Dragons of a Lost Star

by Margaret Weis

  “Perhaps this is the reason,” Laurana said softly, looking upward to the mosaic not yet illuminated by the sunlight but hidden in darkness and in shadow. “Perhaps the sacrifice of my people is necessary for a new beginning—a beginning in which our two sundered people are finally one.”

  Medan could have told her that the reasons for the destruction of Qualinost had nothing to do with new beginnings. The reasons were evil and hideous, embedded in a dragon’s hatred for all that she admired, the need to tear down that which she could never build and destroy that which she most desired to possess.

  He kept his thoughts to himself. If her idea brought Laurana peace, he was more than willing to let her believe it. And, maybe, after all, their thoughts were but two sides to the same coin. Her side the light, his side the dark.

  Leaving the main chamber, Laurana led the Marshal up one flight of stairs and onto a balcony that overlooked the main chamber. Doors made of silver and of gold lined the circular hallway. Laurana counted the doors as she went. When she came to the seventh door, counting from either direction, she drew a key from a blue velvet bag attached to her wrist. The key was also made of silver and of gold. The seventh door was decorated with an image of an aspen tree, its arms extended upward to the sun. Medan could see no lock.

  “I know what is in this room,” Medan said. “The Royal Treasury.” He placed his hand over hers, stopped her from continuing. “Are you certain you want to reveal this to me, Madam? In there are secrets the elves have kept for a thousand years. Perhaps it would not be wise to betray them, even now.”

  “We would be like the miser in the story who hordes his money against the bad times and starves to death in the process. You would have me keep locked up that which well might save us?” Laurana asked.

  “I honor you for your trust in me, Madam,” said the Marshal, bowing.

  Laurana counted seven tree limbs up from the bottom branch, counted seven leaves upon the trees and touched her key to the seventh leaf.

  The door did not open. It vanished.

  Medan stared into a vast hall that held the wealth of the elven kingdom of Qualinost. As Laurana lifted the lantern, the sight was more dazzling to the eyes than the sunlight striking the tower. Chests of steel coins, golden coins, and silver covered the floor. Weapons of fabulous make and design lined the walls. Casks of gems and pearls stood on the floor. The royal jewels—crowns and scepters and diadems, cloaks heavy with rubies and diamonds and emeralds—were displayed on velvet stands.

  “Don’t move, Marshal,” Laurana warned him.

  Medan had no intention of moving. He stood frozen inside the door. He gazed around and was angry. Coldly furious, he turned to Laurana.

  “You speak of misers, Madam,” he said, gesturing. “You have wealth enough here to buy the swords of every mercenary in Ansalon, and you horde gold while you spend the lives of your people!”

  “Once, long ago, in the days of Kith-Kanan, such wealth was ours,” said Laurana. “This is only its memory.”

  The moment she said the word, he understood. He saw through the illusion to the reality.

  A large hole gaped at his feet. A single spiral staircase carved of stone led straight down into blackness. Anyone who did not know the secrets of that room would take no more than two steps across that illusory floor before plunging to his death.

  Their only light was the single ray shining from the small lantern. By its steady and unwavering light, Medan followed Laurana down the stairs. At the bottom lay the true wealth of the elven kingdom of Qualinost: a single chest with a few bags of steel coins. Several empty chests, whose lids stood open, the homes of spiders and mice. Weapons had once been displayed on the walls, but these had long since been removed. All except one. Hanging on the wall was a footman’s lance. The beam of light from her lantern struck it, caused it to shine silver as once had shone the silver moon of Solinari.

  “A dragonlance,” said Marshal Medan, his voice tinged with awe. “I have never seen one before, yet I would know it anywhere.”

  Laurana looked up at the lance with quiet pride. “I want you to have it, Marshal Medan.” She glanced back at him. “Do you now understand what I have in mind?”

  “Perhaps I do,” he said slowly. He could not take his rapt gaze from the dragonlance. “Perhaps I am starting to.”

