Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books)

by Elaine Cunningham

  It was not a claim that Zaor felt he could make, nor one he wished to reaffirm. To his relief, WindShriek accepted the dragon's pronouncement without question. "Why you come by my nest, elf king?"

  "I come to bring word of great danger to your people and mine," the elf said. "You are not a night bird, so it might be that word might not have reached you. A bright red star shines in the eastern sky. When this happens, oftentimes a flock of evil dragons gathers to join in a flight of destruction. This time, they are heading directly for Evermeet. We must stop them before they reach the island."

  The giant eagle pondered this. "What you want WindShriek to do, elf king?"

  "You are queen of your kind. Lead them into battle. The risks will be great," he told her gravely, "and many of your own will not return. The same is true of all who will fight, be they eagles or dragon folk or elves. Yet there is no other choice before us, but death for all."

  "Hmm. Eagle people never fight dragons," WindShriek mused, but there was no fear in her voice.

  "I have," Zaor asserted, "and I trust that your battle prowess is equal to the task. If you will work with me, I believe together we can turn them back."

  "Trust, elf king?"

  WindShriek stared at the elf for a moment, her wild eyes unreadable. Then she lunged at him, her hooked beak diving toward his throat.

  Trusting his instinct, Zaor did not flinch or attempt to parry the attack. The enormous beak snapped shut a finger's breadth from his face. Nearly eye to eye, the eagle and the elf regarded each other.

  The giant eagle stepped back. "You plenty brave, elf king," she said approvingly. "You trust WindShriek, WindShriek trust you. Eagle people fight with elves and dragons this day."

  "Now that that's settled," the dragon said, "I'll take my leave. Ahskahala is not the most patient of elves, and her disposition does not improve with pending battle. Your majesties." Without irony, the great creature inclined his horned head to the eagle and the elf, and then leaped from the ledge into the air.

  WindShriek spread her wings, as well. "You not gonna walk, are you?"

  This effectively settled Zaor's next problem-how to persuade the giant eagle to allow him to ride upon her back. The elf climbed onto her wide shoulders sitting just behind her enormous golden head. With a shrilling cry, the eagle climbed into the sky.

  In the Tower of the Sun, Amlaruil joined with the other High Magi in a spell of seeking. In the combined vision of the Circle, the elves reached out across the miles, out over the open sea, to the dragons that winged steadily toward Evermeet.

  There were perhaps seventy of them. Many of the dragons bore the scars of their long flight: scales dulled or molting, wings frayed by storms and sea winds, the leathery hide of the neck hanging in loose folds over depleted flesh. In response to the strange compulsion of dragonflight, the great creatures had flown far without rest or food.

  But the elves did not take too much heart from this evidence of the dragons' weariness. By now, the creatures were desperate, and in their imperative need to reach Evermeet, they would certainly throw all their remaining strength against the defenders.

  Even as the elves struggled to absorb the horrendous mental image of the dragonflight, a new wonder edged its way into their vast magical canvas. Amlaruil caught her breath in awe at her first glimpse of the Starwing fleet.

  There were ten of them, all man-o-wars, and they swept toward the invading dragons like a flock of titanic butterflies. Their slender crystal hulls cut through the air as swiftly as did the dragons' sleek forms, and their glistening, brightly colored pairs of double sails seized every breath of wind.

  As Amlaruil watched, the blood-red ship in the lead position fired her ballista. An enormous, iron-tipped bolt streaked toward the nearest black dragon.

  To the elf's astonishment, the black wyrm deftly snatched the weapon from the air with one forepaw. Immediately it bought the spear up against its body, so that the force of the stopped bolt was not borne by that one limb. Then the dragon twirled the ballista bolt around, nimbly as an elven fighter might spin his staff. Its massive black tongue lolled out and licked at the wicked tip.

  A corrosive hiss and the stench of burning metal filled the air as the black dragon's acid began to melt through the iron tip. Holding the weapon like a javelin, the creature reared back in the air and hurled the ballista bolt back toward the lead ship.

