Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books)

by Elaine Cunningham

  The wemic did not respond to the dark elf's taunting. He knew better, though his throat ached with the effort of holding back roars of anguish and fury.

  "You have sent raiders to follow the red-pelted elves," Mbugua murmured as soon as he could trust himself to speak.

  "Nothing so crude as that. I have sent a scrying jewel with him. Why else would I trade a prince's weapon for a peasant's trinket?" the dark elf reasoned. "If Sharlario Moonflower's tales are true, then Mahatnartorian will try to reclaim his mountain kingdom and avenge himself on these avariel, these winged elves. I would like to observe these creatures in battle, learn their strength and their customs. If the winged elves show promise, then I will follow Sharlario to their hidden places. When I have need of these avariel to serve in my own war, I will send raiders to harvest them."

  "This war-it is coming soon?"

  Try as he might, the wemic could not keep a note of hope from his voice. In such a conflict there was a chance of defeat for his master-and freedom for himself and his kin.

  The dark elf's smile mocked these dreams. "Not for many thousands of years, my loyal servant," he said softly. "But do not trouble yourself on my account-I will still be alive and in power, and my people will win the battle handily. And you, my dear wemic, will still be around to witness this victory-in one form or another. This, I promise you!"

  As sunrise broke over the eastern hills, Durothil crouched on the blasted plateau that had once been a sacred dancing hill. The elven mage was motionless but for the green eyes that scanned the southern skies. For years now he had spent hours at a time on this mountain, keeping watch and strengthening both his plans and his resolve.

  It had taken him a long time to figure out what Sharlario Moonflower was doing. The Moon elf traveled incessantly, seeking out elven communities and enlisting their help for a coming battle. From what Durothil could gather, the great red dragon who had blasted this mountaintop had been bested and sent into exile by the winged elves, with Sharlario's assistance. Dragons, from all accounts, followed certain codes of battle and behavior. Red dragons were treacherous creatures who did so only with great reluctance-and who usually exacted vengeance later. The time of banishment was almost up.

  That morning had dawned bright and clear, but the wind was sharp with the promise of coming winter. Durothil rose and began to move about, swinging his arms to warm himself. He walked over to the edge of the plateau and gazed out over the foothills into the southern sky. There was no sign yet of the approaching red dragon.

  A breeze swept up from the steep cliff below, bearing a strange odor to the watchful elf. Puzzled, Durothil wrinkled his nose and tried to place it. There was a powerful scent of musk, with an sweetish note reminiscent of the lemon trees that once had bloomed in the royal gardens of Tintageer.

  Suddenly Durothil found himself looking directly into an enormous pair of yellow eyes. The shock froze his feet to the mountain even as his well-trained mind took note of details: those eyes were each as big as his own head, they were slashed with vertical pupils and bright with a malevolent intelligence, and they were set in a terrifying reptilian face armored with platelike scales the color of old blood.

  As the stunned elf stared, something like a smile lifted the corners of the creature's maw. Steam wafted from wet and gleaming fangs.

  "You have much to learn of dragons, little one," the great creature rumbled, punctuating his comment with a puff of sulfur-scented smoke. "We have wings, yes, but we also have legs! People always expect to be warned by the crash of underbrush and the clanking of scales, when in truth no mountain cat walks in greater silence."

  Durothil shook his head in dazed denial. This was not at all how this meeting was supposed to go. All his magic, all his careful preparations, were locked in some inaccessible part of his mind by the paralysis of dragonfear. The elven mage knew better than to look into a dragon's eyes, of course, and he would never have done so had the creature not surprised him. Now, he was as helpless as a trapped mouse awaiting a raptor's strike.

  The dragon's wings unfurled with a sound like a thunderclap and then thumped rhythmically as Mahatnartorian rose into the air. He wheeled slowly about, holding Durothil's eyes with his hypnotic gaze and forcing the elf to turn with him as he circled around and lowered himself onto the center of the plateau. The dragon lifted his horned head and sniffed at the air.

  "There is interesting magic about, elf. Yours?"

  Durothil nodded, despite all his attempts to resist the creature's power.

