Flames roared in Lectral’s ears as the first rank of the charging wyrms swept past. Allsar Dane twisted and jabbed with the lethal lance, gutting a blue that tried to fly too close. Lectral’s own breath joined the frosty clouds of the others of his clan, mingling as well with the streaming acid of the coppers, until the stench of corrosive gas, exploding lightning, and sooty flame were all mingled into a thick stew of pollution.
Red wings careened past, and Lectral pulled upward, scraping with his talons, tearing away a section of crimson membrane. Lightning from a nearby dragon of blue jarred him, ripping scales from his belly in a painful wound, but the ancient silver was able to tuck and dive, allowing the lancer to pierce the lightning-spitting blue with a fatal stab to the neck.
Another red, this one nearly as big as Tombfyre, dived toward them from above. Lectral cast a spell, the useful incantation of mirror image that created multiple images of his actual self. He twisted away, the magical duplicates diving in opposite directions, and the red’s fire billowed harmlessly into the midst of the spell.
The ancient silver turned back then, casting a spell of slowness that seemed to mire his crippled opponent in thick, oily air. The chromatic dragon labored to turn, moaning desperately in the grip of agonizing delay, sensing the doom that swept closer on silver wings. With a barrage of rending talons and crushing jaws, Lectral ripped into his enemy, and seconds later a torn and lifeless red corpse dropped toward the plains far below.
For a long time, the great forces of dragons clashed in the sky, wheeling in a savage circle. Mighty serpents flying alone or in pairs and trios dived away from the fight and then climbed back, a relentless cycle of attack and flight, each side straining to gain the advantage. Ariakas seemed to sense that this was his last chance to win a great battle, for he threw every reserve, every immature wyrmling and naive young lancer that he could find, into the fight. Many perished on both sides, blasted from the air by lethal attacks of dragonbreath or lance or sword or claw.
Often a dragon was not slain outright, but was crippled by a blow against a wing, a wound that would prove as certainly lethal as a thrust through the heart. Lectral watched many serpents and their hapless riders spiral frantically downward, one good wing stroking the air, trying unsuccessfully to restore some grace to the doomed flight. In a moment of calm and clarity, the ancient silver reflected that, if he were stricken, he would prefer the utter lifelessness of an instantly fatal wound to the helpless struggles that gave so many of the falling dragons such pathetic final moments. And the doom awaiting at the end was the same, regardless of how quickly or prolonged the suffering of the dying.
Lectral found himself in a battle with a monstrous blue, a dragon of wily skill with a deadly swordsman mounted on his back. Through a long series of dives and strikes, they dodged back and forth. Finally, attacking with the aid of haste magic, the blue twisted Lectral about in the air, sending the silver tumbling into a frantic dive, forcing a desperate try to pull out of the headlong descent. Allsar Dane hung on without a murmur, his knees pressed tightly against Lectral’s flanks as he clung hard to the leather strap of reins.
Finally the silver dragon recovered his balance, pulling out of the dive with a sudden loop that took his pursuer completely by surprise. Allsar Dane stabbed the dragonlance through the back of the blue’s rider, then into the wyrm’s flesh, driving it deep between the azure dragon’s shoulders. With a shriek that rapidly faded into a moan, the serpent died, falling from the sky with its lifeless rider toppling from the saddle to tumble limply at the dragon’s side.
But before Lectral could start to gain altitude again a great crimson shadow spread overhead and Tombfyre was there. The silver twisted, trying to dive away, but Ariakas struck, and Lectral felt Allsar Dane’s blood warming the scales of his back. The dragonlance hung limply by the silver dragon’s side, and the man didn’t respond when the mighty serpent repeatedly called out to him.
Tombfyre veered away, bearing the shouting Ariakas toward the eastern skies. With a backward look, Lectral saw that the battling dragons had dwindled away, and now the mighty red seemed bent upon making a complete escape.
