The Dragons

by Doug Niles

  Then abruptly Silvara shimmered silver again, rearing high and roaring a challenge into the sky, a challenge that was followed by an explosive wave of icy frost. Cries of betrayal, shouts for vengeance, rumbled from the gathered dragons. Wings buzzed in the air, and more than one serpent belched forth a cloud of frost or fire or spat a bolt of crackling lightning toward the heavens.

  Only then did Lectral note that the elven prince bore a long silver-shafted weapon, a spear that was poised on the ground, its lofty tip of silvery steel a full twenty feet overhead. He sensed the aura of magic within the mighty lance and knew that he beheld a return of ancient might.

  “There is more,” Silvara declared, her tone sterner, hopeful again. “A weapon of the ages, reforged again, ready to wield against our ancient enemy.”

  “The Dragonlance …” murmured Lectral, suddenly understanding.

  “The lances of Huma have been forged!” Silvara cried. “Who will fly at my side?”

  Again Lectral saw Heart before him, saw the beautiful silver dragon who had been drawn to the love of a mortal. She, too, had pleaded with him to take up a rider, to bear a lance into battle with the Dark Queen’s legions.

  And he had refused.

  In a vivid instant of shame, he remembered his petty anger, the jealousy that had sent him away—and left him with a legacy of a thousand years of guilt.

  “I will fly with you,” he said, and he added a silent plea to long-dead Heart, begging her forgiveness—and her understanding.

  Amid the accolades of the other dragons, roaring and bellowing in a frenzy of battle-lust, Silvara heard his words, looked at him—and, for the first time since her return, she allowed her eyes to flare with a light of real and genuine hope.

  Chapter 39

  Allsar Dane

  352 AC

  The human knight was a young nun, powerful and lean and, to all appearances, quick to learn. Like his fellows, he was brave enough to volunteer to fly, was willing to place his life in the hands of a mighty winged serpent, to do battle with the evil dragons of the Dark Queen in the war-torn skies over Ansalon. Now he advanced with a walk of catlike grace, clearly a warrior of self-confidence and maturity.

  Yet Lectral took an instant dislike to the first man he had met in something more than thirteen hundred winters. He looked down his great shining snout, glaring between the flexing apertures of his broad nostrils as the man strode boldly up to the great silver dragon. Only with an effort did he avoid a disdainful snort.

  The towers of Palanthas rose just past this parade ground, and the lofty ridges of the northern Kharolis range, still limned in the whiteness of spring snow, formed the horizon beyond. Together with a multitude of metal dragons, he had made the flight from the Dragon Isles to this legendary city. Now Lectral had to force himself to lower his gaze, to confront this insignificant human when his eyes longed to fix upon the great mountain range.

  The knight knelt, looked frankly at the ancient creature looming over his head, and then bowed his head and spoke in serious, dignified tones.

  “Esteemed Ancient One, I beg to request the great honor of mounting your immaculate shoulders and of riding your mighty self into battle. I pledge to strive mightily against the foe of your people and mine. I pray to the Platinum Father that together we can do great injury to the Dark Queen’s hopes.”

  “I don’t have ‘people,’ ” Lectral retorted sharply, though he was forced to admit to a certain approval of the knight’s bold words and his properly deferential air.

  “I beg your forgiveness, Honored One. As you may have deduced, I am inexperienced in the ways of dragons. I can pledge that I will not make the same mistake twice.”

  Lectral was becoming embarrassed by all the fuss. “It is a minor matter. But tell me, knight, how are you called?”

  “My name is Allsar Dane, Knight of the Crown,” declared the warrior earnestly.

  “You may address me as Lectral.” The silver dragon studied the human a little more closely than he had upon his first inspection. The man was tall and strapping, bearing the weight of his heavy plate armor with an easy grace that suggested he was a person of significant strength. He stood with dignity, yet had been able to ask for the dragon’s forgiveness without, apparently, feeling that he acknowledged any weakness in his own honor.

  That was a lesson that more than one copper dragon might take to heart, Lectral thought with a chuckle. Then he reflected upon his own reaction of sourness at his first meeting of Allsar Dane, and he felt an uncomfortable flush of guilt. Perhaps age is making a bitter old nag out of me, he rebuked himself silently.

