Dragons of the Highlord Skies

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Flint regarded Gilthanas in astonishment and shifted his worried gaze to Laurana. She gave Flint a pleading look, asking for understanding. Flint walked on, but he no longer grumbled, a certain sign he was upset.

  The four continued to pursue the knights through the maze of tunnels. They passed the chamber where Feal-Thas had kept the dragon orb and its magical monstrous guardian. The knights noticed the chamber, but went on by, although they could hear Aran stating he’d found an X on the wall. At this, Gilthanas, who had also noticed the Xs on the walls, took a moment to investigate. Laurana went with him, leaving Flint and Tasslehoff to stand guard outside.

  Laurana stared in shuddering horror at the bones, severed limbs and blood frozen in the snow.

  “Look at that pedestal,” said Gilthanas triumphantly, pointing. “It was made to hold the dragon orb. Look at these runes. They speak of the orb and how it was created. That explains the carnage,” he added, looking about at the blood and gore. “We’re not the first to come in search of it.”

  “You’re saying the orb was here and something or someone was guarding it, but it’s not here now. Perhaps we’re too late.” Laurana sounded hopeful.

  Gilthanas cast her an angry look and was about to say something when they heard Flint bellow.

  “The blasted kender,” the dwarf stated. “He ran off that way.” He pointed at a dragon-marked tunnel.

  Almost immediately, Tasslehoff came dashing back. “I think I found it!” he said in a loud whisper. “The dragon’s lair!”

  Gilthanas hastened off, with Tas leading the way, and Flint and Laurana hurrying behind him. Rounding a corner, the elf jumped quickly back into the tunnel. He motioned the others to come forward slowly.

  “They’re here,” he mouthed, pointing.

  Laurana peered cautiously around the corner into a large empty chamber. Icicles hung from the ceiling like white stalactites. The knights stood in the middle of the chamber, looking around.

  “Where are the guards?” Brian was asking tensely. “We’ve come this whole way and not a sign of anyone.”

  “If there were soldiers guarding this area, they have probably run off to join the battle,” said Derek. “Aran, you and Brightblade remain here, keep watch. Brian, you will come with me—”

  “It’s a trap, my lord,” said Sturm, speaking with such calm and conviction that the knights were shocked into silence.

  Derek quickly recovered. “Nonsense,” he said testily. “I think he may be right, Derek,” said Aran. “I’ve had the feeling all along that someone was following us.”

  Gilthanas sidled farther down the tunnel and pulled Laurana with him.

  “That explains why Feal-Thas sent away all those guarding the orb, including the dragon,” Brian added tensely. “He wanted to lure us into doing exactly what we are doing—walking into a trap.”

  As if someone was listening, an eerie howl wailed in the darkness, bestial, mocking laughter that throbbed with enmity and a terrible threat of blood and pain and dying. The single voice was joined by countless more voices, their howls and cries reverberating through the tunnels.

  Laurana clutched at her brother, who grabbed hold of her. Flint whipped out his axe, looking about wildly.

  “What was that?” Laurana gasped. Her lips were numb with cold and fear. “What is that dreadful sound?”

  “Wolves!” Gilthanas breathed, not daring to speak aloud. “The wolf packs of Feal-Thas!”

  At a sharp command from Derek, the knights took up positions back to back, facing outward, their swords drawn. Steel glinted in the magical light.

  The wolves surrounded the knights. White fur against white snow, red eyes glowing, the wolves circled the knights, padding quietly, closing in on them. Now the wolves had gone silent, intent on the kill, on avoiding the sharp steel, on leaping and dragging down and tearing apart, on gulping the hot blood.

  One wolf, larger than the rest, held apart from the others, remaining outside the circle. This wolf did not join in the attack. He was watching, a spectator. It seemed to Laurana the wolf had a cruel smile in his dark eyes.

  Elves have long studied the habits and nature of the animals who share their forest homes. They do not kill their animal neighbors, not even the predatory beasts, unless forced to do so.

  Laurana knew the ways and habits of wolves, and no wolf would behave like this—sitting on his haunches, watching his fellows.

  “Something’s not right. Wait, Flint!” she cried desperately, as the dwarf would have dashed off to join the battle. “Tas! Do you have those magical glasses of yours? The ones that see things for what they are!”

