The Dragons lh-6

by Douglas Niles

  The silver wing shifted, revealing the curling ram’s horn and its chain of fine links. Aurican gently lifted the artifact, cradling it reverently in his two hands.

  “It is done, my cousin,” declared the gold dragon with the body of the ancient elf. Drops of warm wetness trickled onto Darlantan’s brow and snout as Auri failed to restrain his weeping.

  Darlantan’s eyes turned upward, toward the dark vault of the skies. He saw two moons there, a circle of red and another of white. Behind them trailed an orb of blackness, visible only as it blotted out the light of the stars.

  “Even the heavens mark the passing of war,” he said softly, “for they have placed their lights in our sky.”

  “Those moons mark more than the passing of war,” Aurican said. Even through the haze of his wounds, Dar realized that his brother spoke very seriously. “They are the tombs of nothing less than gods-Lunitari, Solinari, and Nuitari.”

  “What gods are these?” Darlantan, who knew of few deities other than their own Platinum Father and his antithesis, the Queen of Darkness, asked.

  “These were the three gods that gave magic to the world-the trio I visited with the brother mages. It was they who gave us the dragongems, that we might battle the scourge of the Dark Queen’s dragons,” said Auri regretfully, shaking his head in despair. “They are being punished by the greater gods for their transgression, though that transgression gave us our means for winning this war.”

  “I will join them soon,” Darlantan said, once again yielding to that dreamy sense of departure. Then apparently something fought to bring his attention back to the present, and he forced himself to raise his head, to focus the increasingly vague center of his mind.

  “Here,” he said weakly, lifting his wing to reveal the three shards of moon that had tumbled to the ground with him.

  “But how did these…?” The gold dragon looked in wonder, shaking his head as he struggled to accept the reality of the stony fragments.

  “The final battle took me… far,” Darlantan explained. “Even to what I now see are these godmoons. The lightning of the blues blasted the shards loose from the very bedrock of the spheres.”

  “And these pieces…?”

  “They tumbled back to Krynn with me… but now I give them to you. Or perhaps I give them to the future.” The silver head was upraised, the voice stronger than before. Those deep yellow eyes glowed, compelling the gold dragon to hear and obey as Darlantan gestured to the three large stones. One was as black as the encroaching night, another silver-white, while the third was as slickly red as fresh blood.

  Aurican stood upright then, and in a shimmering of golden scales, he returned to his serpentine body. “I understand,” he said softly.

  Crouching over the stones, Auri reached out with open jaws. His tongue snaked forward and scooped up the black shard, quickly drawing it into the gaping maw. Tossing his head high, the gold dragon gulped down the stone, an awkward bulge rippling the shimmering scales along the length of the sinuous neck. With swift stabs of his mighty head, Aurican took the white, and finally the red segments of stone, swallowing them after the black.

  “Good,” Darlantan said as the silver head once again settled to the mud. “It is nearly finished. But it is time for you to fly.”

  “Soon.” The great golden form settled beside the ravaged body of his ancient nestmate, and in silence, the great serpents felt the kinship of touch, a sensation familiar to them over scores of centuries.

  “Your elf is coming,” Aurican said some time later. Darlantan couldn’t see, couldn’t raise his head, but the scent of Kagonos came to him on the evening breeze. In the distance, the camp of Silvanos rang with cheers and celebration.

  “I will speak with him alone before I go,” Dar whispered. “Now, fly back to our grotto, my brother, and have an eye for my wyrmlings as well as your own.”

  “You have my promise that I shall do that, and I shall compose a ballad that will live for the ages: the tale of brave Darlantan’s last battle.”

  “I think I would like that, to have a ballad. And now it is time.”

  With a nod and a last gentle touch to the silver-scaled neck, Aurican reared tall and shimmered in the pale starlight. Golden wings arced outward, scooped down to compress the air, and then he was gone, vanishing into the sky before the painted figure of the wild elf emerged from the darkness.