Roaring, Lectral plunged after him, driving his silver wings through the air, striving to overtake the hateful red. The aerial battlefield vanished to the rear as the pursued and pursuing dragons flew over the foothills of the Khalkists. The Emperor of Ansalon fled on a course that would take him well north of Sanction, as if he had a purpose, a destination in mind other than mere escape.
The ancient silver came steadily after the red. Now Lectral forgot about the stiffness and the other infirmities of age; his wings, his whole body, felt young again, as if he were a powerful serpent in the prime of his life. For a long time, the two dragons raced through the skies, leaving the battlefield far behind, until at last the eastern horizon before them had darkened and, to the rear, the sun had slipped past the jagged teeth of the foothills.
A great temple loomed in the distance, a place that the maps had marked as “Neraka.” It was a dark and dolorous place, and Lectral understood that this was his enemy’s destination. The spiraling of great dragons, dozens of them, cut colorful swaths through the air above the Dark Queen’s fortress. They roared, swarming forward, ready to protect their stronghold against this impudent silver.
Knowing it was certain death to pursue any farther, Lectral could only wheel downward in frustration, watching the red dragon and his arrogant rider disappear over the next mountain ridge, winging steadily toward the twisted, distorted edifice.
Chapter 41
Tombfyre’s Dilemma
352 AC
The ghastly fortress rose from murk and shadow, shrouded by dark fog, a twisted monument to the Queen of Darkness thrusting high into the war-torn skies of Ansalon. Tombfyre, bearing the grimly silent Ariakas, flew onward through turgid air, watching the grotesque shape emerge into clearer view. The red dragon seethed with fury and resentment.
“Find your strongest enemy and kill him!” This ancient dictum, the command of Crematia and Deathfyre through the ages, rang through his mind, demanding that he turn back and fight. And yet his rider, his “master,” had ordered him to flee from the battle.
“You will land there, in front of the temple,” declared the Emperor of Ansalon flatly.
Without reply, Tombfyre dived, scrutinizing the awful edifice. At one time-and in another place-this might have been a grand temple, with sweeping balustrades connecting a ring of supporting towers to the vast central monolith. High walls encircled a broad courtyard, and many balconies, bridges, and ramparts marked the interior surfaces. Yet some of the outer towers leaned chaotically beyond the fortress wall, and the central pillar itself rose more like a diseased and warped trunk of cypress than a construct of stone and mortar.
Chromatic dragons of all five colors wheeled and spiraled in the skies over the queen’s fortress, and Tombfyre suppressed a bitter urge to rebuke them. Where were they when battle was raging in the skies over Vingaard? Victory had been within their grasp, he deluded himself. Surely another score or two of dragons would have given them the supremacy they deserved!
With the memories of the battle, the red serpent felt the bitterness of his flight and knew that this fortress was not where he chose to go. His place was in the skies, battling the serpents of Paladine-and, especially, defeating the ancient silver dragon, descendant of those who had thwarted his clan for so long.
“Land!” repeated Ariakas. “And then I desire that you wait for me.”
Tombfyre growled his resentment, the sound a dull rumble of rage that Ariakas certainly felt through the stiff leather of his saddle.
“You must obey!”
The Highlord’s voice was as taut as a bowstring, giddy and terrified at the same time. Anticipation tried unsuccessfully to dominate his fear, and the result was halfway between a plaintive plea and an arrogant command.
“No! I must fight! I must destroy the silver dragon!” roared Tombfyre, snorting a
cloud of fiery smoke in frustration. “He is the heir of the wyrm who slew Deathfyre, and it is my destiny to kill him!”
“Your destiny was set out by me when I freed you from your tomb so deep beneath the Khalkists!” snarled the Highlord. “Would you have had me leave you there to rot?”
“If you had left me there, you would still be there as well, for it was my wings that bore us both to the surface of the world!” growled Tombfyre.
“You will obey me,” Ariakas declared grimly, and Tombfyre admitted to a grudging respect. Certainly no other creature in the world would dare to speak to him like this.
