“Of course-if you will allow me the use of one of these rather simple saddles the cobblers of Palanthas have made for us.”
“Certainly.” Lectral had seen one of the seats, and it caused him to reflect upon the courage of the warriors who would ride them. The saddle was little more than a strap and a set of stirrups attached to a swiveling bracket upon which would be mounted the potent Dragonlance.
“Splendid! I have some skill with the lance, and we can only hope that we’ll get the chance to stick a few of the Dark Queen’s dragons!”
“Quite,” murmured Lectral, taken aback by the young knight’s enthusiasm. Still, it was a refreshing change, and he had heard many tales of the deadly lances during his time on the isles. It would be good to see one in action from a closer viewpoint. Again he thought of Heart with a pang and wished she could know what he did here today.
“Of course, most of my fighting experience has been gained with a fishing pole in my hands,” Allsar admitted sheepishly. “A rainbow trout is my favorite prey.”
“Ah, fishing,” Lectral agreed, remembering many pleasant experiences of his own. “Can there be a more perfect food? Myself, I always looked forward to the running of the salmon. Now, that’s a delicacy.”
As hostlers came forward and hesitantly wrapped the saddle around his chest and neck, Lectral raised his head and looked around. The high ridges of the northern Kharolis, and the High Clerist’s Pass, guarded Palanthas as they had through all of the ancient dragon’s life. When his gaze swept to the south, toward the lands that were lost in the dust of the plains and distant mountains, he reflected on an astounding piece of news he had heard following his arrival in the great city: that there was now a deep ocean slicing through the middle of the Kharolis Range, with open water extending eastward as far as Sanction.
“Can that be true?” he murmured softly, intrigued and amazed by the thought.
“I beg your pardon, Mighty One?” wondered the knight.
“What? Oh… I had heard of a great body of water to the south of here, dividing the middle of the Kharolis Range. Do you know of such a thing?”
“Indeed. It’s called the Newsea, though many generations of my people have lived since its creation during the Cataclysm. Perhaps you can remember what it was like before then.”
“A thousand years before.”
The knight was silent, regarding the dragon with a calm and appraising gaze.
“Perhaps we will fly there and see this ocean,” Lectral suggested.
“The fishing is said to be quite good,” Allsar Dane informed him.
“That’s intriguing news, I admit.” Lectral felt a little better about this man and was ready to fly. He looked around, saw the fluttering of metallic wings, lances upraised as the knights and dragons filled the plaza before the city.
Palanthas, of course, had seemed pretty much the same as ever to Lectral-that is to say, boring. It was a place keenly conscious of history and fate and magic, and naturally the gold dragons had always felt very much at home there. Yet to Lectral and his silver clan, it had always seemed to be one of the more staid and aloof of the human realms. Generally he had favored livelier places, such as Xak Tsaroth, Tarsis, or even Sanction, to the serene placidity of Palanthas.
Just a few days earlier, that fabled city had been the site of the arrival of the metallic dragons on Ansalon, a homecoming that was accompanied by great celebrations and optimism on the part of the inhabitants. As soon as they had overcome their initial terror, the humans had poured forth and gathered around, until every one of the metallic dragons had been draped with garlands and fed many draughts of fine wine.
In the wake of that spontaneous celebration, Lauralanthalasa, Princess of Qualinesti and sister to the elven prince Gilthanas, had been appointed general of the newly created Army of Whitestone. And for the first time in this bitter strife, the forces resisting the Dark Queen would go to war sheltered by the wings of Paladine’s mighty serpents of metal.
“Dragons, make ready to fly!”
The speaker was golden Quallathan, who had been granted the honor of carrying the army’s general, Laurana. Lectral had always thought highly of the mature and steadfast gold, and it pleased him that the humans and elves had honored him thus. Looking around, the ancient dragon saw his two scions nearby, each mounted by a lance-bearing knight. Dargentan flapped his wings, ready to fly, while Darlant stretched his neck in visible anticipation. He, too, was ready to hurl himself into the skies.