  “I might,” said Tas. “I’m never sure what I have, you know, but I try to keep those with me.”

  Laurana watched in agony as the kender, hampered by his fur gloves, began peering into and rummaging through his numerous pouches. From their hiding place in the tunnel, Laurana could see, out of the corner of her eye, the wolves closing the circle. There must be fifty of them or more. And still the one wolf watched the doomed knights and waited.

  Tasslehoff continued rummaging. Frantic, Laurana grabbed one of the pouches, upended it, dumping stuff on the ground. She was about to do the same with the others, when Gilthanas pointed. The glasses sparkled and glittered in the magical light. The elf made a grab for them, but Tasslehoff was quicker. He snatched them up and, giving Gilthanas a reproachful glance, settled them on his nose.

  “What am I looking at?” he asked.

  “That big wolf.” Laurana knelt beside the kender, bringing herself to his eye level, and pointed. “The one there, standing apart from the others.”

  “It’s not a wolf. It’s an elf,” said Tasslehoff, then he added excitedly, “No wait! It’s an elf and a wolf …”

  “Feal-Thas …” Laurana whispered. “You know something of this wizard, Gil. How do we stop him?”

  “An archmage!” Gilthanas gave a bitter laugh. “One of the most powerful wizards on Krynn—”

  He halted. His expression grew thoughtful. “There might be a way, but you would have to do it, Laurana.”

  “Me!” She gasped, appalled.

  “You’re the only one who has a chance.” Gilthanas pointed. “You have the frostreaver.”

  She had thrown the weapon to the ground to help Tasslehoff search through the pouches. It lay, gleaming crystalline clear, at her feet. She made no move to pick it up.

  Gilthanas gripped her arm, speaking very fast. “Your weapon is magical. The wizard is a winternorn and the weapon is made of the same elements that fuel his magic. It is the one weapon that might kill him.”

  “But … he’s a wizard.” Laurana quailed.

  “He is not! Not now. Now he’s a wolf. He’s trapped in the wolf’s body, and he’ll be hampered in his spell casting! He won’t be able to speak the words of magic or make the gestures or use his spell components. You must attack now, before he shifts back!”

  Laurana stood shivering, staring at the enormous white wolf. The other wolves continued to circle the knights, wary of the sharp steel, yet hungry for blood.

  “You can do this, Laurana,” said Gilthanas earnestly. “You have to. Otherwise, there’s no hope for any of us.”

  If Tanis were only here … Laurana stopped herself from thinking that. Tanis wasn’t here. She couldn’t depend on him or anyone else. This was up to her. The gods had given her the frostreaver. She didn’t know why. She hadn’t asked for it. She didn’t want it. She seemed a very poor choice. She wasn’t a knight. She wasn’t a warrior. Yet even as she thought this and railed against her fate, ideas on how she could attack the wizard began crystallizing in her mind. She spoke her thoughts as they came to her, almost without realizing what she was saying.

  “He mustn’t see me coming. If he does, he might start to shift back to his true form. Gil, find somewhere you can use your bow. Keep his attention fixed on the battle, and if you can, drive him away from the rest of the pack.”

  Gilthanas looked at her, start
led, then gave an abrupt nod. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this. It’s my fault.” “No, Gil,” she said. “I made my own choices.” She thought back to the day she had run away from home to follow after Tanis. That choice had led her to the knowledge of the gods, to knowledge of herself. She was a far different person from the spoiled little girl she had once been. A far better person, or so she hoped. She wasn’t sorry, no matter what happened.

  The circle of wolves began closing, moving in on their prey. Flint stood by her silently, stoutly.

  “You can do it, lass,” he said in gruff assurance, then he added wistfully, “I wish I had time to teach you the proper way to wield that axe!”

  She grinned at him. “I don’t think it’s going to make much difference.”

  Gilthanas slipped to the tunnel opening, seeking a good location from which to use his bow. Laurana and Flint hurried down the tunnel’s slight incline and ventured out into the open. Feal-Thas did not hear them or see them, nor did the wolves. They were focused on the prey at hand, focused on the kill.

  Tasslehoff had been having fun flipping his glasses up and down, seeing an elf one moment and a wolf the next. When this grew boring, he took off the glasses, looked about, and saw that he was alone.