  Chapter 15

  Legacy

  3357 PC

  Aurican’s chest swelled with warm power, a fulfilling goodness unique in the gold dragon’s experience. He felt an impulse to breathe out, to spew an explosion of gas that would unleash this invigorating, barely contained power of magic within him.

  Instead, he clenched his jaws and felt the pressure rise, a glow of sublime might swelling him, bearing his golden body through midnight skies. His wings carried him higher and higher, parting the cool, dark air, gleaming with shining brightness under the night skies. At first, he passed through wispy clouds, an ethereal atmosphere that masked the vast plain of Vingaard below and obscured the soft starlight glowing above. But still the golden wings drove downward, and Aurican rose, splitting the mists, shimmering like a metallic ghost in the formless space. The cool, moist air felt good against his wings and his scales, and droplets of water glowed like gems against the metallic sheen of his body.

  And then the clouds were a soft blanket below him, rolling crests and swells, shadowy kettles and swales that seemed deceptively solid under the muted light from above. Still the pressure expanded within him, and though the force was great, the feeling was not unpleasant.

  Looking upward, Aurican beheld the three moons in close alignment, rising in the east, preceding the arrival of dawn by many hours. First came crimson Lunitari, then the dark shadow of Nuitari, and finally the brightness of Solinari. The loss of the three magical shards that now seethed within Aurican had left no visible scars, at least none that the gold dragon could see, yet he keenly sensed their influence within him as the magic surged.

  Faster flew Aurican, soaring through the skies like an arrow launched from a monstrous bow. The distant ridge of the High Kharolis came into view as the plains passed away beneath him, as a flight that would normally take him three days was accomplished in the space of a single night. On wings of the gods he glided, serene and aloof, grieving but triumphant.

  With a keen sense of destiny, he dived toward the secret entrance to the Valley of Paladine. He wasted no time coming to rest on the ground, instead flying with deliberate speed through the long entry tunnel, then racing over the still and silent waters of the subterranean lake. Like a golden arrow, he shot through the secret cavern, gliding toward the sacred grotto and its precious trove.

  Only when he reached the rim of rock beyond that sheltered cavern did he come to rest, and even then he paused only long enough to fold his massive wings against his flanks. He crept into the winding passage, smelling the familiar warmth of the grotto. Drawing that presence through his nostrils and into his deep chest, he was overwhelmed with thoughts of Darlantan, and of Smelt, Burll, and Blayze. He knew that he carried the legacy of them all.

  Approaching the nest, he lifted his head, conscious of the metallic females gathered along the cavern walls, watching him with bright, golden eyes. Gold and silver, brass, bronze, and copper dragons, all studied their patriarch as he rose above the precious clutch of eggs. Shifting restlessly, wings fluttering in barely contained agitation, the females rose and crept closer, surrounding Aurican and the nest in a ring of metallic scales and intensely staring eyes.

  Kenta curled protectively around one side of the nest, and Oro framed her silver sister on the other side. Aurican nodded at each of them, then turned his attention to the precious orbs protected within the sheltered confines. Carefully curling his tail behind him, he sat with precise dignity. Only then did he arc his long neck and lift his head to stare at the clutch of metallic spheres, his heart swelling with a sense of profound wonder.

  The pressu
re within him grew stronger, and Aurican clearly understood what would happen next, yet this understanding did nothing to cool his wonder. The golden jaws spread wide, and Aurican breathed softly, sharing the essence of magic, the power that was a part of every dragon’s being but that, in Aurican, had been expanded and amplified by the effect of the shards of the three moons of magic.

  A glowing mist floated forth, coalescing in the air, seething and roiling with colors that varied from black to silver to red. The gases swirled more rapidly, spiraling about the nest, slowly settling downward, touching the surfaces of the eggs, stroking the metal shells with ethereal fingers. The vapor sparkled with a glimmering wetness, slowly vanishing, as if absorbed by the pulsing, living treasures.