  The dragon settled, tucking his front paws under his chest and wrapping his tail around his scale-covered body. Something about the posture brought to the elf's mind an incongruous picture of a bored house cat.

  "I would like to see what magic you've prepared against me," Mahatnartorian continued, in much the same tone as a king might command a performance from a jester of scant renown. "Do your best, little elf. Oh, don't look so surprised-or so hopeful. The best wizards of the south could do nothing to harm me. My resistance to magic is too powerful," he said complacently.

  "Then how did Sharlario Moonflower subdue you?"

  The words were out before Durothil could consider the consequences. As he cursed his fear-addled tongue, the dragon's eyes narrowed into slits.

  "You are fortunate, elfling, than I am in the mood for diversion," he said in an ominous rumble. "By all means, divert me. I rather hope your magical attack tickles-I have grown unaccustomed to the cool air of these northern lands, and a hearty laugh might be pleasantly warming."

  Durothil felt the dragon's hold on his mind slowly slip away. As soon as he could move of his own accord, he tore his gaze from those malice-filled eyes. Then he reached into a moss-lined bag and gently removed a small cube. He took a deep breath and began the chant he had been preparing for years.

  The dragon listened, massive head swaying in derisive counterpoint to the rhythm of the elven chant. As the magical forces gathered, however, the dragon's horned brow beetled in puzzlement and consternation. The elf was focusing his efforts not upon the dragon, but upon some object-and on something else that Mahatnartorian could not quite identify.

  As Durothil's chant quickened and rose to a swift climax, he hauled back one hand and hurled a small object at the dragon. A small, viscous green glob splatted on the creature's armored side.

  Mahatnartorian regarded the mess, one horned brow lifted incredulously. "That is the best you can do? You disappoint me, elfling. At the very least, you could-"

  The dragon broke off abruptly as a sudden chill, sharp as a rival's teeth, stabbed through the protective armor of his scales. He glanced down, and noted that the spot of green was beginning to spread. The dragon reached out with the tip of his tail and tried to peel the strange substance off. His tail was caught fast in it-try as he might, he could not pull his tail free of the elastic substance.

  Roaring with rage, Mahatnartorian rose onto his haunches and tore at the swiftly spreading goo with his front paws. Not even his massive talons could halt the flow. Frantic now, the dragon beat his wings in an instinctive attempt to fly, to seek the safety of his lair. The buffeting winds sent the elf hurtling back, rolling perilously close to the edge of the flat.

  But the effort came too late. The dragon's hind quarters were already stuck firmly to the mountain. In moments Mahatnartorian was completely encased in an enormous cube that claimed nearly the entire plateau.

  Durothil scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving and his breath coming in ragged gulps. He walked cautiously around the still-struggling dragon, taking care not to meet its stare. Finally the dragon settled down in apparent resignation, and its massive jaw moved slightly as if in speech. There was a moment's silence as a ripple passed through the cube to the outer edge.

  "How did you do that? What magic do you command?"

  The dragon's voice was oddly altered by its passage through the cube-muffled and mutated until the wobbly cadences sounded more like the mutter of a drunken dwarf than the g
reat, thrumming bass instrument that was nearly as terrifying as dragonfright. But to Durothil, those words sounded sweeter than a siren's lullaby.

  "I do not command such power-I merely entreat. Since elven magic would not serve against so mighty a foe, I sought the power of an ancient god to bring against the great Mahatnartorian." The response was extravagant, but Durothil was in a mood to be generous-and he knew of the legendary vanity of red dragons.

  "A god. Hiran." The dragon seemed somewhat mollified by this information. "Very well, then. Now that I'm subdued-although I'll have you know that this is hardly the traditional means of subdual-what service does your god require from me?"

  "Information," the elf began. "I have heard rumors of silver dragons to the north."

  "Consider them confirmed."

  "Your part is not so easy as that. I need to know where the creatures lair. And I need an egg. When I have retrieved and hatched a viable egg, you will be free to go." The dragon's shoulders abruptly lifted and fell, sending a shiver through the cube. A moment later, his derisive snort broke through the gelatinous barrier.