  The man-o-war pulled hard to one side, but the tainted weapon tore through the starboard wing. The tattered hole it left behind began to grow as the acid spread, eating its way through the crimson wing and sending melting drops falling like blood to the deck below. The cries of wounded elves echoed horribly. The ship began to falter, sinking down toward the waiting sea.

  Swiftly the remaining ships fanned out to form a defensive line between the island and the approaching dragons. Thump after thump filled the air as their catapults loosed a steady barrage of scattershot at the approaching dragons.

  The deadly fire had effect. Four of the creatures spiraled down to the waters, their wings torn and useless. But the others, even those who had been wounded, came steadily on. In their lead was a young red dragon, a large male. The bands of armor encircling the dragon's mighty chest swelled as the creature fueled itself for the killing blast.

  Fire shields, now!

  Jannalor Nierde's voice, imperative and desperate, sounded in the minds of each elf in the Circle. As one, the High Magi chanted the words that would fashion the protective spell.

  Fire burst from the creature's mouth, pouring out in a stream of flame that went on and on in a seemingly endless gout of heat and destruction. The immense, curved shield of magic that warded the ships turned back the flame, but within moments the once-invisible barrier was red-hot, the surface blistered and bubbling like melting glass.

  Most of the onrushing dragons ducked under the reflected waves of fire. They glided under the ships, letting the searing heat and flame waft upward harmlessly. Only two of the dragons were caught in the updraft and tossed high into the sky.

  Well enough, thought Amlaruil in relief. The ships had survived the dragons' worst weapon, and they were above most of the wyrms, and thus in a far more defensible position.

  Immediately the man-o-wars began to maneuver into a new formation. The ships on the outer edges of the line swept around to the west, the others following until all nine had formed a circle. The dragons, however, knew no such organization. They swarmed toward the ships from all sides in sudden, terrible, relentless attack.

  Gone, too, was all hope of an organized defense. Wizards aboard all the ships loosed countering weapons. Massive fireballs tore toward the red dragons, meeting answering fire in bursts of multicolored light and shattering explosions of sound. Enchanted arrows flew from bows passed down by ancient heroes as the fighters sought the vulnerable eyes and wide-flung mouths of the attacking wyrms.

  The Circle did what they could, following Jannalor's lead and lending their combined strength to one elven attack after another. But the dragons were simply too many. They battered the elven vessels with magic, swooped down and caught up elven fighters in their talons, slashed at the sails with their rending teeth and talons, and slammed the crystal hulls with their own enormous bodies. They fought in near-frenzy, driven by their own desperate hunger and the compelling, mysterious urging of the dragonflight.

  Nor did the Starwings' defensive stance aid the magi, for there was no one attack to which to lend their strength. One after another, the ships were shattered by dragonfire, or melted by the terrible clouds of acid breath, or left so damaged or bereft of crew that they were forced to limp down toward the sea.

  A sudden surge of magic, like sunlight breaking through winter clouds, flooded the joined minds of the Circle's elves. As one, they soared upward in thought to seek its source.

  Winging toward the battle in precise formation were thirty gold and silver dragons, each bearing an elven warrior.

  Amlaruil's lips curved in a triumphant smile.
She recognized the formidable Lady Mylaerla Durothil. The matron sat astride a venerable silver and looked as if she'd been born to battle. The grim, Gray elf woman who rode at her right wing tip could only be the legendary Ahskahala. With such heroes as these fighting for Evermeet, surely victory would not be long in coming!

  Yet even as she watched, lending her magic to the Circle as Jannalor wove a net of power that supported the dragonriders like a favorable wind, Amlaruil realized that the battle would not be easily won.

  The dragonriders came in from above, attacking the invaders with great, swooping dives and pulses of magical power. But the evil dragons countered with their own fearful weapons. Amid the terrible confusion of blood and steel and flame and smoke and magic, pairs of the gigantic creatures grappled in the sky. Here and there the entwined dragons plummeted from the fiery clouds, only to be swallowed by the waiting sea.

