Dagger in one hand and gem in the other, the cleric of Chemosh faced the undead leviathan surging toward them. Stel appeared to have confidence in himself, if no one else did. Raising the gem high, the black-robed cleric began to shout words of power. The hand with the dagger rose over the chest of Vandor Grizt.
It was then that the world turned about. Vandor Grizt was not certain of the order of events, but suddenly the storm burst into full fury, sending the ship keeling over in the opposite direction. At least one minotaur was washed overboard by a massive wave. A bolt of lightning struck one of the masts, cracking it in two. The burning wreckage crashed down on the hapless crew.
More than a dozen tentacles wrapped around the Tauron and began to drag it under.
Stel stood frozen, disbelief registered in every bone of his body. He dropped the dagger, much to the captive's relief, and clawed at the tiny skull pendant. As he pulled it free, it crumbled.
The TAURON was beginning to break up, as the tentacles threatened to crunch it. Captain Kruug and several minotaurs rushed forward, attacking the creature with heavy axes. The rotting skin of the behemoth gave way. It took the minotaurs only a few blows to sever the one tentacle and only a couple more to cut a second in two.
Unfortunately, as Kruug and his men finished the second, a dozen more ensnared their ship.
"All hands to battle!" roared the captain. Minotaurs all over the TAURON abandoned their stations and joined the fight against the beast.
Another wave washed over the front of the ship. Vandor's left arm was nearly torn from its socket and something like an army of blades tore at his flesh. He was being flayed. In desperation, he lifted one foot and kicked. His boot struck something solid. He kicked again.
The blades pulled free of his flesh. Only when the first shock subsided did he realize that the sivak draconian — the cursed shapechanger — was no longer holding him. He looked around but saw no sign of the foul reptile. The draconian had been washed overboard. At least he had succeeded in avenging himself on the creature that had killed his friend and captured him.
A brief satisfaction was all he was allowed. Then, it was a matter of struggling for his own life. Another wave washed over the ship. The other draconian released Vandor and fled, slipping and sliding, for the TAURON'S interior, choosing self-survival over the orders of the cleric.
Stel had moved to one side and was holding onto the rail, eyes wild. He was shouting something at the leviathan but his words were having no effect. Desperate, the gaunt priest whirled on the silent figures of the merchant's ancestors and made a sign.
The undead shuffled forward, forming a half-circle around the cleric.
Struggling to maintain his own hold on the rail, Vandor Grizt sought some sort of escape. To stay aboard the ship was folly in his opinion, but the Blood Sea offered the only other option.
"Shinare," he whispered, "is there anything I can offer you?"
Kruug, axe covered in a brown, thick muck, was trying to get his crew's attention.
"Prepare to abandon ship!" Kruug glanced around and spotted Vandor. Grimacing, the minotaur called, "I'll not leave even you to this, manling! Get over to the — "
A tentacle struck the captain. Kruug flew over the other side of the ship and, as Vandor watched helplessly, the beastman dropped into the water and vanished beneath.
The Tauron began to shudder and crack.
This is the end for all of us! Vandor thought.
His undead ancestors had formed a tighter ring around the cleric. No longer were they the blindly obedient slaves that Stel had summoned. They had the prefect pinned against the rail and were closing the circle around him.
Chemosh will understand… Stel had said that over and over. Chemosh — Lord of the Undead — had not been as understanding as his servant imagined.
One of the wraiths, the skeleton in armor, reached out and tore the mask from the cleric's face. The skeletal hand closed over Stel's throat. Stel screamed horribly. The other undead closed around him.
A gigantic wave swamped the Tauron.
Vandor Grizt lost his hold, falling overboard. The sea took him. He could no longer see the TAURON and for all he knew it had been pulled under after the last wave. Water was all there was in the world. It surrounded him; it filled him.
Then he saw a woman, a beautiful but fiery creature of the depths. She was reaching for him, but something… no SOMEONE — another woman
… was pulling him away from her.