  “I wish I could tell you it had some heroic history,” she said, “but if it does, we do not know it. The lance was given to Tanis shortly after we were married. A woman brought it to him. She said they had found it among her husband’s possessions after his death. He had taken loving care of it, and he’d left a note saying that he wanted it given to someone who would understand. She knew he had fought in the war, but he never spoke of his deeds. He would say that he had done his duty, as did many others. He’d done nothing special.”

  “Yet, as I recall, only renowned and proven warriors were granted the honor of carrying the dragonlance,” said Medan.

  “I knew him, you see, Marshal. I remembered him. Oh, not him personally. But I remembered all those who gave up so much to join our cause and who were never honored with songs or immortalized with tombs or statues. They went back to their lives as butchers, seamstresses, farmers, or shepherds. What they did they did for no other reason than because they felt it was their duty. I thought it appropriate we should use this lance.

  “As to the other weapons that were stored here, I sent many of them with those who departed Qualinost. I gave many more to those who remain to fight. In this casket”—Laurana ran her hand over a box carved plainly and simply of rosewood—“are the truly valuable jewels of antiquity. They will remain here, for they represent the past and its glory. Should a time come in the future when we are at peace, they will be recovered. If the time should come when no one lives who remembers us, perhaps these will be discovered and bring back the dreams of the elves to the world.”

  She turned from the rosewood casket, rested her hand on a tree limb. Odd, he thought, that a tree limb should be lying in the room. Kneeling beside it, she reached down and removed a piece of wood that was all but invisible in the center of the tree limb. Now Medan could see that the limb had been split lengthwise to form a case. Laurana lifted the lid.

  Inside lay a sword. The weapon was enormous—a two-handed broadsword—and it would require two immensely large and strong hands to wield it. The blade was of shining steel, perfectly kept, with no spot of rust anywhere, no notches or scratches. The sword was plainly made, with none of the fancy ornamentation that sends the amateur into raptures but that veterans abhor. The sword had only a single decoration. Set into the pommel was a lustrous star sapphire, as big as a man’s clenched fist.

  The sword was lovely, a thing of deadly beauty. Medan reached out his hand in longing, then paused.

  “Take it, Marshal,” said Laurana. “The sword is yours.”

  Medan grasped the hilt, lifted the sword from its tree-limb case. He swung it gently, tested the balance. The sword might have been made for him. He was surprised to find that, although it appeared heavy, it was so well designed that he could wield it with ease.

  “The sword’s name is the Lost Star,” said Laurana. “It was made for the elven paladin, Kalith Rian, who led the elves in the battle against Takhisis in the First Dragon War.”

  “How did the sword come by the name?” Medan asked.

  “Legend has it that when the smith brought the sword to Kalith Rian, he told the elf lord this tale. While he was forging the sword, the smith saw a star flash across the heavens. The next morning, when he came to finish his work, he found this star sapphire lying amid the embers of his forge fire. He took it as a sign from the gods and placed the jewel in the sword’s pommel. Rian named the sword the Lost Star. He slew the great red dragon Fire-fang with this sword, his final battle, for he himself was slain in the fight. The sword is said to be magical.”

  Medan frowned and handed the sword back hilt-first to Laurana. “I thank you, Madam, but I would much pref
er to take my chances with an ordinary sword made of ordinary steel. I have no use for a sword that suddenly starts to sing an elven ditty in the midst of battle or one that transforms both me and it into a matched pair of serpents. Such occurrences tend to distract me.”

  “The sword will not start to sing, Marshal, I assure you,” Laurana said with a ripple of laughter. “Hear me out before you refuse. It is said that those who look into the Lost Star when it is shining cannot look away, nor can they do anything else but stare at the jewel.”

  “That is even worse,” he returned impatiently. “I become enamored of my own sword.”

  “Not you, Marshal. The dragon. And although I give the dragonlance to you, you will not wield the lance. I will.”

  “I see.” Medan was thoughtful. He continued holding the sword, regarded it with new respect.

  “This night as I was walking to the meeting in the darkness, I remembered this sword and its story, and I realized how it might be of use to us.”