  Above the roar of the embattled dragons and the answering shouts of elven fighters, a shrill, distant voice took up the elven battle cries. Giant eagles, nearly as large as some of the dragons, hurtled down from the sky. Leading them was a wondrous golden female, and on her back rode Zaor Moonflower. His wild dark blue hair streaked behind him like a storm cloud, and the moonblade he brandished blazed with arcane fire.

  Amlaruil instinctively reached out to him. Her magic strengthened his arm as he slashed out to meet the snapping jaws of a red dragon. The sword slapped the dragon's head to one side, and the hooked beak of Zaor's eagle partner sank deep into the vulnerable neck.

  The young mage felt the swell of gathering magic nearby, and she flashed her attention to the small black dragon who drew breath for an attack upon the deadly eagle-rider. Amlaruil sensed the moonblade's protective shield, and she lent her magic to calling it forth. The dragon spat acid in a fetid stream. It hit the moonblade-created shield and dissolved into a foul smelling cloud, as easily as a cup of water might be dispersed if tossed upon a dwarven forge.

  Deep into the magic of Zaor's sword Amlaruil went, finding its secrets and lending her magic to his strength. Unknowing, she slipped free of her place in the Circle and bound herself instead to ties still deeper and more mystical. Yet in a distant corner of her mind, she could still hear Jannalor's voice, still feel the wondering thoughts of the magi as they focused their efforts upon bolstering the new and powerful Center who had unexpectedly taken over the course of the battle.

  Zaor seemed to be everywhere, his sword flashing and diving as he battled the invading dragons. He and his magnificent eagle worked together as if one creature. Dimly, Amlaruil could hear the elf's voice as he shouted encouragement and instruction to the aptly named WindShriek. But more than that, she felt the distinctive magic of the elven isle itself pulsing through Zaor's moonblade, and binding the defenders together. It was a magic she knew, for it coursed through her body and sang in her veins.

  Nor was she the only one to sense the power of Zaor and his sword. The other eagles, even the dragonriders, rallied to the Moon elf warrior as the magic of the king sword subtly reached out to touch and inspire each child of Evermeet.

  The eagles attacked relentlessly, gouging the invading dragons with their hooked beaks and shredding at their leathery wings with talons as long and sharp as any sword. The eagles swooped down in groups of two and three, slamming into the dragons as the dragons had in turn attacked the elven ships.

  Not all of the giant birds survived. A burst of dragonfire caught one of the eagles in mid-dive, filling the air with a spray of golden feathers, and the stench of charred flesh. Another spun down to the sea, a broken wing hanging over the long bloody gash that scored its side so deeply that it exposed a neat row of bones.

  But at last the battle was over. A single elven ship, a dozen pairs of dragonriders and wyrms, and less than a score of giant eagles winged wearily back toward the island. They left behind skies still dark with smoke, and a sea that still steamed and seethed from the burning destruction of the ships and the gigantic warriors.

  Slowly, gently, Jannalor Nierde reclaimed control of the Circle from the young mage.

  We have yet another task to do, one that will challenge our remaining strength. You were all bound up with the magic of the goodly dragons-you know that those few who survive are without exception gravely wounded. We must put them into healing slumber, else all will die, the Grand Mage said somberly.

  I will take half the Circle-all the males, let us say-to the tower at Sumbrar. Some of the more gravely wounded dragons will surely stop there, at the nearest land. There are hidden caves where they can sleep. Nakiasha, take the others to the Eagle Hills, and do the same.

  In response, the elves eased away from their shared Circle and reformed the magical ties into two groups. Along with the other female magi, Amlaruil focused her will into the casting of the spell that would carry them along magic's silver path to the Eagle Hills.

  It was the first time she had experienced magical travel. White light enveloped her in a sudden, dizzying whirl. Swept into the vortex, Amlaruil held tight to the threads of magic that bound her to her Circle-and the deeper, more personal tie that guided her to the place she needed to go.

  As the magic faded away, Amlaruil felt the chill sweep of wind against her face. She opened her eyes cautiously, and found that she and her Circle were standing perhaps halfway up the western slope of a mountain. Above them wheeled and soared five silver dragons, and one great gold. Following them like bright shadows were the eagles.