Mighty Cymbol, the venerable copper, was also prepared to join the flight to battle. He carried a grim-faced elf in his saddle, a silver-armored lancer who looked like a heavier version of Gilthanas. The copper had barely contained his fury, and now the desire for vengeance burned like a fire in his glaring eyes. Clearly he was ready to exact his price in blood. Brass Kirsah sat just beyond, trying to coax an interesting pair of riders into the saddle. One, a dwarf, seemed to be assisted, sort of, by an energetic kender.
Then came the melodious cry from Quallathan, and the dragons of Paladine took flight. Silvers, bronze, and brass formed a great wing to the left, while the golds and coppers arrayed themselves to the right, until the sparkling of metal wings formed a great swath across the sky. The man on his shoulders was a good weight, and Lectral’s flight was as strong and steady as ever.
“Never before have my kin-dragons flown in such a great wing as this,” Lectral admitted in wonder.
“And never has the Dark Queen had such good cause to fear,” added Allsar Dane.
The Vingaard plains were a blur of uniform brown viewed through the puffs of clouds. The flight of dragons flew onward soundlessly, lofty and aloof, over the High Clerist’s tower and the pass where the enemy armies had met their first setback.
“It’s beautiful!” Allsar Dane declared, his voice a whisper of awe. “You can see all the way to the Vingaard River.”
Lectral was silent, remembering the glories of Ansalon as if he had departed here only a season or two ago. He relished the long-forgotten sight of an entire continent sprawling to the horizons below him.
“Look there!” came a cry from the right, and several dragons bellowed cries of alarm.
Immediately all eyes were riveted on the spots of color emerging from the southern sky. The tiny shapes grew, soon becoming tinted with emerald brightness. These were green dragons, and their own riders, with a masked lord in the lead, guided them in a tight wedge of attack. Flying high, they came on in a long double rank, one line flying just above and before the other.
Quallathon brayed his challenge in response, the mighty golden wyrm diving into the fray with tucked wings and arrow-straight neck. Laurana crouched on his back like a veteran lancer, her long-shafted weapon pointed forward and down. Sunlight brightened the tip in a reflective staccato, like sparks trailing away from the razor edge of steel.
Lectral flew swiftly, not at all uncomfortable with the weight of a human rider. Allsar Dane held his lance with the poise of long experience, though this was his first time in the air, and his knees gripped the silver’s neck firmly. Lectral tried to convince himself that the man would actually remain mounted if he were forced to dive, roll, or perform some other aerobatic maneuver. But at best he could only hope. He was surprised to realize that if the man came to harm, the silver dragon would feel profound regret.
Beside him, Dargentan and Darlant flew with strong, steady strokes, each with his rider crouched and ready, Dragonlance pointing boldly toward the foe. The green shapes grew larger, each defining itself into a dragon and a masked, armored rider. Lectral led the contingent of silvers toward an optimal attack position, sideslipping to make an oblique approach against the greens, then tilting forward to commence a savage rushing dive.
The silvery spear jutted proudly past Lectral’s shoulder, gleaming in the sun, tilting with lethal purpose toward the nearest of the emerald serpents. That dragon swept closer, the green jaws locked into a grimace of pure hatred. The rider of the Dark Queen’s wy
rm also bore a lance, though the weapon had a shaft of wood and a smaller, less brilliant tip.
“Now!” Allsar Dane urged, and Lectral sensed his rider’s intent. With a violent shift, the silver body curled away, and the tip of the Dragonlance tore through the green scales of the enemy wyrm’s belly.
The courageous rider crouched behind his dragon-scale shield as a blast of green gas billowed into the air. Lectral felt the stuff sting his nostrils, but he cleared the cloud away, killing another green in midflight with a powerful exhalation of deadly frost.
“Hold on,” growled the ancient silver, lifting his right wing and dipping his left. Allsar Dane’s knees tightened, but otherwise Lectral paid his rider scant attention. The man would have to hold on for himself if the pair were to have any chance of making it through the battle.
Lectral veered toward a green that was looping around below, but before the silver jaws could blast their frost, the lance tilted, sending the barbed head tearing through the emerald scales of the enemy dragon’s shoulder. Lectral raked his claws through the green wing, but that was a mere aftereffect as, fatally pierced by the deadly lance, the wyrm of Takhisis plunged toward the ground.