Vandor Grizt smiled vaguely at the first woman, regretting that their liaison was not possible.
Then, he was no more.
Vandor Grizt discovered he did not like the taste of sand.
Raising his head, an act that strained to the limit what few resources he had left, he spat out a grainy mouthful.
Vandor kept his eyes closed. He was not at all certain he wanted to know where he was. After all, if he were dead, he might be in the domain of Zeboim… or worse.
Curiosity got the better of him.
All he saw was a beach. Daytime. Brilliant light nearly blinded him. Closing his eyes, he restarted the process, allowing himself only a narrow gap of vision at first.
He allowed that gap to widen when he saw the feet in front of him. They were not human feet.
"So you survived," rumbled a horribly familiar voice. "Some god truly watches over you, human…"
Vandor Grizt rolled over, the best he could do at the moment, and stared at the looming bestial countenance of Captain Kruug. After a moment, Vandor became aware of the presence of three other minotaurs, one of whom leaned heavily on another.
Vandor tried to speak, coughed and spit up sea water.
Kruug snorted. He looked tired. Very tired. "Save your words, human. I've no interest in you. Anyone who survived that folly… and I'm amazed there are any of us… deserves some peace." The minotaurs started to turn away, but the captain held back long enough to add, "If you'll take my advice, you'll go inland. deep inland. If I see your ugly face again, I might remember how I lost my ship because of you."
Although he had a somewhat different perspective on the recent events, Grizt did not think it wise to argue. He watched in silence as the battered foursome stumbled off.
"You're lucky, Vandor Grizt," he said as he lay there trying to regain enough strength to move on. "The bullman must be right: some god does smile on me!" The thought comforted him. If that was true — and it certainly seemed so — then it might be a wise time to begin a new life.
Grizt started to rise, but felt something under his left hand. He dug the object out of the sand and stared long at it.
It was the upper portion of Stel's skull mask — an eyehole and part of the cheek. Vandor smiled. His ancestor had bequeathed him a present.
Vandor dropped the battered mask and, finding new strength, rose to his feet. He looked around and saw that the minotaurs were still within sight, their pace slowed by the injured member.
Vandor Grizt ran after them, calling out in order to get their attention. Kruug turned around, his fists balled tight. When he saw who it was, his anger was replaced by annoyance.
"What do you want? I thought I told you — "
"Please!" Vandor Grizt put up both hands in placation. "Just a question of directions. That is all I ask. You know this region much better than I."
"All right. Where is it you want to go?"
Trying not to sound too anxious, Vandor asked, "Would you happen to know the way to the nearest temple of Shinare?"
The Vingaard Campaign
Douglas Niles
From the Research of Foryth Teel, Senior Scribe in the service of Astinus, Master Lorekeeper of Krynn.
Most Gracious Historian, you do me too much honor! To think of this task — the study of the greatest military campaign in the post-Cataclysm history of Krynn — and to realize that you have selected me to prepare the documents! I am honored, humbled. But, as always, I shall endeavor to do my best, so that the truth can be recor
ded and saved.
Thank you too, Excellency, for your concern about my health following my previous mission. My nerves have settled and the tremors have almost disappeared from my hands. Also, I am able to sleep for several hours at a time without suffering the recurrence of nightmares.
As always, a return to my work seems to promise the most complete cure — and in this assignment, Your Grace, you could not have provided a more perfect medicine. The tale of the Vingaard Campaign! The very phrase strikes a martial note in my soul! I hear the clash of steel, the thunder of hooves and the strident call of the battle trumpet! I imagine the wings of dragons, good and evil, blotting out the sky. I picture the blasts of powerful magicks, the gallant charge of the knights!
But forgive me. I have not forgotten that the historian is a dispassionate reporter of the truth. Such flights of fancy are for poets, not scholars such as I. I shall try to control my emotions. Nevertheless, as I relate the exciting story of a young elven princess who changed the face of Krynn in a few short weeks — the sharp, dangerous attacks that baffled her foes, the fast marches across the plains placing her miles from her supposed location, and of course, her epic victory at Margaard Ford — I trust that Your Excellency will forgive an occasional exclamatory aside.