  Finally he realized that the knight was still standing before him, waiting for a reply.

  “Indeed, I agree to bear you in battle.” Lectral knew that he could carry the knight, though the thought was still strange. “But I warn you that holding on shall be your own affair, for my habits of flying, like everything else about my ancient self, are rather thoroughly ingrained.”

  “Of course—if you will allow me the use of one of these rather simple saddles the cobblers of Palanthas have made for us.”

  “Certainly.” Lectral had seen one of the seats, and it caused him to reflect upon the courage of the warriors who would ride them. The saddle was little more than a strap and a set of stirrups attached to a swiveling bracket upon which would be mounted the potent Dragonlance.

  “Splendid! I have some skill with the lance, and we can only hope that we’ll get the chance to stick a few of the Dark Queen’s dragons!”

  “Quite,” murmured Lectral, taken aback by the young knight’s enthusiasm. Still, it was a refreshing change, and he had heard many tales of the deadly lances during his time on the isles. It would be good to see one in action from a closer viewpoint. Again he thought of Heart with a pang and wished she could know what he did here today.

  “Of course, most of my fighting experience has been gained with a fishing pole in my hands,” Allsar admitted sheepishly. “A rainbow trout is my favorite prey.”

  “Ah, fishing,” Lectral agreed, remembering many pleasant experiences of his own. “Can there be a more perfect food? Myself, I always looked forward to the running of the salmon. Now, that’s a delicacy.”

  As hostlers came forward and hesitantly wrapped the saddle around his chest and neck, Lectral raised his head and looked around. The high ridges of the northern Kharolis, and the High Clerist’s Pass, guarded Palanthas as they had through all of the ancient dragon’s life. When his gaze swept to the south, toward the lands that were lost in the dust of the plains and distant mountains, he reflected on an astounding piece of news he had heard following his arrival in the great city: that there was now a deep ocean slicing through the middle of the Kharolis Range, with open water extending eastward as far as Sanction.

  “Can that be true?” he murmured softly, intrigued and amazed by the thought.

  “I beg your pardon, Mighty One?” wondered the knight.

  “What? Oh … I had heard of a great body of water to the south of here, dividing the middle of the Kharolis Range. Do you know of such a thing?”

  “Indeed. It’s called the Newsea, though many generations of my people have lived since its creation during the Cataclysm. Perhaps you can remember what it was like before then.”

  “A thousand years before.”

  The knight was silent, regarding the dragon with a calm and appraising gaze.

  “Perhaps we will fly there and see this ocean,” Lectral suggested.

  “The fishing is said to be quite good,” Allsar Dane informed him.

  “That’s intriguing news, I admit.” Lectral felt a little better about this man and was ready to fly. He looked around, saw the fluttering of metallic wings, lances upraised as the knights and dragons filled the plaza before the city.

  Palanthas, of course, had seemed pretty much the same as ever to Lectral—that is to say, boring. It was a place keenly conscious of history and fate and magic, and naturally the gold dragons had always
felt very much at home there. Yet to Lectral and his silver clan, it had always seemed to be one of the more staid and aloof of the human realms. Generally he had favored livelier places, such as Xak Tsaroth, Tarsis, or even Sanction, to the serene placidity of Palanthas.

  Just a few days earlier, that fabled city had been the site of the arrival of the metallic dragons on Ansalon, a homecoming that was accompanied by great celebrations and optimism on the part of the inhabitants. As soon as they had overcome their initial terror, the humans had poured forth and gathered around, until every one of the metallic dragons had been draped with garlands and fed many draughts of fine wine.

  In the wake of that spontaneous celebration, Lauralanthalasa, Princess of Qualinesti and sister to the elven prince Gilthanas, had been appointed general of the newly created Army of Whitestone. And for the first time in this bitter strife, the forces resisting the Dark Queen would go to war sheltered by the wings of Paladine’s mighty serpents of metal.

  “Dragons, make ready to fly!”

