The Dragons

by Doug Niles

  She knew that the other chromatic dragons were gone from Krynn, their souls swallowed by the gems of life-trapping. Certainly Crematia had vivid dreams while she lay all-unknowing, and there is no doubt but that in those dreams she saw, and feared, a gleaming serpent of gold. Her enemy spewed breath as fiery as her own, attacking with power and skill—the deadliest foe she had ever known. She recalled her queen’s command … find her strongest enemy and kill him.

  And Crematia knew she had failed.

  Frequently the red body quivered in a sense of betrayal, an outrage at the fact that she had found such potent magic in the hands of her enemies. Sorcery was to have been her domain; the queen herself had promised this. And though Crematia had seen the three moons and knew that the gods who had given magic to the dragons of metal had been punished, the knowledge did nothing to soothe her hatred—or her desire for vengeance.

  But when finally the scarlet serpent stirred, it was not in response to any dream. Though no sound could penetrate to the depths of her fiery lair, there came a deep and inaudible message, a summons on a purely magical level. She lifted her head slowly, blinking a film of dust and soot from her eyes. When she could see, the hot illumination of the cavern reminded her instantly of where she was.

  Her first thought was of Aurican, and with that memory came a renewed pumping of her heart, a taut eagerness stiffening her body and her wings. These recollections came with a full measure of hatred, and when she was fueled by hatred, Crematia came truly, completely alive.

  The red dragon’s tail uncurled with a whiplike crack, lashing back and forth as she rose to stand, stiff-legged, at the brink of the ledge. A reflexive pounce hurled her into the air, wings spread wide to catch the updrafts raging from the lava lake below. These rising currents lifted her as she glided effortlessly around the vast chamber, and without stroking her wings, she was soon carried near to the ceiling. She veered easily between down-jutting spikes of rock, relishing the vibrant energy of returning vitality.

  She banked and dived, delighting in the dizzying speed, the onrush of molten rock as she plunged toward the crimson liquid. Bubbles expanded and burst in the thick surface, and the serpent relished the spattering of lava as droplets flew into the air. At the last moment, she pulled out of her dive, skimming low over the roiling lake, arching her back to rise toward the ceiling again.

  Once more she rode the fast-rising updrafts, but this time she helped herself as well, climbing with powerful strokes, angling toward a black slit in the ceiling of the cavern. She knew that, once within the chimney, she wouldn’t have the space to turn around, so she drove herself with increasing urgency, making an arrow of her body—an arrow with large, very powerful wings.

  Then the stone walls were close beside her, the rush of venting air roaring in her ears, bearing her higher and higher. Still she flew, straining for altitude, reaching for greater lift and pushing down with relentless strength. Her momentum slowed, the walls of the shaft visible now as more than a blurred backdrop, but she also saw a gap overhead, sensed that the darkness churning beyond was the ash-laden sky of the Khalkists.

  Belatedly Crematia thought of magic—she could easily levitate out of this deep lair—but she cast aside the notion in the instant it arose. She would do this with her strength, and with her hatred. Again she thought of Aurican, imagining the gold dragon winging through the mountainous skies beyond, relishing the picture of his surprise when his crimson nemesis suddenly appeared. Her wings pulsed, driving through the air, and she exploded upward with renewed speed.

  Abruptly the chimney walls gave way to a breathtaking expanse of air—she was free again, soaring into the skies over Krynn. Banking, sideslipping away from the venting gases, she plunged crazily along the steeply descending slope of the volcano that had sheltered her for so long. Darklady Mountain was a massive peak, and she couldn’t help but see her queen’s majesty reflected in the vast conical summit. She shrieked a cry of fierce exultation, skimming through a pass between the great mountain and a lesser neighbor, rocketing into the chilly air of an eternally shadowed gorge.

  In the depths, she flew above a roiling river, watching the brown waters churn into whitecaps, thunder through rapids, steadily erode a deeper and deeper channel. Again she roared, the sound of her voice forceful enough to break rocks loose from the overhanging cliffs, bringing miniature landslides cascading into the torrent.