In studies, I will examine the topic primarily from the viewpoint of the Army of Solamnia. The records of the dragonarmies were relatively well kept, and have been researched by many scribes. The campaigns from the Golden General's side, on the other hand, have only been discussed in the histories of the Knights of Solamnia. To read them, one might think that the contributions of the good dragons to these battles was merely to fan the battlefield with their wings, cooling the sweat from the brows of the hard-riding knights to whom the laurels really belonged! In my own reports, I shall strive for a greater degree of objectivity — as befits a proper historian.
I now commence my task in the musty library of the High Clerist's Tower at Westgate Pass. Extensive records from a variety of sources have yielded themselves to my diligence. Gunthar Uth Wistan's account, formulated on the distant island of Ergoth from reports received by that venerable captain from his knights in the field, proves surprisingly complete — and accurate. (He does a remarkable job, Excellency, of separating the wheat from the chaff as regards the reports received from his enthusiastic warriors!) The records of the interviews conducted with the captured dragonarmy general Bakaris also shed a good light on the campaign. Also, I have been afforded the aid of a hitherto unknown source: a young human female named Mellison (no surname, apparently), self-appointed servant of the general. I have found the tattered remnants of a diary she kept during the short period of the campaign (it is amazing in the extreme to think that this sweeping series of battles lasted a mere twenty days!).
Mellison had been born and raised in a small village on the Plains of Solamnia. When the dragons came, her community was scorched, and her parents slain (or, perhaps, taken as slaves). Mellison, alone from the village, managed to escape to the shelter of the High Clerist's Tower and, eventually, Palanthas.
I do not know how she met the elf woman who would become the Golden General — those pages, at the start of Mellison's diary, have been destroyed. However, by the time Laurana had been appointed by Gunthar Uth Wistan, Grand Master of Solamnia, to command the knights and the army of Palanthas, the human girl had attached herself to the elf woman.
Mellison proved very useful to the general, preparing Laurana's tent for those nights when the general was able to steal a few hours' sleep; and Mellison always fanned a blaze into light for her mistress's predawn awakenings. Though the young woman participated in none of the battles, her observations of Laurana's campfire councils have provided us with key insights into the development of the campaign.
The first of these discussions occurred on the field below this very tower, and it is here that Mellison gives us a picture of Laurana's council of war. Present were the elf woman, the two Knights of the Crown — Sirs Patrick and Markham — who served as her chief lieutenants, and two unnamed knights of the other orders. Mellison refers to them, in her childlike hand, as "Lord Sword" and "Sir Rose." Gilthanas — Laurana's brother and proud prince of the Qualinesti elves — also attended.
(Incidentally, Your Grace, the letters sent by Gilthanas to his brother Porthios provide us an additional primary source on this campaign, especially as it was seen from an elven point of view.)
Of course, the context of the meeting is well known: the dragonarmy known as the Blue Wing had been blunted (but not destroyed) in the Battle of the High Clerist's Tower. These troops, under the command of the Dark Lady — the Highlord Kitiara — and her general, Bakaris, had fallen back upon Dargaard Keep, where they represented a significant threat. The good dragons had arrived here following that battle, on the day preceding Laurana's council of war. These mighty serpents, of gold and silver, brass, copper and bronze, had at last ended their exile from the war. Brought to Palanthas by Gilthanas and the great silver dragon called Silvara, they were anxious to exact vengeance against their evil cousins.
Though the numbers of dragons and troops in Laurana's force equaled a mere fraction of the total evil forces, she had the advantage of concentration — all of her forces were here, in the pass, while those of the enemy — the Red Wing, portions of the Green and White Wings, and the remnants of the Blue Wing — were scattered over Solamnia from Vingaard and Caergoth to Kalaman and Neraka. Also, a huge reserve army under the command of Emperor Ariakus himself had spent the winter encamped in Sanction. Recent rumors placed the dragonarmy on the march, however, though Laurana and her captains had no idea of its location or destination.