  The speaker was golden Quallathan, who had been granted the honor of carrying the army’s general, Laurana. Lectral had always thought highly of the mature and steadfast gold, and it pleased him that the humans and elves had honored him thus. Looking around, the ancient dragon saw his two scions nearby, each mounted by a lance-bearing knight. Dargentan flapped his wings, ready to fly, while Darlant stretched his neck in visible anticipation. He, too, was ready to hurl himself into the skies.

  Mighty Cymbol, the venerable copper, was also prepared to join the flight to battle. He carried a grim-faced elf in his saddle, a silver-armored lancer who looked like a heavier version of Gilthanas. The copper had barely contained his fury, and now the desire for vengeance burned like a fire in his glaring eyes. Clearly he was ready to exact his price in blood. Brass Kirsah sat just beyond, trying to coax an interesting pair of riders into the saddle. One, a dwarf, seemed to be assisted, sort of, by an energetic kender.

  Then came the melodious cry from Quallathan, and the dragons of Paladine took flight. Silvers, bronze, and brass formed a great wing to the left, while the golds and coppers arrayed themselves to the right, until the sparkling of metal wings formed a great swath across the sky. The man on his shoulders was a good weight, and Lectral’s flight was as strong and steady as ever.

  “Never before have my kin-dragons flown in such a great wing as this,” Lectral admitted in wonder.

  “And never has the Dark Queen had such good cause to fear,” added Allsar Dane.

  The Vingaard plains were a blur of uniform brown viewed through the puffs of clouds. The flight of dragons flew onward soundlessly, lofty and aloof, over the High Clerist’s tower and the pass where the enemy armies had met their first setback.

  “It’s beautiful!” Allsar Dane declared, his voice a whisper of awe. “You can see all the way to the Vingaard River.”

  Lectral was silent, remembering the glories of Ansalon as if he had departed here only a season or two ago. He relished the long-forgotten sight of an entire continent sprawling to the horizons below him.

  “Look there!” came a cry from the right, and several dragons bellowed cries of alarm.

  Immediately all eyes were riveted on the spots of color emerging from the southern sky. The tiny shapes grew, soon becoming tinted with emerald brightness. These were green dragons, and their own riders, with a masked lord in the lead, guided them in a tight wedge of attack. Flying high, they came on in a long double rank, one line flying just above and before the other.

  Quallathon brayed his challenge in response, the mighty golden wyrm diving into the fray with tucked wings and arrow-straight neck. Laurana crouched on his back like a veteran lancer, her long-shafted weapon pointed forward and down. Sunlight brightened the tip in a reflective staccato, like sparks trailing away from the razor edge of steel.

  Lectral flew swiftly, not at all uncomfortable with the weight of a human rider. Allsar Dane held his lance with the poise of long experience, though this was his first time in the air, and his knees gripped the silver’s neck firmly. Lectral tried to convince himself that the man would actually remain mounted if he were forced to dive, roll, or perform some other aerobatic maneuver. But at best he could only hope. He was surprised to realize that if the man came to harm, the silver dragon would feel profound regret.

  Beside him, Dargentan and Darlant flew with strong, steady strokes, each with his rider crouched and ready, Dragonlance pointing boldly toward the foe. The green shapes grew larger, each defining itself into a dragon and a masked, armored rider. Lectral led the contingent of silvers toward an optimal attack position, sideslipping to make an oblique approach against the greens, then tilting forward to commence a savage rushing dive.

  The silvery spear jutted proudly past Lectral’s shoulder, gleaming in the sun, tilting with lethal purpose toward the nearest of the emerald serpents. That dragon swept closer, the green jaws locked into a grimace of pure hatred. The rider of the Dark Queen’s wyrm also bore a lance, though the weapon had a shaft of wood and a smaller, less brilliant tip.

  “Now!” Allsar Dane urged, and Lectral sensed his rider’s intent. With a violent shift, the silver body curled away, and the tip of the Dragonlance tore through the green scales of the enemy wyrm’s belly.

  The courageous rider crouched behind his dragon-scale shield as a blast of green gas billowed into the air. Lectral felt the stuff sting his nostrils, but he cleared the cloud away, killing another green in midflight with a powerful exhalation of deadly frost.