  “Of use! This could make all the difference!” Medan exclaimed.

  He took down the dragonlance from the wall and regarded it with interest, held it with respect. He was a tall man, yet the lance topped him by two feet. “I see one difficulty. This lance will be difficult to hide from Beryl. From what I recall, dragons are sensitive to the lance’s magic.”

  “We will not hide it from her,” Laurana replied. “As you say, she would sense its magic. We will keep it in the open, where she may see it plainly.”

  “Madam?” Medan was incredulous.

  “Your gift to your overlord, Marshal. A powerful magical artifact from the Fourth Age.”

  Medan bowed. “I honor the wisdom of the Golden General.”

  “You will parade me, your hostage, before the dragon on top of the Tower of the Sun, as arranged. You will exhibit the dragonlance and offer that to her as a gift. If she tries to take hold of the lance—”

  “She will,” Medan interjected grimly. “She thirsts for magic as a drunkard his liquor.”

  “When she takes the lance,” Laurana continued, “the lance—an artifact of light—will send a paralyzing shock through her. You will lift the sword and hold it before her eyes. Enthralled by the sword, she will be unable to defend herself. While the dragon stares mesmerized at the sword, I will take the lance and thrust it through the jaw and into her throat. I have some skill in the use of the lance,” she added with quaint modesty.

  Medan was approving, enthusiastic. “Your plan is an excellent one, General, and insures our success. I believe that, after all, I may yet live to walk my garden again.”

  “I hope so, Marshal,” Laurana said, extending her hand to him. “I would miss my best enemy.”

  “And I mine,” he replied, taking her hand and kissing it respectfully.

  They climbed the stairs, leaving the treasure chamber to illusion. As they reached the door, Laurana turned and threw the velvet bag containing the key inside the room. They heard it strike the floor with a faint, muffled clink.

  “My son now has the only key,” she said softly.

  26

  Penalty for Betrayal

  he dragon Khellendros, whose common name among the lesser creatures of Krynn was Skie, had his current lair near the top of one of the smaller peaks of the Vingaard Mountains. Unlike the other dragon overlords, Malystryx and Sable, Skie had numerous lairs, all of them magnificent, none of them his home.

  He was an enormous blue dragon, the largest of his kind by many times, an aberration of a blue dragon. Whereas most blues averaged forty feet in length, Skie had grown over the years until he was three hundred feet long from massive head to thrashing tail. He was not the same shade of blue as the other dragons of his type. Once his scales had gleamed sapphire. Over the past few years, however, the rich blue of his scales had faded, leaving him a dreary blue, as if he had acquired a fine coating of gray dust. He was aware that this color shift caused considerable comment among the smaller blues who served him. He knew they considered him a mutation, a freak, and although they deferred to him, deep inside they considered themselves better dragons because of it.

  He didn’t care what they thought. He didn’t care where he lived, so long as it wasn’t where he was. Restless, restive, he would move from one vast, serpentine tunnel gouged through the very heart of some immense mountain to an other on a whim, never remaining long in any of them.

  A puny human might wander the wondrous labyrinths for a year and never find the ending. The blue’s vast wealth was stashed in these lairs. Tribute came to him in a never-ending flood. Skie was overlord of the rich lord-city of Palanthas.

  Skie cared nothing for the wealth. What need had he of steel coins? All the treasure chests of all the world overflowing with steel, gold, silver, and jewels could not buy him what he wanted. Even his own magical power—although it was inexplicably waning, it was still formidable—could not gain him his one desire.

  Weaker dragons, such as the blue dragon Smalt, Skie’s new lieutenant, might revel in such wealth and be glad to spend their paltry, pitiful lives in its gain. Skie had no care for the money. He never looked at it, he refused to listen to reports of it. He roamed the halls of his castle cavern until he could no longer stand the sight of them. Then he flew off to another lair, entered that one, only to soon sicken of it as well.

