by Jean Rabe
Malys raised a scaly brow, opened one eye, and silently urged him to continue.
“This world has seen three dragon wars, four if the last could be called a war,” the Blue explained. “Each was glorious – and devastating – to our kind. In the first war, nearly four thousand years past, the elves tried to drive us from what they believed were their lands. They were our lands, and we would have won, as the elves did not have the numbers to stand up to us. But the gods of magic aided the elves, giving them a handful of enchanted stones. The stones captured the dragons’ spirits and drew their strength inside, then the elves buried the stones deep in the tallest mountains. The dragons were weakened and exiled from the world.”
“But they returned,” Malys purred.
“The second war was not quite a thousand years later. The stones had been planted in the Khalkist Mountains, where a clan of dwarves was mining. Dwarves do not trust magic. So when their new tunnel broke into the chamber where the stones were held and they sensed the powerful magic, they cast the stones out onto the surface. They thought they were keeping themselves safe, protecting their mine.”
“Returning dragons to the world?” Malys asked. Her voice was thick with disbelief and she kept both eyes open and on him now.
Khellendros nodded. “The unsuspecting dwarves freed the dragons. The dragons gathered great armies of lizard people, called bakali, and invaded the Silvanesti forests to seek revenge against the elves. The oldest trees were trampled and the elven casualties were staggering. The dragons hoped to slaughter the entire race, cast them into extinction. And the dragons might have succeeded. Should have succeeded. But, again, it was not to be.”
“What happened? Were you there?”
“No. I was not yet born. And I suspect none of the dragons who walk Krynn now were alive then, save our Queen, Takhisis,” Khellendros replied. “But all dragons – all the dragons of Ansalon – know what happened and share our common history. I am revealing it to you so you can better understand your new kin.”
“Go on,” she urged.
“Three sorcerers and a scion, one of the world’s more magical creatures, summoned powerful forces and demanded that the very earth swallow the dragons for all eternity. The dragons were not buried, but they were defeated and driven away. And the smug elves went on with their lives and again took our land.”
“But the dragons obviously rose to power again,” Malys stated.
“Yes. Takhisis would not let it be otherwise. She called on the lizard people, and with their help planted eggs deep in the mines of Thoradin. When the eggs hatched, the young dragons devoured their caretakers and grew strong, and they hid in the mines for a few centuries – until they were large enough to strike in the Dark Queen’s name. That time was called the Third Dragon War, the bloodiest of the struggles and the most costly. The humans barely survived. Wave upon wave of dragons swooped down on them, breathing fire, lightning, acid, poison, and frost. Victory should have belonged to us. But the good dragons, the meddlesome silvers and golds, intervened. The humans crafted enchanted lances, and from the backs of their dragon allies they flew against us. In the end, Takhisis fell. She agreed to leave
Krynn, taking her children with her.”
“And this happened...”
“More than fifteen hundred years after the second war, which was about two thousand years ago.”
“A long time,” Malys mused.
“But not so long as far as history is concerned. Or dragons.” The Red snarled and flicked her tail. It was clear she didn’t like being corrected. “And the dragons...”
“Reawakened once more about four hundred years ago. Takhisis discovered a gate and returned to the world to lead us. I was there.” Khellendros paused for a moment, wondering if Malys would realize he was much larger and more formidable than a four hundred-year-old dragon should be. But he decided Malys probably did not know about the portals, and about how time passes between them. And she surely did not know much about the age and size of dragons in Ansalon.
“What happened?” she persisted.
“As time passed, we made a pact with ogres and wicked humans, beings who had no compunction against killing their own. The Dark Queen’s armies grew, draconians were born, and the land finally came under our control.” Khellendros stared at a spot on the plateau, his mind drifting back to those days. “The time was dubbed the War of the Lance. It was a time unlike any other. Dragon Highlords, select humans with military minds, led us into one superb battle after the next. From atop our backs, they helped us achieve victory over their brethren.”