  The gold dragon was clearly in trouble. One wing was badly tattered. Torn flesh showed through the gap where melted scales dripped like liquid gold down his wounded flank. Ahskahala was not in much better shape. Her face was blackened with soot and dried blood, and much of her hair and tunic had been singed away. Zaor and his eagle partner kept close to the wounded dragon's side. Through senses still attuned to the warrior, Amlaruil heard his voice, felt his sword's magic, joined in bracing harmony as they urged the faltering wyrm on.

  The dragon that Zaor called Haklashara lumbered to the ground, hitting far too hard and skidding painfully over the rock-strewn hillside. His head-now bereft of one of its proud, curling horns, twisted back to regard his elven partner. An oddly contented smile curved his reptilian maw as he noted that Ahskahala still held her seat.

  Amlaruil rushed forward and caught the wounded elf woman as she fell. "You must speak to the dragon, help him find his way into the cave," she urged as she lowered Ahskahala to the ground. "We will put him into deep, magical slumber. He will heal, and live to serve Evermeet again."

  The warrior's red-rimmed eyes fastened on Amlaruil's face. "I will join him," she croaked.

  "But-"

  "I will join him," Ahskahala said in a stronger voice, one that neither invited nor permitted argument. "Haklashara and I will heal together, and awaken together. You must do this, mage!"

  A gentle hand rested on Amlaruil's shoulder. She knew before looking up that Zaor had come to her side. "She will not live, else," he said softly.

  The young mage nodded. Zaor swept the dragonrider up into his arms, and the three elves made their way into the cave, followed by the gravely wounded dragon.

  When they were deep within the mountain, Ahskahala called a halt. She gritted her teeth as Zaor lowered her carefully to the ground, then looked with contentment at the stone chamber, and the dragon who curled around her like a gigantic cat preparing to nap.

  "It is well. Here we will stay until Evermeet's need is as grave as it was this day. When and if that day comes, call us forth."

  The warrior took a ring from her hand and gave it to Zaor. "Speak my name, my lord, and the dragonriders will answer your call. If the gods are kind and the day long in coming, you must give this ring to whosoever rules after you."

  "You know," Zaor said in wonderment.

  A faint smile crossed the elf woman's blackened face. "If one so dense as Haklashara can see what you are, do you think that I cannot?"

  "I heard that, elf," the dragon rumbled
.

  With a soft chuckle, Ahskahala leaned back against her partner's scaly side. "Go about your work, mage. We are very tired."

  A moment of pure panic threatened to claim Amlaruil. The spell that she must cast was High Magic, an enchantment so powerful that it could not be safely cast outside of the strength and support of a Circle. And that was considering just the spell for the dragon alone; to send an elf into endless revery was more difficult still.

  And yet, what else could she do? The dragon and elven heroes would die before Amlaruil could gather the other elves, who, for that matter, would be busy with their other dragon charges.

  The mage took a long breath to steady her resolve, then sank deep into the magic. She called forth the spell, her body swaying and her hands gesturing gracefully as she chanted, summoning the threads of magic and weaving them into the needed pattern. As she worked, she could feel the silvery web take shape, and then sink down over the pair of warriors like a comforting blanket.

  Swept up in the power of the magic, Amlaruil had no sense of the passing of time. Nor did she feel the hunger or exhaustion that so often plagued the magi after the workings of the Circle. If anything, she felt invigorated by the flow of magic.

  Almost regretfully, she released herself from the spell and left Ahskahala and her dragon friend to their long slumber. Without speaking, she and Zaor made their way from the cave.

  The mountainside was deserted when they emerged, and the sunset colors stained the distance hills. "The others must have returned to the Towers," Amlaruil murmured. "Working together, they could have completed the task faster than one alone."

  After a moment's silence, Zaor reached out and took her hands in his. "I felt you with me during the battle, you know. Your magic, your strength."

  The elf woman nodded. The bond that had formed between them still sang in her blood and filled her soul. A shy smile curved her lips as she looked into the warrior's searching eyes and saw a similar knowledge there.