  For a long time, the glow remained, shifting from one egg to another, sometimes bright and focused, other times diffused, but always possessing a vibrant and inherent brilliance that would have shamed any light born of flame or sun. The brightness danced and swayed, cavorting back and forth like a living thing, and when the brilliance faded, it left a lingering aura within the eggs that was perfectly clear to Aurican and the female dragons. The tiny serpents sheltered within those eggs had been blessed by the essence of magic. The enchantment contained in the bodies of the three gods was bestowed upon the young dragons in the breath of their golden patriarch. It settled on the eggs, infusing the shells and the wyrmlings, enchanting them with a power that had been absent for millennia.

  Time, in seasons and then in years, passed while Aurican and the females waited with the serene patience of their kind. Watching and expectant, the great serpents held their attention upon the nest. Beyond the grotto, winters and springs and summers cycled through the High Kharolis in succession, a pattern mounting into the dozens, then the scores.

  Still the eggs glowed, and gradually the brightness increased until the entire grotto was illuminated as under a noonday sun. Very slowly and gradually, several of the eggs began to pulse and shimmer. A silver surface throbbed, and a golden membrane shimmered under the internal pressure of a sharp beak.

  Ultimately the two eggs ruptured, tiny metal newtlings crawling forth. Shaking away the muck of the eggs, clawing each other roughly aside, the dragons struggled toward the edge of the nest. Another egg, a brass, twitched and thrashed, and then several copper spheres began to show signs of movement.

  And then they were coming from everywhere. Enchanted by the breath of Aurican, surrounded by the aura of magic, the next generation of metal dragons poked and pushed their way into the world.

  PART II

  Chapter 16

  Crematia’s Lair

  Circa 3000 PC

  The cavern of fire lay deep in the heart of the mountain, beneath an active volcano, with plunging roots descending into a tangled network of seething lava, searing gases, and barren, scorched rock. A vast lake of fire bubbled and surged here, waves of liquid lava rumbling and tossing in the grip of an eternal gale, propelled by the regular convulsions of heaving bedrock. From many places across the expanse of molten rock, black pillars of stone rose to merge with a lofty ceiling. Sheer rock walls, melted smooth by eons of infernal heat, surrounded the expanse, broken only by an occasional ledge or outcrop.

  A layer of soot darkened the vast ceiling. Many crevasses and gaps pocked that irregular face of cracked stone, giving vent to the buildup of heat and pressure. Far above, invisible from the huge subterranean chamber, geysers of gas, flame, and ash scarred the landscape in the rugged heart of the Khalkists.

  Yet those external signs had no significance to the great crimson being who coiled, torpid, deep within the hellish cavern. Here Crematia had come to recoup, to heal and to hide in complete safety. She knew that not even Aurican could follow her into this searing environment, and any lesser flesh, such as cloaked man or elf or ogre, would blister away within moments of arrival.

  The red dragon was a tangled, snaky coil gathered along a narrow ledge above the lake of lava. Crematia’s back and wings rested against the cliff wall, and the double lids remained closed over her eyes. The long tail curled back over her feet to end just before her wide nostrils. Those twin apertures flared slightly in a gradual cadence, the only clear proof that the mighty creature still lived.

  Soot and ash had settled over the serpentine shape over the course of a long hibernation. The stuff was a sticky goo that gummed Crematia’s eyelids and encumbered her wings. Yet even that murk couldn’t conceal the vibrant crimson of the dragon’s scales or the blood-red flaps of her massive, folded wings.

  She slept as she had slumbered for hundreds of years. Perhaps it was the lethal heat that drove her into this lethargy, but more likely her evil spirit needed time to restore itself following the wretched conclusion of her initial campaign. While she slumbered, her body healed the wounds inflicted by the mighty gold dragon, and even at her ancient age, she continued to grow.

  She knew that the other chromatic dragons were gone from Krynn, their souls swallowed by the gems of life-trapping. Certainly Crematia had vivid dreams while she lay all-unknowing, and there is no doubt but that in those dreams she saw, and feared, a gleaming serpent of gold. Her enemy spewed breath as fiery as her own, attacking with power and skill-the deadliest foe she had ever known. She recalled her queen’s command… find her strongest enemy and kill him.

