke quietly. “Tesela, what do you make of our benefactor? Is he as mad as he claims the others are?”

  She thought about it and replied, “I think he still clings to sanity, but the longer he’s here, the worse it will become.”

  “He seems reluctant for your help.”

  “I am a cleric of Mishakal, and I’ve healed people’s minds. Sometimes they refuse help because they don’t want to admit their own failures. Sometimes I must do it without their knowledge.” She looked down at the medallion.

  “We are in danger ourselves, Kaz,” Darius pointed out. “If we take what Argaen Ravenshadow says as truth, then each day we are here our own minds are at risk.”

  “I know.” The minotaur snorted irritably.

&
nbsp; “Kaz?” Darius was staring out the window once more.

  “What is it?”

  “I must do what I can to save my brothers.”

  The minotaur grimaced. He knew that tone well, for Huma had used it many a time. It meant danger. It meant trying to take on the stronghold of the knighthood and possibly dying on a Solamnic blade. “You have only Argaen’s word as to what is going on.”

  Darius shook his head. “I have eyes as well, and other senses as sharp as any elf’s. You merely have to look out the window again. You can feel the threat.”

  Kaz refused to be moved. “I feel nothing but hunger and exhaustion.”

  “Kaz, in the name of the Grand Master, who is your comrade …” The knight turned to him, his eyes burning much as the minotaur’s did at times.

  Kaz would not have refused a certain other knight, and the realization made him feel guilty. “Let’s see what the daylight brings.”

  The bell tolled … once.

  *

  The minotaurs sat around a campfire whose embers were dying. They were on their way home after years of chasing what some had begun to believe was a phantom. A search of the river area had revealed neither Greel’s body nor that of the fugitive. Hecar and Helati had described in detail the battle between the two, which, in their version, ended in the drowning of both combatants as they struggled in the raging current.

  Scurn was not happy, and neither was the ogre, Molok. In different ways, their lives had totally revolved around the eventual capture and death of Kaz. Their reasons varied greatly, but their obsessions were virtually identical – and now both felt betrayed by the disappearance of their longtime adversary.

  Molok rubbed a scar on his forehead, his mind afire. Kaz was supposed to have been his, regardless of the piece of paper the minotaur leaders had given the party. Kaz would have never made the return trek east if it was up to him.

  As for Scurn, he couldn’t have cared less whether Kaz died or not, as long as it was he who had bested the coward. Even branded as he was, Kaz was still known for his strength and ability in the arenas, and it galled the disfigured minotaur to think that one like the fugitive was praised still. Scurn wanted the praise, the status, of defeating one of the former champions, a fighter who could have risen high in the ranks if he had not believed those in control to be mere puppets of Takhisis’s warlords.