  Gilthanas had taken up a position at the end of the tunnel. He had drawn his bow and was nocking an arrow. Laurana, her frostreaver in her hands, was slipping up behind the pack of wolves. Flint was behind her, keeping one eye on the wolves and the other on Laurana.

  “Try to hit his back, lass,” Flint told her. “Aim for the biggest part of him, and put your own back into it!”

  Tas hurriedly thrust the glasses into a pocket and reached into his belt. There was Rabbitslayer, just where it always was, whether he had thought to bring it or not.

  “Maybe after this I’ll rename you Wolf-Killer,” he promised the knife.

  Tas started after his friends. He hadn’t been paying attention to Laurana’s orders to keep quiet, and he was about to raise his voice in a gleeful taunt when the words stuck in his throat.

  The knights closed ranks, facing, as best they could, the coming onslaught. The wolves padded toward them, their eyes glittering red in the eerie light. Then snow began to fall, magical snow, drifting down out of the air. The light dimmed, hampering their ability to see.

  “You damn fool!” Aran swore savagely at Derek, his voice rising in fury with each word. “You bloody, stupid, arrogant fool! What do you say now? What bloody words of wisdom are you going to spout at us before we all die?”

  “Aran,” said Brian softly, his mouth so dry he could barely speak, “you’re not helping …”

  Sturm was to Brian’s left. Sturm stood tall and steadfast, his sword point unwavering, his gaze fixed on the wolves. He was talking, but only to himself, the words low and barely audible. Brian realized Sturm was praying, asking for Paladine to aid them, commending their souls to the god.

  Brian wished in sudden agony that he believed in a god—any god! That he was not staring into a hideous, eternally silent, eternally empty void. That the pain and the terror held some meaning, that his life held some meaning. That his death would have some value. That he had not found love at last only to lose it in an icy cave on some pointless venture. A bitter taste flooded his mouth. The gods might have returned, but too late for him.

  “Brightblade, be silent,” said Derek, his voice rasping. “All of you, silence.”

  He was the cool, calm commander, the leader in charge of the situation, a courageous example, an inspiration to his men as described in the Measure. If he had doubts, he wasn’t giving in to them. He believed in something, Brian thought. Derek believed in Derek, and he couldn’t understand why they didn’t believe in him as well. He expects us to die believing in him, Brian suddenly realized. That struck him as funny, and he gave a crackle of bitter laughter that brought another sharp rebuke from Derek.

  “Pay attention!”

  “To what?” Aran raved. “To the fact that we’re going to die horribly, torn apart by wild beasts, our bones hauled off to be gnawed in some den—”

  “Shut up!” Derek shouted furiously. “All of you, shut up!’

  According to the Measure, the leader never shouted, never lost his calm demeanor, never wavered or doubted, never showed fear …

  Snowflakes fell into Brian’s eyelashes. He blinked them away rapidly, keeping his gaze fixed on the wolves. As if acting on some unheard signal, the wolves suddenly came at them in a rush.

  Sturm gave a great roar of defiance and swung his sword in a slashing arc. A huge white wolf fell at his feet, blood welling from a wound in its neck.

  Another wolf came bounding at Brian, snarling, fangs glistening. It suddenly sailed sideways, its body skidding on the ice. Brian saw, as it slid past him, an arrow sticking out of its ribs. A second arrow took another wolf in midair, felling it. Brian had no time to wonder or to look around. An enormous wolf galloped over the snow, charging at him. Brian tried to hit it with the blade of his sword, but the wolf, launching itself into the air, leaped on top of him. Huge paws thudded into his chest. The wolf’s weight bore Brian to the ground. His sword flew out of his gloved hands and went spinning away over the ice.

  The wolf’s breath was hot on his face, smelling of rotting meat. Yellow teeth slashed his flesh. Saliva, now red with blood—his blood—splashed over him. The wolf had him pinned. He pummeled it with his hands, to no avail. The wolf sank its fangs into Brian’s neck, and he screamed. He knew he screamed, but, horribly, there was no sound except gurgling. The wolf savaged his neck, ready to rip out his throat. Then it gave a hideous yelp and tumbled or was kicked off him. Brian looked up to see Sturm yank his sword out of the wolf’s flank.

  Sturm bent over him. Brian could barely see him in the falling snow.