And what Ariakas said, for the most part, was true. Tombfyre’s destiny had been laid clearly by the Dark Queen, and he was bidden to bear this Dragon Highlord where he would go. Bitterly Tombfyre followed his rider’s instruction, winging toward the monstrous, twisted shape that now seemed to rise higher than ever into the sky. He felt an immortal presence behind that grim structure, knew that Takhisis herself was again drawing near Krynn, seeking the portal through which she could enter and gain mastery over the world.
“Your vengeance can wait,” Ariakas snapped, as if reading the red dragon’s mind. “Our mistress-your queen and mine, should I need to remind you-will pass through the Foundation Stone gate tonight. Would you not be in attendance?”
Ariakas had regained his composure, and now his voice was as cold and arrogant as it was when he was sentencing some wretched prisoner to torture or execution.
Tombfyre glowered into the gathering darkness, declining to voice an answer, for in truth, this was a time when the will of his mistress was but a faint and secondary compulsion compared to the hatred that drove him to take wing against the ancient silver. He thought of victories won and disasters suffered during millennia of strife between the two forces of dragonkind. Certainly all that history had been meant to lead to this dramatic resolution… now, here, tonight!
Of course, he knew of other tales, legends, and predictions. If the prophets were true and the alignment of the Foundation Stone properly established, than Ariakas was right: Takhisis herself would pass from the Abyss to Krynn on this bleak eve. The pieces of her mighty spell were in place, and though her armies had suffered setbacks on the fields of battle, the opening of her mighty gate would allow the Queen of Darkness herself to rule upon this world that was her destined plaything.
And Tombfyre’s greatness would again be eclipsed, as it had been during the reign of Deathfyre, was now by his human lord. His mistress would be here as well, and she would command the troops of the army. Ansalon would be her empire, and Tombfyre would have yet another master upon Krynn.
“Do you hear me? She comes! ” The Highlord’s voice was increasingly shrill, as if he sensed his mount’s growing reluctance.
“If the queen passes her gate, then she will summon me at her pleasure,” Tombfyre declared, tucking his wings and slicing a downward course through the air. He glided with serene grace toward the massive clearing before the twisted, deformed edifice that was the Temple of Neraka. In grim silence, he landed and waited for more arguments from the human emperor. But Ariakas made no sound. He merely slid to the ground and turned his back upon the mighty dragon.
After the Highlord had started toward the gates of the Dark Queen’s fortress, Tombfyre once again took to the air. His eyes remained fixed upon the Khalkists, where his clan had reigned for thousands of years.
The silver dragons, gloating from their victory in the skies over Vingaard, would be gathering there, he knew. And certainly there he would find the mighty Lectral.
And Tombfyre would find his destiny as well.
Chapter 42
Life and Death
352 AC
Allsar Dane’s life seemed to have lasted but an eyeblink of time, a fact that Lectral found curiously saddening. He looked at the pallid, drained features of the knight, saw where Ariakas’s mighty sword had pierced the armor and the flesh of Dane’s back. The blade had torn through the metal plate, puncturing the body to a relatively shallow depth, at least by the standard of a dragon’s wound.
Yet in a man, it had been enough to be lethal.
After landing, the silver dragon changed shape, but only long enough to shrug out of his saddle, to release the slain knight’s buckles and armor, and to lay him in state on a low hillside, overlooking a lake of pure, clear water. Eyes closed as if in slumber, the knight’s face was gray and pallid. To Lectral, it suddenly seemed to look very old.
Again silver scales gleamed as the mighty dragon assumed his true shape. Sadly Lectral scooped a grave in the rocky ground of the Khalkist shale, remembering his first reluctant acquaintance with this brave man.
“Ah, my friend, you were a worthy foe for Tombfyre, and for the Dark Queen herself, whether they knew it or not.”
Gently the silver dragon lifted the limp body and laid it in the grave. With a few scoops of his massive forelegs, Lectral poured dirt and gravel over the motionless shape until the grave was a slightly mounded spot atop the low hill. He patted and smoothed the surface for a long time, wanting to insure that the surface was perfect.
