Darkness & Light

by Paul B. Thompson

  Stutts put his hand out to Wingover. Wingover stared at the open palm. "Come, come, give me the flint," Stutts said.

  "I haven't got the flint," his colleague replied.

  "I gave it to you when you went off on your march."

  "No, you didn't. Maybe you gave it to one of the others."

  A quick poll of the remaining gnomes failed to turn up any flint.

  "This is ridiculous! Who made the fires while we were on our own?" asked Kitiara.

  Fitter raised a hand timidly. "Bellcrank," he said.

  Stutts clapped a hand to his head. "He had the flint!"

  "I think so," said Wingover, looking at his dusty, worn-out shoes.

  "Not to worry, little friends," said a voice from above.

  With amazing silence, Cupelix drifted down the shaft to alight on the nearest ledge. "Fire is what we dragons do best."

  Kitiara and the gnomes took shelter in the far corner of the obelisk, after first taking the precaution of dragging the Cloudmaster aside as well. Cupelix raised his long, scaly neck and inhaled so sharply that the air shrieked into his nostrils. The gnomes flattened themselves against the wall.

  Cupelix raked his wing claws back and forth across his brass cheeks, throwing out cascades of sparks. Then Cupelix exhaled, hard, through the fountain of sparks. His breath caught fire with a dull 'whuffing' sound, and streamed down over the kindling. Thick smoke roiled out of the hearth, followed by lighter white smoke, then flame. His great convex chest almost inverted from the exhalation, Cupelix ceased his fire-making. Smoke drifted in the still air, rising to hidden heights of the tower.

  "Come along," said Stutts. With a cheer, the gnomes hurried to their tools. They laid out all the scrap metal they'd liberated from Rapaldo's horde - copper tree nails and iron brackets, bronze chain and tin buckets. All of it was going under the hammer, to be recast and reforged into engine parts. The interior of the obelisk rang with the sound of steel and iron melding together. The firelight cast distorted, monstrous shapes on the marble walls. The monsters were the gnomes, toiling around the fire.

  Kitiara slipped past the busy little men and went outside.

  The cool air washed over her like a splash of fresh water.

  Over the head-high wall that the Micones had built she could see the cold stars. Faint streaks of haze crossed the sky, lit by a distant light source. She walked slowly around the obelisk's massive base and found Sturm, gazing up at the blue-white splendor of Krynn.

  "Rather pretty," she said, stopping behind him.

  "Yes, it is," he said noncommittally.

  "I keep wondering if we will ever get back there."

  "We will. I feel it, here." Sturm tapped his chest. "And it i, confirmed by these visions of mine. They seem to show the future."

  Kitiara managed a mildly crooked grin. "You didn't hap pen to see me on Krynn while you were perusing the future, did you? I'd like to know that I'll make it back, too."

  Sturm tried to summon up an image of Kit from his memory. All he got for his effort was a stabbing pain in the chest.

  He coughed and said, "I'm worried, Kit. Are we right to deal with this dragon? The gods and heroes of ancient times were wise - they knew men and dragons could not coexist. That's why the beasts were killed or banished."

  Chill forgotten, Kitiara planted a foot in the rising bank of red soil. "You surprise me," she said. "You, who are educated and tolerant of most creatures, advocating hatred for all dragons, even one of good lineage, like Cupelix."

  "I'm not advocating hatred. I just don't trust him. He wants something from us."

  "Should he help us for nothing?"

  Sturm tugged fitfully at the ends of his mustache. "You just don't see, Kit. Anyone with power, be he dragon, goblin, gnome or human, is not going to relinquish that power merely to help others. That's the evil of power, and anyone or anything who has it is tainted by it."

  'You're wrong!" she said with verve. "Wrong! A cruel man is cruel no matter what his station in life; but many dragons skilled in magic were aligned with good. It is the heart and soul that are the seats of good or evil. Power is something else. To have power is to live. To lose it is to exist as something less than you are."

  He listened to this short tirade in mute astonishment.

  Where was the Kit he once knew, the fun-loving, passionate woman who could laugh at danger? The Kit who carried herself with the pride of a queen, even when she had only a few coppers in her pocket?

  "Where is she?" he said aloud. Kitiara asked him what he meant. "The Kit I knew in Solace. The good companion.