  “Hold on,” growled the ancient silver, lifting his right wing and dipping his left. Allsar Dane’s knees tightened, but otherwise Lectral paid his rider scant attention. The man would have to hold on for himself if the pair were to have any chance of making it through the battle.

  Lectral veered toward a green that was looping around below, but before the silver jaws could blast their frost, the lance tilted, sending the barbed head tearing through the emerald scales of the enemy dragon’s shoulder. Lectral raked his claws through the green wing, but that was a mere aftereffect as, fatally pierced by the deadly lance, the wyrm of Takhisis plunged toward the ground.

  Now Lectral pulled out of his dive, curling his neck and tail to help him arc through a level glide, then smoothly soared skyward again. The crushing force of the maneuver pressed the human rider heavily into his saddle, but the man made no complaint as the ground once again fell away below. Lectral reached with broad wings and stroked downward, straining toward higher altitude and the battle that swirled and raged through the skies overhead.

  “Over there!” barked the knight in a rudely direct tone. But Lectral bit back his annoyance and followed the tip of the lance, seeing several greens swarming around a mighty gold and its royal elven rider.

  “Quallathan!” cried Lectral in alarm, immediately sideslipping and curling toward the savage melee.

  Laurana, astride the gold, stabbed with her lance, taking down one of the greens, and then Lectral swept through the melee. Allsar Dane’s lance ripped another emerald-colored serpent, and the powerful combination of silver talons and fangs rent a third, leaving it, crippled and shrieking, to plunge helplessly toward the plains far below.

  Lectral looked, seeing more of the enemy dragons breaking away, flying toward the eastern horizon. The first battle was over; the evil wyrms had been put to flight. He knew there would be more, and the silver dragon was eager to fight them.

  “We’ve got them on the run now. I’ll bet they fly all the way to the Khalkists,” Allsar declared.

  “Then it is time for us to go there and finish the job our forefathers began,” replied the mighty silver dragon.

  Chapter 40

  Fire in the Sky

  352 AC

  In a dazzling campaign, Lauralanthalasa, the Golden General, led the army of Whitestone on a rapid counterattack across the Vingaard plains. Under the shelter of metallic wings, the Knights of Solamnia, dwarves of Kayolin and Thorbardin, and free men and elv
es from throughout the west surged in vengeful attacks against the dragon high-lords and their teeming armies. Buoyed by Laurana’s success in her initial attack, the forces of Whitestone marched and fought and marched some more, striking quickly, winning one battle after another. Willingly they followed her orders, trusting her natural instincts, constantly keeping the enemy forces off-balance and in desperate retreat.

  Laurana led the liberation of Vingaard Keep, and then swiftly ferried her army—on the backs of dragons!—across the river of the same name while that torrent was at the full height of spring flood. Striking quickly, moving with forced marches, and always in the direction the enemy least expected, the Army of Whitestone embarked on a series of blistering, lightning-fast offensives.

  The wyrms of Takhisis did not let this advance go unchallenged. After the disaster met by the green dragons, the whites and blacks flew forth but were defeated in quick, sharp battles. Following each of these three engagements, the survivors among the defeated chromatic dragons reeled back to the east, flying into the rugged Khalkists in search of sanctuary.

  On the ground, the mounted knights thundered forward in sweeping charges, onslaughts that set the plains themselves to resounding underfoot. Great phalanxes of footmen kept pace, anchoring the line when the enemy forces showed signs of attacking, or hurrying forward in relentless pursuit each time the foe was once again put to flight. Elven bowmen harassed the enemy with deadly missile fire, and doughty dwarves wielded sword and axe, an implacable anvil against which the hammer of the good dragons could strike.

  Still the Blue and Red Wings remained intact and under Highlord Ariakas’s personal command. That lord’s mount, Tombfyre, became as well known as his master, killing many a Whitestone warrior with his fiery breath, cruel jaws, and crushing, talons. For the most part, the Emperor of Ansalon patiently held his mighty serpents back from Laurana’s army. Yet finally any further patience on the Highlord’s part would have resulted in the loss of virtually all the land gained in the previous years’ campaigns.