“You were partnered with a human?” She spit the last word out as if it were a spoiled piece of meat.
“Kitiara.” Khellendros spoke the name softly, almost reverently.
“And where is she now, this Kit-ee-ar-ah?”
“Human bodies are frail.”
“My point,” Malys hissed.
“But human minds are extraordinary,” Khellendros continued. “As the battle raged, a lone human, another wizard, sacrificed himself to seal the Abyss – with the Dark Queen inside. Men rebuilt their world, and we dragons schemed in the background.”
“But we are not in the background any longer. And men are without magic now,” Malys growled. “They are without their gods, without power. They are cattle. And I have plans for them.”
Now it was Khellendros’s turn to listen. The great Blue looked into her eyes and saw the hint of a smile.
“Some will be kept in pens,” Malys began, “just like they keep cattle. They’ll breed for us, giving us a constant food supply. Humans, elves, dwarves. All of them.” Malys studied Khellendros, gauging if he was appalled by the idea. But his expression held steady, and the Red was pleased. “The smartest and the easiest to dominate will be used as spies. I want to know what is going on in their cities, and the loyal spies that I cultivate will tell me.”
The Blue reached a talon up and idly scratched at his lower jaw. “I warned you that humans are clever. You will not find many who will cooperate with you.”
“But I will find enough. And those who dare to stand up to me will be slaughtered.” Malys rose on her haunches until her eyes were level with those of Khellendros. “Hundreds, thousands of them must be slaughtered anyway. Their population must be held in check, kept down. They must be kept under control. This time the humans will not be able to chase us from the face of Krynn because we will not give them the opportunity.”
Khellendros silently regarded her. He was impressed with her drive for power, yet he was more than a little concerned by it. Malys was determined. If she managed to realize her goals of dominating people, what would she consider next? “You need me,” she hissed, interrupting his thoughts. “You need me as an ally.”
“I would not want you as a foe.”
“And I need you,” the Red continued. “You are powerful, larger than the other dragon overlords. Together, you and I can orchestrate the taking of Krynn,” she said silkily. “And when the time is right, you and I can breed a new race of dragons to walk on the face of the world.”
*
Khellendros agreed to Malys’s scheme. As he flew toward his desert home, he recalled his exact words to her. “There is no other on Krynn I would ally myself with. I am honored, Malystryx, you chose to include me in your plans.”
The pact sealed, he left her to return to the Northern Wastes. Khellendros hadn’t lied to her. There was no one on Krynn he would consider as a partner. Kitiara’s essence was in The Gray, so. Malys would do as an ally for the time being. It was safer to be with her than to stand against her. She was greedy, ambitious, manipulative, powerful – she had the traits he admired. But she was not Kitiara. And she could never take Kitiara’s place.
“I shall use humans as cattle, Malys,” he whispered, as his course took him over Neraka’s tallest mountains. “But not in the manner you would suspect.”
The Blue spent most of his days entrenched in his lair beneath the Northern Wa
stes’ vast desert. Khellendros had enlarged his cavern, using Malys’s techniques for molding the terrain. There were several underground chambers now, and a few of them held humans – barbarians he snatched from their villages along the Shark Reef.
They stared at him with frightened eyes. They knew better than to talk to him, ask what would happen to them, dare to challenge him. Humans are more intelligent than you give them credit for, dear Malys, Khellendros thought.
The Blue worked with his captives, separating them, playing upon their fears and weaknesses. He had to corrupt them, turn them against each other or drive them insane. Through the process of creating spawn, Khellendros learned that only evil humans, or those who had been rendered near-mindless, made suitable offspring. Strong-willed humans with good hearts always seemed to die in the process or result in empty blue husks that lacked the comprehension to follow even the simplest of orders.
But I shall find a way to overcome that obstacle, he thought. I shall find a way to transform any human, regardless of its nature.