Now Lectral pulled out of his dive, curling his neck and tail to help him arc through a level glide, then smoothly soared skyward again. The crushing force of the maneuver pressed the human rider heavily into his saddle, but the man made no complaint as the ground once again fell away below. Lectral reached with broad wings and stroked downward, straining toward higher altitude and the battle that swirled and raged through the skies overhead.
“Over there!” barked the knight in a rudely direct tone. But Lectral bit back his annoyance and followed the tip of the lance, seeing several greens swarming around a mighty gold and its royal elven rider.
“Quallathan!” cried Lectral in alarm, immediately sideslipping and curling toward the savage melee.
Laurana, astride the gold, stabbed with her lance, taking down one of the greens, and then Lectral swept through the melee. Allsar Dane’s lance ripped another emerald-colored serpent, and the powerful combination of silver talons and fangs rent a third, leaving it, crippled and shrieking, to plunge helplessly toward the plains far below.
Lectral looked, seeing more of the enemy dragons breaking away, flying toward the eastern horizon. The first battle was over; the evil wyrms had been put to flight. He knew there would be more, and the silver dragon was eager to fight them.
“We’ve got them on the run now. I’ll bet they fly all the way to the Khalkists,” Allsar declared.
“Then it is time for us to go there and finish the job our forefathers began,” replied the mighty silver dragon.
Chapter 40
Fire in the Sky
352 AC
In a dazzling campaign, Lauralanthalasa, the Golden General, led the army of Whitestone on a rapid counterattack across the Vingaard plains. Under the shelter of metallic wings, the Knights of Solamnia, dwarves of Kayolin and Thorbardin, and free men and elves from throughout the west surged in vengeful attacks against the dragon high-lords and their teeming armies. Buoyed by Laurana’s success in her initial attack, the forces of Whitestone marched and fought and marched some more, striking quickly, winning one battle after another. Willingly they followed her orders, trusting her natural instincts, constantly keeping the enemy forces off-balance and in desperate retreat.
Laurana led the liberation of Vingaard Keep, and then swiftly ferried her army-on the backs of dragons! — across the river of the same name while that torrent was at the full height of spring flood. Striking quickly, moving with forced marches, and always in the direction the enemy least expected, the Army of Whitestone embarked on a series of blistering, lightning-fast offensives.
The wyrms of Takhisis did not let this advance go unchallenged. After the disaster met by the green dragons, the whites and blacks flew forth but were defeated in quick, sharp battles. Following each of these three engagements, the survivors among the defeated chromatic dragons reeled back to the east, flying into the rugged Khalkists in search of sanctuary.
On the ground, the mounted knights thundered forward in sweeping charges, onslaughts that set the plains themselves to resounding underfoot. Great phalanxes of footmen kept pace, anchoring the line when the enemy forces showed signs of attacking, or hurrying forward in relentless pursuit each time the foe was once again put to flight. Elven bowmen harassed the enemy with deadly missile fire, and doughty dwarves wielded sword and axe, an implacable anvil against which the hammer of the good dragons could strike.
Still the Blue and Red Wings remained intact and under Highlord Ariakas’s personal command. That lord’s mount, Tombfyre, became as well known as his master, killing many a Whitestone warrior with his fiery breath, cruel jaws, and crushing, talons. For the most part, the Emperor of Ansalon patiently held his mighty serpents back from Laurana’s army. Yet finally any further patience on the Highlord’s part would have resulted in the loss of virtually all the land gained in the previous years’ campaigns.
The two wings met in a major battle, hundreds of dragons and their riders wheeling through the skies, breathing death, striving for mastery, and once again the Golden General prevailed. The Army of Whitestone moved on to the liberation of Kalaman, while Ariakas fell back again, withdrawing into the rugged sanctuary of the Khalkists.
But before the campaign could continue to its final triumph, Lauralanthalasa was captured by trickery, her own loyalty used to draw her into the Highlord’s snare. She was taken into the heart of the Dark Queen’s realms, and all the hopes for victory remained in abeyance. Warriors, dragons, and wizards on both sides felt the world plunging toward a cusp of history, a day-or night-when the Dark Queen’s dreams of mastery would either become reality or be shattered into irrevocable defeat.