  Skie had changed lairs four times since the night of the storm, the magical storm that had swept over Ansalon. He had heard a voice in that storm, a voice that he had recognized. He had not heard it since that night, and he searched for it, searched in anger. He had been tricked, betrayed, and he blamed the Speaker in the Storm for that betrayal. He made no secret of his rage. He spoke of it constantly to his minions, knowing that it would reach the right ears, trusting that someone would come to placate him.

  “She had better placate me,” Skie rumbled to Smalt. “She had better give me what I want. Thus far I have held my hand as I agreed. Thus far I have let her play her little game of conquest. I have not yet been recompensed, however, and I grow weary of waiting. If she does not give me what is my due, what I have been promised, I will end this little game of hers, break the board, and smash the pieces, be they pawn or Dark Knight.”

  Skie was kept apprised of Mina’s movements. Some of his own subject blues had been among those who traveled to Silvanost to carry Mina and her forces into Nightlund. He was not surprised, therefore, when Smalt arrived to say that Mina wanted to arrange a meeting.

  “How did she speak of me?” Skie demanded. “What did she say?”

  “She spoke of you with great respect, O Storm Over Ansalon,” Smalt replied. “She asks that you be the one to name the time and place for the meeting. She will come to you at your convenience, although it means leaving her army at a critical moment. Nevertheless, Mina deems this meeting with you important. She values you as an ally and is sorry to hear that you are in any way displeased or dissatisfied with the current arrangements. She is certain it is all a misunderstanding that can be smoothed over when the two of you come together.”

  Skie grunted, a sound that shook his enormous body—he was many times larger than the small blue dragon with the glistening sapphire scales who crouched humbly before him, wings drooping, tail curled submissively.

  “In other words, you have fallen under her spell, Smalt, as they all do. Do not bother to deny it.”

  “I do not deny it, O Storm Over Ansalon,” Smalt returned and there was an unusually defiant gleam in the blue’s eyes. “She has conquered Silvanost. The wicked elves have fallen as grain to her scythe. Lord Targonne attempted to have her killed and instead was slain by her hand. She is now leader of the Dark Knights of Neraka. Her troops are in Nightlund where she works on plans to lay siege to Solanthus—”

  “Solanthus?” Skie growled.

  Smalt’s tail twitched nervously. He saw that he was in possession of news his master had not yet heard, and when a master is all knowing, to know something ahead of the master is never good.

/>   “Undoubtedly she plans to discuss this with you first,” Smalt faltered, “which is another reason why she is coming to meet with you, O Storm Over—”

  “Oh, shut up and stop blathering, Smalt!” Skie snarled. “Get out.”

  “The meeting?” Smalt ventured.

  “Tell her to meet me here at the eastern opening of this lair,” Skie said glumly. “She may come to me whenever it suits her. Now leave me in peace.”

  Smalt was only too happy to do as he had been ordered.

  Skie didn’t give a damn about Solanthus. He had to do some hard thinking even to recall where the blasted city was located, and when he remembered, he thought his forces had already conquered Solanthus—he had a vague recollection of it. Perhaps that was some other city of humans. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care, or at least he hadn’t cared until just now. Attacking Solanthus without asking his permission was another example of Mina’s disdain for him, her lack of respect. This was a deliberate affront. She was showing him he was expendable, of no more use.

  Skie was angered now, angry and, in spite of himself, afraid. He knew her of old, knew her vengeance, knew her wrath. It had never been turned on him. He had been a favorite. But then he had made a mistake. And now he was being made to pay.

  His fear increased his anger. He had chosen the entrance of his lair as the meeting place because he could keep watch on all around him. He had no intention of being caught deep underground, trapped and ambushed. Once Smalt had departed, Skie paced about his lair and waited.

  The blind beggar had reached his destination. He cast about with his staff until he located a large rock, sat down to rest himself and to consider what to do next. Since he could not see, he could not tell by sight exactly where he was. He knew from asking questions of people on the road that he was in Solamnia, somewhere in the foothills of the Vingaard Mountains. He had no real need to know his precise location, however, for he was not following a map. He was following his senses, and they had led him to this place. The fact that he knew the name of the place served merely to confirm in his mind what his soul already understood.