At the end of a month he had a dozen suitable candidates for the process, and an angry captive sivak draconian that would fuel their transformation. But the dragon’s tears wouldn’t come, and he needed a tear – a bit of himself – to complete the transformation of each of his offspring.
The dragon paced in his expansive underground lair. He concentrated on Kitiara, thought about her body’s death, about how he had failed her. A great sense of sadness overcame him, but at the back of his mind he couldn’t deny that a trace of hope, of bringing her back and giving her the body of a spawn, still remained. And that trace of hope kept him from producing that vital tear.
The Blue’s curses reverberated like thunder in the cavern, causing the walls to shake and crack. The ominous rumble in his belly began, and only the gasps of his human prisoners kept him from releasing a lightning bolt.
His great claws pounded over the stone floor and carried him out into the desert. It was night. The stars winked down at him as if they were mocking him. The sand was cool beneath his feet, signaling that it was late, that the ground had been given hours to cast off its heat. Khellendros had lost track of time, and he howled in frustration. He sent a bolt of lightning skyward and roared deafeningly.
“No!” he screamed. “I shall not be defeated!” He spit another bolt of lightning, this time toward the horizon, blasting a patch of offending scrub grass. He thrust his claws into the sand, digging and scratching to vent his anger. The grains flew all about him, as if tossed by a violent wind. Suddenly he stopped his tirade and stared at the hole he created.
“The sand,” he whispered. “The blessed sand.”
Khellendros opened his eyes wide and shoved his head into the hole. The coarse grains of sand worked their way beneath his eyelids, rubbing, irritating, causing tears to well up. He pushed his head in deeper, ground his eyes and nostrils against the desert floor until the sensation was overwhelming and he could scarcely breathe. Then at last he pulled back, raised his face to the sky, and turned toward his lair. The sand forced his eyes to water, forced the tears he so desperately needed for his spawn.
He hurried into his underground chamber and began muttering the words to the enchantment he had learned in the portals beyond Krynn. His teardrops splashed onto the rocky floor and shimmered.
*
The dozen blue spawn that stood before Khellendros were his first successful ones. Corrupted before their metamorphosis, their eyes gleamed evilly in the dark chamber beneath the desert. Diminutive bolts of lightning crackled around their jet black claws, and their sapphire wings fluttered gently. The spawns’ scales were tiny, looking like dark blue chainmail that had been oiled and well cared for. Their forms were manlike, with broad-chested torsos, long legs, and muscular arms. But their heads looked more like the snouts of lizards, and each had a jagged ridge that ran from between their eyes down to the tips of their stubby tails. Their feet were webbed and clawed, resembling Khellendros’s, but in miniature. Their noses flared as they alertly sniffed their surroundings.
Khellendros sat back against the far wall of his lair and intently studied them. He was as proud of them as any father would be of his young children. But these children were not soft and cuddly, they were warriors, and they would do the Blue’s bidding without argument or question. One of them would be chosen to become Kitiara’s body, perhaps the one that distinguished itself most in battle.
“Soon there shall be more of you,” Khellendros gushed to his attentive pupils. “Many more. You shall be an impressive force, and you shall ravage the desert and, after that, the sweet countryside of Palanthas. Together we shall steal the humans’ precious magical items – their scrolls and swords, anything that pulses with enchantment. We shall somehow find enough magic to force open a portal. And no one shall stop us. Your very appearance shall so frighten every living creature that —”
As one, the spawns’ eyes flashed to the right, toward the entrance of the lair. Khellendros growled and padded past them, curious to see what or who might have wandered into his cavern, hoping it wasn’t Malystryx. He had not intended to share news of his creation with her, and it was critical that she not learn about his plans to open a portal and bring Kitiara back to life.
“Hello?” a small voice called.
Not Malys, Khellendros realized. But who? He peered into the darkness, his acute vision seeing only shadows and a hint of light.