The time was night, a council fire flared high. Mellison reports that its light was reflected in gold and silver gleams from the massive dragons crouched just beyond the human commanders.
"We can hold them here forever!" stated Sir Rose, opening the council. "With the dragons and the men of Palanthas to back us up, the knights will form an unbreakable wall!"
"Hold them, indeed," agreed Sir Patrick. "If they dare to attack again, we'll butcher them to the last scale-faced draconian! Don't you agree, general?" Grudgingly he turned to Laurana for confirmation. Of the Crown Knights, he had been most reluctant to accept her leadership — yet the orders of Gunthar Uth Wistan had thus far proven sufficient to steel him to his duty.
"I have no intention of holding them here, or anywhere!" declared Laurana, with that shake of her head that set her golden hair flowing about her shoulders.
"What is your plan?" inquired Markham, with his easy grin that somewhat lightened the tension.
"We attack." Laurana spoke the two words, and then paused to fix her eyes on each of her listeners. She seemed to grow in stature as the firelight flared across her fair skin, her almond-shaped eyes. "The Army of Solamnia will advance under the wings of the good dragons, seek out the dragonarmies, and destroy them!"
"Leave the pass unguarded?" sputtered Sir Rose. "After this great victory, you risk throwing everything… the lives, the — "
Laurana's reply was sharp and bitter. "I know very well the cost in lives!" she snapped with enough force to shut the mouth of the grizzled veteran. For a moment she closed her eyes. Mellison saw the sharp pain of memory etched across Laurana's face. Gilthanas placed a comforting hand on his sister's arm, but she shrugged it away. She took a breath and continued.
"Nothing could be more wasteful of those lives than for us to cower here, behind these walls, and give the dragonarmies time to concentrate their scattered forces. No, my captains, we won't wait for them to act. It is time this war came back against those who began it!"
"Where do we go, then?" inquired Sir Rose. "Do we advance south, toward Solanthus? Or eastward, to threaten the occupation forces at Vingaard? Both of these courses allow us this fortress as a base. Too, they keep the Vingaard River as a strong barrier between us and the bulk of the enemy — the option to fall back in the event of…" He did not complete his
speculation; something in the general's eyes silenced him.
"Vingaard," Laurana announced. "But not as a threat — 1 mean to liberate it. As to the river, I want this entire army across it within a week."
"Beyond the Vingaard?" Patrick was shocked, but his eyes measured the elf woman with surprise and new appraisal. "Into the heart of the dragonrealms?"
"The dragonarmies will meet us there, in force," Markham said cautiously. "Do you intend to draw them into a battle? Destroy them on the field?"
"That will be an historic moment!" Lord Sword declared, his face flushing and his long mustaches bobbing at the prospect. A fierce light entered his eyes. "To drive our lances into the faces of those beasts, for once — instead of merely standing our ground!"
Laurana smiled, too, but it was a grim expression to Mellison. She thought it made the elf woman look much older. "Yes — I will draw them into battle. The first of many. Once we've crossed the river, I don't intend to rest until we reach the gates of Kalaman!"
"Kalaman!" Sir Rose sputtered so much that his mustaches floated out from his mouth. They all knew that the distant city was in desperate straits, following a long winter of isolation and siege. Still, hundreds of miles of enemy territory lay between themselves and Kalaman.
"You're mad!" barked Patrick.
Laurana allowed the insult to pass, but this time her brother stepped forward. "The good dragons give us a striking force that you knights can't begin to imagine!" countered the tall elf. "We cannot waste them!"
"What about Dargaard?" asked Markham, turning to Laurana. "That's a powerful bastion across your path — the Dark Lady is there in force, together with the dragons of her Blue Wing. The ogres of Throtl are supported by green dragons, and they're certain to mass against your south flank."
"I intend to ignore Dargaard, for the time being. The ogres we'll meet, and defeat."
The War of the Lance t2-3 Page 25