  The next series of ripples came quickly, heralding the force of the words to come. "In that case, elfling fool, I will sit in this ridiculous cube forever. You have no hope of success. Have you ever seen a brooding she-dragon protect her nursery? No, of course you have not, for you are still alive to stand before me with that annoying smirk on your face."

  There was more truth in the dragon's words than Durothil liked to admit. The retrieval of a living egg was the weakest part of his plan. "You have another suggestion?"

  "I will retrieve this egg for you," the dragon offered. "Loose me now, and I will hunt down and slay the silver she-dragon. That I would do, regardless, for I wish to add the silvers' hunting lands to my own territory. You may consider the egg the fulfillment of the terms of subdual. It is unorthodox, but what about this encounter is not?"

  Durothil considered this. "What assurances do I have that you will deliver a viable egg? Or even a dragon's egg-for all I know of such matters, I might find myself saddled with a manticore kitten. And what is to keep you from turning upon me and my people, once the egg is delivered?"

  The laughter that emerged from the cube was tinged with genuine respect. "You are learning, elfling. Let us make a bargain then, leaving your part undone until you have bonded with your silver hatchling. Then you will find some ruse to bring Sharlario Moonflower to this mountaintop. Do that, and I will consider this a bargain well made. The rest of the forest elves can live in peace."

  "I cannot betray one of my own People to you!" the elf protested.

  "Can you not? Yet you demand that I deliver one of mine into your hands. For all I know-or care-you could want the little silver brat to cut up for use in your spells, or to sacrifice to this god of yours. Ghaunadar, isn't it?" the dragon said shrewdly. "Now that I consider the matter, you are precisely the sort of being who would draw the Elder God's attention-ambitious, smarter than most of your kind, perhaps a bit of a rogue. Willing to try new things, to stretch the limits. Strong with the life-force that Ghaunadar reveres-and craves.

  "You do know about that particular little requirement, don't you?" the dragon continued. From the corner of one trapped eye, he caught a glimpse of Durothil's puzzled face. A chuckle rumbled through the viscous slime that was a gift of the ancient, evil god.

  "You don't! By Tiamat's Talons, you are more a fool than you appear! Did you think that one such as Ghaunadar would grant you such gifts, yet demand nothing in return? Oh, he will demand, upon that you may stake anything you like. He will demand the sacrifice of a life-force-yours or another's. So why not persuade Ghaunadar to consider this Sharlario Moonflower the required sacrifice? Thus can you pay two debts with a single coin. Are we agreed?"

  Durothil stood silent, stunned and shamed beyond speech. He had known only that Ghaunadar was an ancient power, one who had sought him out and offered assistance in his quest to aid and rule his People. He should have seen Ghaunadar's evil nature; he should have known what sort of service the god would require of him. He should have, but he did not, so blinded was he by his desire for power. But that desire, in and of itself, was not evil. Surely not.

  "I will free you now," Durothil heard himself say, "and all will be as you said, except for one additional condition. I will bring Sharlario Moonflower to you when I have trained the dragon to carry me on its back. Or, if I fail in this endeavor, I will return twenty years from the day of the hatching. And on that day, Ghaunadar will have his elven sacrifice."

  "Done." The dragon's voice rumbled with satisfaction.

  With a heavy heart, the elf chanted the prayer that would reverse the godly spell and free the dragon from Ghaunadar's grip. At once the dragon leaped into the sky, his wings thundering as they carried him toward the lair of the doomed silver dragon.

  Durothil's eyes were dull as he gazed into the sky, for they regarded not the triumphant and fleeing Mahatnartorian, but his own lost honor.

  When Sharlario and his son returned to their forest home, they found a settlement ringing with praise for the hero Durothil. The elven mage, it seemed, had entrapped the red dragon in a mighty spell and had once again banished it. Many of the elves had been alerted by the trapped dragon's roars. Some had witnessed the scene, for the morning was clear and the plateau was clearly visible from the forest.