With a shimmering of magic, the mighty silver shape contracted, faded to a mundane gray, and rose to stand upon two feet. The figure of a proud knight stood beside the burial site, head bowed, hands clasped before his armored chest as he remembered the brave warrior’s last moments.
“O Platinum Father,” murmured Lectral. “Please see that this courageous Knight of the Crown receives the honors due a hero of Paladine… and know that he will be missed, by humans and dragons alike. By the Oath and the Measure, he fought well and died as a hero.”
Fighting a curious twinge of emotion that thickened his throat and misted his eyes, Lectral looked to the placid lake just below the hill. Many ripples spread across the surface, marking the feeding of numerous trout as they snatched flies and water bugs from the surface.
He wondered idly if they were rainbows. He hoped they were, for that trout had been Allsar Dane’s favorite.
“Good fishing, my friend,” murmured the silver dragon, once again a gleaming serpent.
With a respectful nod, Lectral spread his wings to catch the mountain breeze, gliding low over the sparkling blue waters, then stroking powerfully upward to soar above the encircling ridge. Gusts of wind swirled, lifting him higher, but he used his strength to hasten his ascent, no longer content to ride the breeze like some carrion-hunting bird.
He thought of Silvara and Heart, of their talk of love. Surely that was not an emotion for dragons… but was it true that it could be learned? Is that what he felt now, the emotion that was causing him such grief? Perhaps it was true that a dragon, a young dragon at any rate, could in fact learn to love.
Perhaps, in fact, that was the silvers’ unique gift to the clans of their kin-dragons. It was the counterpart to the learned reflection and the magical mastery of the golds, the genial sociability of the brass or the stolid strength of the bronzes. Even the vengeful coppers had shown that, through the ages, there was a need for violence and fury, and the clan of Cymbol had borne that torch bravely and well.
And for the silvers, was it their place to show the kin-dragons the value, even the mere existence, of love? Perhaps that and, of course, to embody the pure beauty of flight, the thing that the silvers did so much better than any of the other metallic dragons.
Lectral considered the question. His life was his flying-that was the thing that gave him the purest joy. Indeed, if there were such a thing as love, perhaps flight was its purest expression. Finding himself among the heights again, he didn’t lapse into a leisurely glide. Instead, he strived like a youngster, pulling great scoops of air with each powerful beat of his wings, lifting himself higher than the surrounding ridges, vying for the altitude that was the province of the high peaks of the range.
He knew the other silvers were dispersed, hunting perhaps, or waiting for word of the night’s developments. The evil dragons had fled from the skies over K
alaman and the plains, falling back to the twisted fortress that Lectral had glimpsed during his pursuit of Tombfyre. No doubt they still circled there, anxiously awaiting the arrival of their queen.
A ram bleated, with a clatter of rocks, and Lectral looked up to see the creature skipping with uncanny precision along a lofty cliff. But something else moved above it, and in the instant of that awareness, he threw himself forward, wings extended to catch an immediate lift.
Tombfyre appeared seemingly from nowhere, attacking with a blast of fire that cruelly seared Lectral’s tail. The silver dragon careened wildly down the mountainside, avoiding craggy outcrops, barely airborne. A crimson shape swept past, roaring in triumph and glee.
What a fool I was! Lectral rebuked himself furiously. He had been alone and careless, lost in his pathetic musings, making a splendid opportunity for a vicious and implacable enemy. If not for the bleating of the frightened mountain sheep, the battle would have ended at once-a fatal ambush leading to a solitary and anonymous kill.
Struggling for equilibrium, Lectral saw the ground whirling upward and knew he was about to crash into the mountainside. With a quick word of magic, he teleported high into the sky, pulling out of his spin as Tombfyre roared a fiery ball of frustration below.
But then the red dragon disappeared, and the silver whirled in sudden alarm, ready for a magical attack from above or behind. There was no sign of Tombfyre anywhere in the sky, until Lectral cast another spell, one that allowed him to see objects masked by a spell of invisibility. His enemy stood clearly revealed, the mask of magic ripped away as the red dragon strived higher and higher through the air.
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