  Upward she flew again, working hard now, relishing her own labors as she cut from realm of spray and shadow into the gusty heights. Veering back and forth like a wyrmling, she dodged through the smoke and ash that streamed from the smoldering summits in long plumes. A hundred great mountains were visible from this high vantage, but all the peaks except Darklady herself were far below. She banked regally, gliding with the serene arrogance of one who is mistress of everything in her sight.

  A swift reconnaissance showed her a deep valley where several caves lined the walls. Tiny beings scuttled between these caves or worked their way up and down the steep trails leading to the stream at the foot of the plunging mountainsides. Crematia wheeled into the murk of the clouds, unseen from the ground, content for now to know that ogres still dwelt in these mountains. She would make herself known to them soon enough, but first she had an even more urgent task.

  Flying above a treeless but well-watered swale, she observed several spots of whiteness on the green grass of the high tundra. She swept closer with silent, deliberate speed, and before the mountain sheep knew they were under attack, she had crushed a plump ewe to the soft ground. The blood was sweet on her tongue, the scent intoxicating in her nostrils, and she tore off the head of her prey, swallowing the morsel in one convulsive gulp. The rest of the mutton was fresh and warm in her claws, but she would not eat further at the moment.

  Instead, she clutched the carcass and took to the air again, winging with renewed purpose, a crimson arrow flying straight toward a specific destination. Crematia curved from her path only when a looming crag rose high enough to block her flight, but after each digression, she returned to the course she marked from ancient memory, reacquainting herself with the highest reaches of the Khalkists. Flying toward another great volcano, one almost massive enough to vie with Darklady for mastery of the range, she set her sights upon the lofty summit. In fact, her target was an even more specific location, a specific spot on the high cliff. Closer now, she banked slightly, making a direct line toward the magically enchanted place on the mountainside.

  She saw with satisfaction that her concealment spell remained in effect, masking the ledge as a patch of inaccessible cliff. Landing there, she found the sturdy barrier of her wall of stone spell similarly undisturbed. Though hundreds of winters had passed since her last visit, she was not surprised that her arcane protections remained unaltered. For the first time in centuries, she called up the magic to negate that spell, and the surface of stone melted smoothly away in the breath of her dispelling, revealing the mouth of her secret cave.

  Within, Crematia crept through the vast treasure chamber to the precious skull basket that was her nest. Trembling with anxiety, knowing that the future of her kind depended upon what she found, she looked over the brink of the bony container … and expelled a flicker of tender flame in an outburst of relief.

  The clutch of crimson eggs lay perfect and unspoiled within, except for an irregular pulsing she detected in one, the largest of the orbs. Before her eyes, a slit appeared in that shell, a tiny beak pressing outward, tearing down. Frantic claws emerged, tugging, trying to widen the gap—until the little wyrmling fell back, exhausted.

  For several heartbeats, Crematia watched the egg. Finally she ripped into the carcass of the sheep, raising a piece of meat over the nest. With a deliberate squeeze, she let a trickle of fresh blood splash onto the egg, aiming carefully so that the stream of red liquid spilled into the tear in the shell of the first hatchling. Immediately that leathery orb throbbed and pulsed, and then those claws were there again, tearing and slashing at
the narrow gap. The little beak thrust outward, and Crematia dribbled more sweet blood, driving the wyrmling into a frenzy. Another inch of eggshell tore, and now two forefeet pushed outward, pulling, making room for the sharp-beaked head on its long, skinny neck.

  Finally, with a heaving thrust of awkward rear legs, the little creature pushed itself free of the restraining shell. It stood, wobbly, flexing two mucus-coated wings, though one of the membranes remained creased and gooey, still bound from centuries of gestation. The red tail stood stiffly upright, and an instinctive growl rumbled from the scaly chest.

  Crematia gobbled the rest of the mutton then, but only long enough to chew it thoroughly and to let the juices of her belly begin the process of digestion. Then, with a heave that rippled along the length of her supple, scarlet-scaled neck, she regurgitated the gory remains into the nest.