  Sharlario was relieved to hear of his people's reprieve, but puzzled. Had not Ka'Narlist, the archmage of mighty Atorrnash, said that this dragon could not be overcome through elven magic? The Moon elf respected Durothil's ability, but he would not have thought the Gold elf's magic greater than that wielded in the southern lands.

  Perhaps, Sharlario concluded, Durothil simply used his power with greater restraint and responsibility. After all, the mark of the truly great was not merely having power, but knowing how and when to use it.

  The Moon elf was not particularly surprised when Durothil shunned his people's accolades to spend more and more of his time alone. Sharlario knew all about that. He himself had never been the same after his encounter with Mahatnartorian. For every night of the three hundred years that had passed since that day, the dragon had followed him into his dreams. Not a night passed that Sharlario was not visited by visions in which he saw again the beautiful avariel maid who had captured his heart, caught in the dragonfire meant for him, plummeting to the ground in a tangle of ruined wings. Swept up in a fighting rage that went beyond anything he had ever known or witnessed, Sharlario had forced two of the avariel to carry him above the dragon, to drop him onto the creature's back. While the monster flew-leagues above the mountains below-Sharlario had climbed to the dragon's head and lashed himself to one horn. Suspended from the horn, he'd swung down into the dragon's face and pressed his sword-and his own face-against the glossy surface of the dragon's eye. So great had been his rage that not even the dragonfright could pierce it.

  The memory of that malevolent eye terrified Sharlario now. So did the dragon's promise of vengeance when the term of his banishment ended. All of this haunted his revery, and tainted what happiness he had found since that day. He had married a woman of Faerie and he loved her well. Their life together had been filled with small quiet joys and shared laughter. Even so, not a night passed, but that in revery Sharlario did not wander again among the bodies of the lost avariel, mourning the loss of so many of these wondrous folk. Even so, not a night passed when he did not see the faces of his own beloved wife and children superimposed upon those charred and broken bodies. Yes, Sharlario understood Durothil's need for solitude and healing.

  So he gave the mage a respectful distance for several moons. After a time, however, he thought he might better serve by offering the Gold elf the opportunity to speak to someone who could understand.

  He took himself to the mage's tower, and was a little surprised to find Durothil both friendly and welcoming. The Gold elf served him feywine with his own hands and asked many questions about Sharlario's recent
travels. He was particularly interested in hearing of the dragon wars, and how such things impacted the elven People.

  "You are a diplomat-have you ever considered what might be accomplished by an alliance between the elves and the goodly dragons?" Durothil asked him.

  Sharlario blinked, taken aback by this suggestion. "Too dangerous. Not all dragons are evil, that is true, but why would any dragon have anything to do with the People? What sort of benefit could we offer to creatures of such power and might?"

  "Elven magic is both powerful and subtle," the mage responded. "Although it is unlike a dragon's attack, it could compliment and augment the creature's natural weapons. Working together, a mage and dragon could be a formidable team. I have long dreamed of starting an army of dragonriders."

  "But think of the possible recriminations against elves, should we meddle in the draconian wars!"

  "There is that," Durothil admitted. "But if enough elves and goodly dragons are bonded in purpose, perhaps we can work together for mutual survival. The number of dragons diminishes-they cannot afford to fight each other on such a scale for long or they will utterly destroy themselves."

  A terrible image came to Sharlario's mind: the dark elf Ka'Narlist mounted upon the back of a great black wyrm. "But if noble elves align with dragons, evil wizards would quickly follow. Where would we be then?"

  Durothil jolted as if the Moon elf had struck him. He sat silent for a long moment, searching his visitor's face. "Do you know of a wizard among the People who has turned to evil?" he asked in a hushed voice.

  "Oh, yes," Sharlario assured him grimly. He told of the Gold elf of Atorrnash, and his encounter with the dark elf mage Ka'Narlist. Durothil listened in horrified fascination.

  "And this dagger he gave you-do you carry it with you now?"

  "No. For some reason, I do not like to have it near me, and keep it in a chest in my home. Why?"

  The Gold elf did not answer, but sat for many moments, apparently lost in his own thoughts. After a while he stood, and invited his visitor to follow him.