“May I join you?” One of the shadows separated from the wall, or rather a portion of the wall split off. The small block of rock shuffled forward, changing its shape as it neared Khellendros. “Remember me?” the rock queried as it continued its transformation. “I know it’s been almost thirty years since we met, but I like to think that I’m hard to forget.”
“Fissure,” the Blue growled. It was the huldrefolk, the one he saw at the circle of stones portal, the one who explained why Khellendros could not return to The Gray. The Blue rumbled, hostilely preparing to blast the creature who so arrogantly strolled into his lair.
“Wait!” Fissure cried, sensing the dragon’s intent. “I came here to help you.”
The rumble caught in Khellendros’s throat, the energy remained poised, ready to be released.
“I was listening in. Bad habit of mine,” Fissure babbled. “I heard that you still want access to the portals – even after all this time. Well, I suppose it’s really no time at all to you.”
“Insolent creature!” Khellendros spat.
“Yes, maybe I am,” Fissure continued. “But I still want access to the portals, too. You’ve got the right idea about gathering magic to force one open. But not just any magic will do. I have an idea...”
The rumble died, and Khellendros moved aside, allowing the huldrefolk to step deeper into his lair.
Chapter 10
THE CALLING
The tomb stood in a field near Solace. It was built a few decades past by the people of Ansalon. A stark building, simple in design, it was nonetheless impressive and elegant, made of fine black obsidian and polished white marble that had been hauled by dwarven artisans from the kingdom of Thorbardin.
Inside it lay the bodies of the Knights of Solamnia and the Knights of Takhisis who fought and fell in the Abyss. Their names were engraved on the blocks that made up the tomb’s outer walls, as were the names of knights whose bodies could not be recovered. Tanis Half-Elven also rested here.
The tomb had two exquisitely crafted doors. One was gold and carried the image of a rose; the other was silver and had an etching of a lily in the center. Above the sealed doors the name Tasslehoff Burrfoot had been painstakingly carved. But the kender’s body was not inside – it had vanished in the Abyss after Tas nicked Chaos and drew the necessary drop of blood to save Krynn. A hoopak, the kender’s favorite possession, was chiseled beneath his name.
All around the tomb grew trees that had been brought by elves from the Silvanesti and Qualinesti forests. They were saplings when the tomb’s construc
tion began. Now they were tall and could stand against unpredictable weather and shade the shrine’s frequent visitors.
On the tomb’s low steps a bouquet of flowers had begun to wilt in the warm, still air. There were always flowers at the tomb because there were always pilgrims to bring them. The pilgrims consisted of elves, dwarves, kender, gnomes, humans, and an occasional centaur. And though they were respectful, the visitors were rarely grim. The tomb wasn’t a place of sadness and grief, it was a place of reflection and introspection. It honored life. It was also sometimes the site of family gatherings, particularly when the families involved were kender.
Two kender stood outside the tomb now. They were not related. In fact, they had only just met. But they were quickly becoming friends, as kender had a tendency to do.
“See this spoon?” the smaller boasted. “It’s just like the one Tasslehoff had, the one he used to chase away undead. It’s a magical spoon of undead turning.”
“That’s a fine spoon. And quite valuable I suspect,” the taller replied. She was attempting to read the names on the stones, while at the same time trying to pay at least a modicum of attention to the young man. “I wish I had one like it.”
“Now you do!” he exclaimed, as he thrust the spoon toward her. “Consider it an early birthday present. Or a late one. Happy birthday, Blister!”
“Thank you.” Blister grinned and reached out a gloved hand. Her fingers slowly closed about the handle and she grimaced. It hurt to use her hands much – the result of an unfortunate accident of her youth that she preferred not to think about. She dropped the spoon in one of the many pouches at her side, and resumed reading the names of the honored dead.
“How old are you, anyway?” The small one asked as he fussed over a daisy.
“Old enough.”
“Older than me?”
“By quite a lot.”