  Immediately the sole wyrmling threw himself at the messy food, rending and growling with instinctive fury. Several other eggs now showed signs of movement, pulses and jabs as the blood-red spheres throbbed slightly, rocking from the labors of hatchlings trapped within. Soon another slit appeared, then another. Crematia saw more snouts and claws come into view, but she paid scant attention to these flailing efforts. Her attentions remained fixed upon the firstborn of the wyrmlings, which still gnawed ravenously on the gruesome mess of the ram’s carcass.

  “Enjoy your feast, my son.” Crematia bent low over the savagely growling little dragon, puffing a wisp of flame around the scarlet shape. “Hear me, my proud wyrmling. Your name is Deathfyre, and you shall lead my serpents back to their mastery of Krynn.”

  The dragon paused in its feasting long enough to regard his mother with bright, hungry eyes. By the time the monstrous crimson matriarch had turned to the cave mouth, the wyrmling had already gone back to its feast.

  Once back on the mountainside, Crematia restored her spells of protection, leaving the wall of stone as a physical barrier and the other illusion as full concealment for the secret niche. Only then did she launch herself into a sky that had been cloaked by the shadows of nightfall.

  The red dragon flew with a different destination now, one that had been born in her dreams and set with the long centuries of hatred within her fiery cavern. Her targets were strangers, creatures she had never attacked before, but she felt no fear, only a growing onslaught of fresh, hot hatred. Her dreams had shown her that her newest victims possessed no magic—indeed, they abhorred sorcery in all its forms—so it was with sublime confidence that she sought out their lair.

  A black mountain, long and slender, with a ridge crest like the edge of a serrated knife, rose into the darkness before her. She swept through the clouds, her dark-sensitive eyes staring along the slopes of the massif. Soon she saw it: a small crack, narrow and lightless, plunging into the depths of the world. Masking herself with a spell of invisibility, the red dragon flew low over the aperture.

  Despite her distance from the source, she could sense the magical emanations rising from the opening, and she knew of the rare and enchanted treasures that lay within. Her inspection showed her other creatures—small, busy figures laboring at the mountain’s foot, the quarry that had been shown to her in her dreams.

  They were called dwarves, she knew, and they had come to the Khalkists during the time of her hibernation. Now they delved the stone, seeking to create great underground lairs, an entire city sculpted from the living bedrock of the mountain range. But Crematia knew there was another reason for their digging as well, and this was the key to the red dragon’s hopes.

  She settled downward beyond the gathering of dwarves. Despite the darkness, many of the little creatures labored in terraced fields, using massive horses to pull plows and till crops. Others worked with a clattering of picks and hammers on the construction of a great tower. Nearby, massive granite blocks were being dragged over smooth pathways by teams of horses and dwarves. On a stone-paved plaza nearby, another group, apparently novice warriors, worked under the tutelage of a sharp-tongued trainer, learning the use of hammer and shield in battle tactics.

  It was before this latter group that Crematia appeared, negating her invisibility as she dropped to the ground. Rearing before the startled dwarves, she spread her jaws and belched out a great cloud of fire. Flames spurted and crackled across the training field, instantly incinerating those dwarves caught in the full blast, then spreading outward like a slick of oily liquid, surrounding, dragging down the hapless victims on the periphery of the gathering who had turned, far too slowly, in an attempt to run away.

  The smoke cleared away to reveal dozens of charred, blackened bodies smoldering and sizzling in the wake of the inferno. Near the edge of the swath of darkness, a pathetic figure crawled, reaching with blackened, clawlike hands, then shuddering to the stillness of death. Only the soot and char moved, drifting away on the wind. Crematia turned toward the great doors of the tower, sensing that hundreds of pairs of eyes regarded her with a mixture of terror and awe.

  “Here me, dwarven delvers! I am the angel of magic, and four of my eggs lurk in the bowels of your realms!”

  The words echoed through the valley, rebounding from the surrounding heights as the tiny bearded figures quaked and trembled in awe.