  The friend."

  Hurt and anger flowered in her eyes. "She is with you."

  He could sense the anger radiating from her, like heat from a hearthstone. She turned and disappeared around the corner of the obelisk.

  * * * * *

  The gnomes forged a massive lever switch of iron and copper, and converted the rest of the scrap into huge couplings that could be clamped over the severed cables in the Cloudmaster and closed by great iron hooks. This work took most of the night, and when it was done, Rainspot pre-cipitated a short shower inside the obelisk to quench the fire and dispel the pall of smoke that hung over everything.

  Cupelix watched it all from his perch, never questioning, hardly even moving for nine and a half hours. Afterward, the tired gnomes climbed the ramp into the ship for a rest, leaving Cupelix to admire their work.

  Sturm looked over the metalwork, too, as he idly ate his supper of dried spear plant and cold beans. Cupelix teased him with magically produced haunches of roast pig and pitchers of sweet cream, but Sturm stolidly ignored the proffered treats.

  "You're a stubborn fellow," said the dragon, as Sturm continued to munch his meager fare.

  "Principles are not to be cast aside whenever they become inconvenient," he replied.

  "Principles don't fill empty belly".

  "Nor does magic salve an empty heart."

  "Very good!" exclaimed Cupelix. "Let us trade proverbs that contradict each other; that's a worthy entertainment."

  "Some other time. I'm not in the mood for games," said Sturm with a sigh.

  "Ah, I see the fair face of Mistress Kitiara in this," said the dragon with a mischievous lilt in his voice. "Do you pine for her, my boy? Shall I put in a good word for you?"

  "No!" Sturm snapped. "You really are quite irritating sometimes."

  "Inasmuch as I've had no one to talk to for nearly three millennia, I admit my etiquette is sorely underdeveloped.

  "Still," said Cupelix, "this presents you with the opportunity to inform me. I would be as polite and genteel as a knight.

  Will you teach me?"

  Sturm stifled a yawn. "It isn't manners or gentility taught by the fireside that makes a knight. It's long study and training, living by the Oath and the Measure. Such things cannot be taught in light conversation. Besides, I doubt that you genuinely want to learn anything; you're just looking for diversion."

  "You're so untrusting," said Cupelix. "No, don't deny it! I can hear it in your mind before you speak. How can I convince you of my true good will, Sir Doubter?"

  "Answer me this: Why are you, a fully grown brass dragon, permanently confined to this tower, on this strange and magic-ridden moon?"

  "I am Keeper of the New Lives," said Cupelix.

  "What does that mean?"

  The dragon darted his snaky neck from side to side, as though looking for nonexistent eavesdroppers. "I guard the repository of my race." When Sturm continued to look blank, Cupelix said loudly, "Eggs, my dear, ignorant mortal! The eggs of dragons lie in caverns beneath this obelisk.

  It is my task to watch over them and protect them from insensate brutes like yourself." His great mouth widened in a grin. "No offense intended, of course."

  "None taken."

  Sturm looked at the floor, light red and veined with dark wine streaks. He tried to imagine the nest of dragon eggs below, but he could not grasp it.

  "How do the
y come to be here l The eggs, I mean," he said.

  "I do not know for certain. I was born here, you see, and grew from dragonlet to maturity within these walls. Out of eggs, mine was chosen to hatch and live as guardian, as the Keeper of the New Lives."

  Sturm's mind boggled. He lowered himself to the floor.

  "Who deposited the eggs and built the tower?" he asked.

  "I have a theory," said Cupelix, consciously mimicking the gnomes. "Three thousand years ago, when dragons were banished from Krynn, the evil ones were driven by Paladine to the Great Nullity, the negative plane, where they were to remain until doomsday. The dragons aligned with the forces of good left the lands of man as well. Paladine made a pact with Gilean, a neutral god who was sympathetic to our plight, and arranged for a number of good dragon eggs to be collected and deposited here, to serve as sentinels for when the evil ones returned. He caused the tower to be raised and hatched me."

  "How many types of dragon eggs lie below?"

  "Some of the brass, bronze, and copper clans, in the number of 496. It is the collected spirit of these unborn dragons that provides the magic that saturates Lunitari."

  "Four -" Sturm shifted on his haunches, as if he could feel the movement of so many creatures below the thick marble slab. So many!