Yet still the war in the skies continued as the dragons of Paladine fought against the wings under Ariakas’s command. Gilthanas of Qualinesti, mounted upon mighty Silvara, took command of the aerial forces, and the good dragons pressed their foes all the way to the fringe of the Khalkists.
For their part in this culminating campaign, Lectral and the silvers were patrolling with the coppers over the great Army of Whitestone, which was gathered at a gap leading into the foothills. The evil forces had fallen back all the way to Neraka, with mountainous barriers screening them against any land attack from the west. Now they watched… and waited.
“After the war, let’s go fishing,” Allsar Dane suggested, lounging in the saddle as Lectral glided lazily above the plains. They had learned to converse easily in the air, Lectral holding his neck arched so that he could hear the man’s voice. The posture was too slow and awkward for battle flight, but quite comfortable when, as now, they were gliding on patrol.
“I’d like that,” the silver flier agreed, realizing that the notion had a strong appeal. “To the Newsea, perhaps, to see if the salmon are running.”
“Ah, but only if we can then go to the mountains, stalking the rainbow trout,” replied Allsar.
“I like your plan,” Lectral said.
A squawk of alarm drew their attention, and they saw a griffon flying urgently toward them. The hawkish flier bore an elven scout on his back.
“The Blue and Red Wings gather in the high mountains,” the scout explained as his laboring steed strained to fly beside Lectral at this lofty altitude. “They’re concealed by fog, but they took flight with the dawn. They’ll be coming this way soon.”
“Thanks for the notice,” the silver replied, turning his head to the east. Allsar Dane cinched his belt tight and made sure that the Dragonlance was firmly seated in its swiveling mount.
The coppers, under the leadership of Cymbol, circled nearby. The gold, brass, and bronze dragons were elsewhere, embarked on a desperate search to rescue Laurana. Until the Golden General’s return, Gilthanas, astride Silvara, would remain in command.
“Ready?” asked Lectral.
“Let’s go,” the knight rep
lied.
The skies over the mountains were thick with cloud and mist, a great blanket of white, deceptively soft and pure, billowing upward into the loftiest reaches. After hearing the alarm, the ancient silver stared into that impenetrable murk, waiting for the first appearance of the foe. His rider was alert and poised on his shoulders, and more silvers flew to either side.
The Red Wing emerged from the cloud like a mass of bloodstains seeping through a cotton blanket-dozens, then scores of red shapes growing larger and more distinct, emerging from the foggy nothingness to become bright, vivid spots of color. In the lead came the Highlord Ariakas, Emperor of Ansalon, still mounted upon mighty Tombfyre.
In fact, Lectral recognized the dragon before the rider, for his old enemy was the only wyrm among the opposing force that was the silver’s equal in size. Somehow it seemed fitting that the descendant of legendary Crematia should bear the enemy emperor.
The dragons of both wings converged quickly, with no thoughts for the antlike troops crawling on the ground below. A formation of blue dragons flew beside the reds, and the numbers of the enemy serpents seemed to fill the air. Lectral knew beyond any doubt that this battle would be settled in the skies-and, perhaps, finally resolved for all the future of Krynn. His jaws parted instinctively, and he bellowed a thunderous roar, loudly challenging the chromatic dragons, instinctively boasting of his courage and his might.
Answering bellows resounded in the air until the sky shook as though from the force of a thunderstorm. Blues and reds tipped forward and dived, while dragons of copper and silver labored upward, striving for the altitude to meet the foe in level flight. Lance tips sparkled like diamonds, and knightly armor gleamed as bright as the dragons’ silver scales.
The two forces converged in sudden silence as the dragons ceased their roaring, concentrating on the grim business now close at hand. Lightning flashed suddenly, a premature blast from an overeager blue dragon. The crackling bolt was met by a spume of acid, scornfully spat by a copper, and the lingering cloud of brackish gas spread a sharp, acrid stink through the air.
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