  “These are spheres of blue and black, of white and green. They belong to me, and they are death to any other who would steal them.”

  She snorted another cloud of flame, watched the soot scar the great doors before she continued. “You must find these orbs of magic, these baubles that are my eggs, and bring them forth. If you do not remove them from your mountain, the taint of my sorcery will spread inward to infest you all! And the fires of my breath shall be nothing compared to the awful plague wrought by my eggs!”

  She heard a groan, as if from the mountain itself, and knew that her words created real horror in the dwarves, for they hated magic above all else.

  “I shall return in one hundred sunrises,” she declared with a growl. “Present these stones to me then, or face my wrath!”

  Again she took wing, a scarlet killer whispering into the night, knowing that the dwarves would work hard to do her bidding.

  Chapter 17

  Lessons

  circa 3000 PC

  “And what is the effect of the teleport spell?” Aurican, in the guise he favored as the elven sage, scowled archly at the twisting silver form on the floor before him.

  “I—I don’t know, Master.”

  Callak was miserable, and certainly his mentor understood this—but, with equal certainty, the young silver dragon knew that misery was no excuse in his golden tutor’s eyes. Indeed, sometimes it seemed to Callak that Aurican liked his wyrmling pupils to be miserable.

  All of them except Auricus, that is, though even as he had the jealous thought, Callak felt a glimmer of guilt. In truth, his golden nestmate was more than a kin-dragon bonded by the linkage of a shared nest. He was his greatest friend, his best companion. Indeed, in the matter of magical tutoring, Aurican showed favoritism to his firstborn son only because Auricus had so clearly earned it.

  Already the young gold dragon was able to make himself invisible. He could create minor illusions that would amuse, frighten, or—most likely—irritate his numerous siblings. Arrogantly he levitated his prey, ignited fires in the grotto, disguised nuisances, like chips of ice, that he used to trip up his fellow nestmates. And his sense of magic detection was so well attuned that he was able to penetrate to the truth of just about every trick the other wyrmlings tried to play upon him.

  Still, as the largest and most aggressive of the nestlings, Callak had been able to avoid the worst of Auricus’s pranks. Indeed, with his size and quickness, there was no one who could best the silver wyrmling in any contest of physical skill, though his nestmates, and particularly copper Flash, never hesitated to try.

  “If my question is too complicated, perhaps you would like me to write it out? On your snout, perhaps?” growled Aurican, the penetrating stare of his yellow eyes quickly bringin
g the young dragon’s attention into focus.

  “Teleportation!” he said brightly. “I—I think I remember.… It is the transportation of the caster from one point to another in the instant of casting!”

  “Very good—though it is one thing to know the effect of a spell, and another, quite more involved, to be able to cast that same enchantment. The Platinum Father alone knows when the latter studies might open themselves to you.”

  “Aye, lord.” Callak hung his head, with a sidelong glance to insure that none of the other nestlings mocked his discomfiture. But the dozens of wyrmlings—bronze, copper, brass, silver, and gold—sitting rigidly behind the silver made no gesture that could remotely be construed as rude. After all, even at the young age of three hundred winters, Callak was much larger than any of his fellow nestmates, a physical supremacy that now served to intimidate the wyrmlings from making any mocking or insulting remarks.

  Yet it was far more than his size that accounted for Callak’s aloof mastery—in matters nonmagical, at least—of the grotto. His eyes drifted to the nest and saw the curled ram’s horn suspended there on its fine silver chain. Kenta had placed it there, and none of the wyrmlings could look at it without recalling the esteemed heritage of the silver dragons.

  All the young dragons had been schooled on the tales of brave Darlantan, whose final sacrifice had brought victory to the metal dragons and their allies during the Dragon War. For one thing, the silver matriarch, Kenta, had insured that her mate’s valor was known to all the hatchlings. Aurican himself often spoke of the mighty serpent, invariably in tones both impassioned and affectionate. With great ceremony, he explained the legacy of the ram’s horn, told them that someday the greatest of the silver serpents would bear that artifact as proof of their sire’s legacy and wisdom.