  "When will they hatch?" asked Sturm.

  "Tomorrow or never." Sturm pressed for a better answer, and Cupelix said, "A veil of dormancy laid down by Gilean lies over the entire cache. It will take a god, or a mighty spell, to lift the veil and cause the eggs to hatch. Now you know all about me," added Cupelix. "Do you trust me?"

  "Almost. Could I see the eggs?"

  Cupelix scratched his shiny chest with one of his foreclaws and Sturm winced at the screeching sound. "I don't know about that -"

  "Don't you trust me?" asked Sturm.

  " true touch, mortal! You shall see them then, a sight no mortal eye has ever beheld. Hmm." The dragon lifted one tree-sized leg and flexed his birdlike toes. "I'll have to warn the Micones. They live in the caverns and keep the eggs clean, turning them every day so the yolks don't settle.

  They would certainly slay you if you ventured down there without my permission." Cupelix settled again and fluffed out his wings. "I will inform the Micones, but you must be sure not to touch the eggs. The protective instinct runs so deeply in them that not even my intervention would prevent the Micones from ripping you limb from limb if you touched an egg."

  "I'll keep that in mind," said Sturm. He stood to go. "May I invite the others?"

  "Why not? I'm sure the little men will be fascinated."

  "Thank you, dragon."

  Sturm nodded and made for the quiet ship. Once the human was inside, Cupelix spread his wings and telepathically ordered the illuminating ants to cease their glow. The light went out of their bodies, and one by one the Micones

  ..' dropped off and scuttled back into their holes in the floor.

  Kitiara re-entered the darkened obelisk. "Where is everybody?" she called out.

  "In the flying machine," said Cupelix, unseen above her in the shadows. She flinched at the sound of his voice.

  "You should give a person warning that you're there," she chided. "Is there anything left to eat?"

  A table, set with candles, appeared before her. Delicate cutlets of veal, bread, and melted sweet butter awaited her.

  A tall, clear glass goblet brimmed with rich red wine. Kitiara pulled out the velvet-cushioned, high-backed chair and sat down.

  "What's the occasion?' she asked.

  "No occasion," replied the dragon from on high. "A gesture of friendship."

  "Are we friends?" said Kitiara, forking up a slice of veal.

  "Oh, yes, and I hope we shall be better friends still."

  "A woman could do worse," she said, sipping the wine. It wasn't grape wine at all, but some sort of berry, tart and cleansing on the tongue. "Good," she said, not quite sure how else to characterize the wine.

  "I'm glad you like it. It's pleasing to me to do things for you, Kitiara. May I call you Kitiara? You appreciate my little gifts. Unlike that Brightblade fellow. He's so stiff and proper, it's a wonder he doesn't chip himself when he shaves." Kitiara laughed at the dragon's very apt image.

  "You have a very charming laugh," said Cupelix.

  "Careful," she said. "If I were less mindful, I'd think you were trying to cozen me."

  "I merely delight in your company." There was a heavy rustle as the dragon flew from one side of the obelisk to the other. The candle flames on Kitiara's table wavered in the disturbed air.

  "Soon Master Brightblade and his gnomish companions will make a descent into the caverns below the tower,"

  Cupelix said, and further explained about the cache of dragon eggs. 'While they are down there, I should like you to visit me in my private sanctum." The bulk of the brass dragon dropped from the darkness, landing with infinite grace and lightness in front of Kitiara's table.

  "What for?" she said, not quite suppressing the catch in her throat.

  Up close - at a range of no more than six feet - Cupelix's eyes were green orbs three hands wide. The vertical black pupils were cracks into the deepest abyss. His eyes narrowed as the dragon scrutinized the woman.

  "I would hear of your life and philosophy, and you may pry into my secrets as well," he said. "Only don't tell the others. It would make them jealous."

  "Not a word," Kitiara said. She winked at the dragon, and Cupelix flicked his tongue out. It touched her hand and a warm tingle spread up her arm.

  "Until then." Cupelix spread his wings until they whisked the far walls. He sprang off the floor with one thrust of his powerful hind legs and vanished into the darkness above.

  Kitiara's heartbeat slowly resumed its normal rhythm.

  The tingle in her arm slowly faded. Kitiara reached for her wine glass. To her surprise, her hand was shaking so much that she knocked the goblet off the table, and it shattered on the red marble floor.