  Sturm gripped Brian’s hand, held it fast, even as he stabbed and slashed with his sword, fending off more wolves.

  “I’ll get up in a minute,” Brian meant to tell him. “I’ll help you fight. I just have to … catch my breath …”

  Brian held onto Sturm’s hand and tried to breathe, but no breath would come.

  He held Sturm’s hand and the snow fell and the flakes were cold upon his lips and … he let go …

  Laurana saw Brian fall. She saw Sturm bending over him, still fighting, trying to keep the wolves from attacking him. A wolf leaped on Sturm’s shoulders. With an enormous effort, he rose up, heaving the beast off him. The wolf landed on its back. Sturm drove his sword into its belly, and the beast yelped and snapped in pain, feet flailing in the air.

  Aran fought expertly. His sword was slippery-wet with blood, and bodies lay about his feet. The wolves fell back, eyeing him, then several ganged up to bring him down. One dashed in behind him, digging its sharp fangs through his leather boot, sinking deep into his ankle, severing the tendon. Aran stumbled and the wolves leapt on him, snarling and growling, ripping and tearing. Aran cried out, shouting for help. Sturm could do nothing, could not come to his aid. A wolf had hold of the sleeve of his sword arm and was trying to drag him off-balance. Sturm beat at it with his fist, trying to force the jaws loose.

  Laurana heard Aran’s cries and turned to look. “Flint, go help him!” she shouted.

  Flint looked at her, frowning, doubtful, not wanting to leave her.

  “Go!” she said urgently.

  Flint cast her an agonized glance, then ran to Aran’s aid. The dwarf descended on the attacking wolves, coming at them from behind. Flint roared and hacked, and his axe was soon red with gore. The wolves, maddened with the smell of fresh blood, paid him little heed. They continued their assault on Aran, who had ceased to struggle. One wolf died with its teeth still clamped in Aran’s flesh.

  Flint dragged the carcass off Aran, then stood over the knight’s body, fending off the wolves.

  “Reorx aid me!” Flint cried, swinging his axe and the steel, covered with blood, flared red in the tunnel light. The wolves did not like the light and kept clear, but they co
ntinued to eye him.

  “Aran?” Derek cried, half-turning. But he was fighting his own battle and could not see what had happened.

  Flint glanced down at Aran, buried beneath wolf carcasses, but he dared not take his attention from the wolves. “Tas,” Flint yelled. “I need you! Over here! See to Aran,” he ordered as Tas came dashing up.

  Tasslehoff frantically shoved and kicked aside the bloody bodies until he found Aran. The knight’s eyes were wide open and unblinking as the snowflakes fell into them. Half his face had been torn off. Blood pooled and froze on the ice beneath him.

  “Oh, Flint!” Tas cried, choking in dismay.

  Flint glanced over his shoulder.

  “Reorx walk with him,” he said gruffly.

  Tas yelled a warning, and Flint turned, swinging his axe as more wolves descended on them.

  Sturm put his back to Derek’s, to keep the wolves from taking them down from behind as they had Aran. The two men stood in a circle of bodies. Some of the wolves, wounded, whimpered and tried futilely to stand. Others lay still. The ice was red with gore. The knights’ swords were slippery with blood that ran down the blade and gummed up the hilt. They were sweating beneath the fur coats. Their breath came fast and frosted their mustaches and eyebrows. The wolves watched, waiting for an opening. Every so often, an arrow would fly through the darkness and take down another, but by now Gilthanas was running low on arrows, and he had to make every shot tell.

  “Aran?” Derek asked harshly, gasping for breath.

  “Dead,” said Sturm, breathing hard.

  That was all. Derek did not ask about Brian. Derek knew the answer. At one point, he had almost fallen over his friend’s body. The wolves closed in again.

  Flint was on the defensive, battling for his life. He no longer roared; he had to save his breath. A wolf leaped at him. He swung his axe and missed, and the beast was on him, bowling him over. Tasslehoff jumped on the wolf’s back. Tas had gone into a sort of kender fury, screaming taunts that had no effect, for the wolves couldn’t possibly understand or care. Riding the beast, Tas stabbed the wolf in the neck, stabbed it again and again and again with all the strength in his small arm until it toppled over and lay dead.