  And Crematia knew she had failed.

  Frequently the red body quivered in a sense of betrayal, an outrage at the fact that she had found such potent magic in the hands of her enemies. Sorcery was to have been her domain; the queen herself had promised this. And though Crematia had seen the three moons and knew that the gods who had given magic to the dragons of metal had been punished, the knowledge did nothing to soothe her hatred-or her desire for vengeance.

  But when finally the scarlet serpent stirred, it was not in response to any dream. Though no sound could penetrate to the depths of her fiery lair, there came a deep and inaudible message, a summons on a purely magical level. She lifted her head slowly, blinking a film of dust and soot from her eyes. When she could see, the hot illumination of the cavern reminded her instantly of where she was.

  Her first thought was of Aurican, and with that memory came a renewed pumping of her heart, a taut eagerness stiffening her body and her wings. These recollections came with a full measure of hatred, and when she was fueled by hatred, Crematia came truly, completely alive.

  The red dragon’s tail uncurled with a whiplike crack, lashing back and forth as she rose to stand, stiff-legged, at the brink of the ledge. A reflexive pounce hurled her into the air, wings spread wide to catch the updrafts raging from the lava lake below. These rising currents lifted her as she glided effortlessly around the vast chamber, and without stroking her wings, she was soon carried near to the ceiling. She veered easily between down-jutting spikes of rock, relishing the vibrant energy of returning vitality.

  She banked and dived, delighting in the dizzying speed, the onrush of molten rock as she plunged toward the crimson liquid. Bubbles expanded and burst in the thick surface, and the serpent relished the spattering of lava as droplets flew into the air. At the last moment, she pulled out of her dive, skimming low over the roiling lake, arching her back to rise toward the ceiling again.

  Once more she rode the fast-rising updrafts, but this time she helped herself as well, climbing with powerful strokes, angling toward a black slit in the ceiling of the cavern. She knew that, once within the chimney, she wouldn’t have the space to turn around, so she drove herself with increasing urgency, making an arrow of her body-an arrow with large, very powerful wings.

  Then the stone walls were close beside her, the rush of venting air roaring in her ears, bearing her higher and higher. Still she flew, straining for altitude, reaching for greater lift and pushing down with relentless strength. Her momentum slowed, the walls of the shaft visible now as more than a blurred backdrop, but she also saw a gap overhead, sensed that the darkness churning beyond was the ash-laden sky of the Khalkists.


  Belatedly Crematia thought of magic-she could easily levitate out of this deep lair-but she cast aside the notion in the instant it arose. She would do this with her strength, and with her hatred. Again she thought of Aurican, imagining the gold dragon winging through the mountainous skies beyond, relishing the picture of his surprise when his crimson nemesis suddenly appeared. Her wings pulsed, driving through the air, and she exploded upward with renewed speed.

  Abruptly the chimney walls gave way to a breathtaking expanse of air-she was free again, soaring into the skies over Krynn. Banking, sideslipping away from the venting gases, she plunged crazily along the steeply descending slope of the volcano that had sheltered her for so long. Darklady Mountain was a massive peak, and she couldn’t help but see her queen’s majesty reflected in the vast conical summit. She shrieked a cry of fierce exultation, skimming through a pass between the great mountain and a lesser neighbor, rocketing into the chilly air of an eternally shadowed gorge.

  In the depths, she flew above a roiling river, watching the brown waters churn into whitecaps, thunder through rapids, steadily erode a deeper and deeper channel. Again she roared, the sound of her voice forceful enough to break rocks loose from the overhanging cliffs, bringing miniature landslides cascading into the torrent.

  Upward she flew again, working hard now, relishing her own labors as she cut from realm of spray and shadow into the gusty heights. Veering back and forth like a wyrmling, she dodged through the smoke and ash that streamed from the smoldering summits in long plumes. A hundred great mountains were visible from this high vantage, but all the peaks except Darklady herself were far below. She banked regally, gliding with the serene arrogance of one who is mistress of everything in her sight.