  "Damn!" she said, clenching her fist.

  Chapter 23

  Caverns Deep

  The gnomes responded to Cupelix's invitation with characteristic enthusiasm. The new metal parts for the Cloudmaster had to cool a while longer before they could be fitted into place, and the proposed descent into the caverns suited them very well. They turned the ship upside down hunting for proper equipment: pens and paper, of course; rope and tape measures; and transits for surveying the lay-out of the caverns. Cutwood brought out a large balance scale to weigh representative specimens of dragon eggs.

  "Oh, no," Sturm warned. "No one is to touch the eggs, not the least little bit."

  "But why?" asked Rainspot, who was wearing his oilcloth slicker full-time now.

  "The Micones are under orders to kill anyone who touches them," Sturm said. "Not even Cupelix can countermand that order." Cutwood reluctantly abandoned his scale.

  Two hours before dawn, Sturm and the gnomes presented themselves before one of the large, round holes in the obelisk floor. Cupelix was poised on his ledge above them, and Kitiara lingered in the doorway, watching the comic marshaling of the gnome explorers. Some of them, particularly Fitter, were so laden with gear that they could scarcely stand. Sturm's only special item was a long hank of rope, secured at one shoulder and draped across his chest.

  "I hope you don't intend to climb down," said the dragon mildly. "The way presents many difficulties."

  "How else shall we get down there?" asked Stutts.

  "By allowing the Micones to take you."

  Sturm's eyes narrowed. "How will they do that?"

  "It's very simple," said Cupelix. He shut his mouth and lowered his head, as he usually did when communicating telepathically with the ants. Hard, armored heads appeared in all the holes, and before Sturm could protest six Micones presented themselves to the exploration party. "The ants are quite capable of carrying two gnomes apiece, and the sixth will be Master Brightblade's mount."

  Sturm turned to Kitiara. "Are you certain
you won't change your mind and go with us?"

  She shook her head. "I've explored enough of this moon, thank you."

  The gnomes were already scrambling over their mounts, measuring, touching, and tapping the crystalline creatures from mandible to stinger. The glass-smooth ants presented no footholds or handholds for mounting and riding. After some discussion (cut short by Sturm's impatient sigh), the gnomes tied lengths of rope together into reasonable halters and bridles. The Micones stood stock-still through all this indignity. Even their restless antennae were motionless.

  Flash bent down on his hands and knees and Stutts stepped on his back to reach his seat on the Micone. He was still too short to reach the ant's arched thorax. Sighter tried to boost Stutts up. He planted both hands and one shoulder in the seat of Stutts's pants and shoved with all his might.

  Stutts rose up the curving carapace of crystal, up and up -

  and over. He slid headfirst over the ant's body and thumped down on the other side. Fortunately, something soft broke his fall. It was Birdcall.

  Sturm made a stirrup loop in his rope and levered himself onto the creature's back. "It's like sitting on a statue," he said, wiggling to situate himself. "Cold and hard."

  The gnomes emulated Sturm's rope stirrup, and with only a few minor bruises, managed to mount their ants. The pairs were Stutts and Flash, Birdcall and Sighter, Cutwood and Rainspot, Roperig and Fitter (naturally), with Wingover by himself.

  g "How do we steer these things?" Cutwood muttered. The makeshift halter ran around the giant ant's neck, but there was no way to control an animal that didn't breathe.

  "There's no need for that," said the dragon. "I have told them to take you to the cavern, wait there, and bring you back. They will not deviate from my instructions, so don't try to get around them. Hold on and enjoy the ride."

  "Ready, colleagues?" asked Stutts, with a wave.

  "Ready!" "We're ready!" "Let's go!" were the replies.

  Sturm wrapped the rope around his clenched fist and nodded. The Micones were set in motion, and they were off.

  v The giant ant below Sturm was rock steady on its six spindly legs, though its side-to-side motion was a bit odd to him, who was used to the up-and-down gait of a four-footed horse. Sturm's feet were only a few inches off the floor, but, the Micone bore him strongly to the nearest hole. He expected the ant to enter and descend like a man going down a spiral stair, but no. The creature entered the hole headfirst and kept bending, tipping Sturm farther and farther forward.