The world fell on top of Torvald, knocking him from the ladder. The horrifying screams of his dying comrades rose above the rending bones of Krynn, the last sounds he heard as tons of rock smashed down on him, crushing his skull and shattering his chest.
Stone, long trusted by the dwarves to shelter and to guard them against their enemies, became their enemy. Their killer. Their tomb.
Rangold of Balifor, now forty years old, had been a mercenary since he was fourteen. He fought for one reason and one alone—plunder. He had no other loyalties, knew nothing of politics, would switch sides in the middle of battle if someone made it worth his while. He had joined Beryl’s army because he had heard they were going to be march on Qualinost. He had long anticipated the looting and sacking of the elven city. A man of foresight, Rangold had brought with him several large burlap bags in which he intended to carry home his fortune.
Rangold stood on the riverbank, eating stale bread and munching on dried beef, waiting his turn to cross the river. The blasted elves had cut the bridges. The ropes dangled far above them, for the banks were steep, the river low this time of year. Their scouts kept watch but reported seeing no elves. The first units had started across, some carrying their packs over their heads, others carrying their weapons. Those who could not swim were clearly uncomfortable as they waded deeper and deeper into the water that swirled around them. The water was cold, but ran calmly this time of year. In the spring, fed by the melting snows, the river would have been impassable.
Occasionally a red dragon could be seen circling high above the army, keeping watch. The men did not like the red dragons, did not trust them, even though they were on the same side, and kept glancing upward, hoping that the beast would fly away. Rangold didn’t care anything about dragons. He shivered when the dragonfear was on him, shrugged it off when it was past and continued to eat his food. The thought of slaughtering elves and stealing their riches gave a fine, sharp edge to this appetite.
His first twinge of unease came when the ground suddenly lurched beneath his feet, throwing Rangold off balance and causing him to drop his sandwich. A limb fell with a shattering crash. A tree toppled. The river water heaved and surged, splashing up onto the bank. Rangold clung to the tree and stared around, trying to figure out what was happening. Overhead, the red dragon spread her wings and flew low over the woods, shouting out what sounded like warnings, but no one could make out what she was screaming.
The tremors continued, grew more severe. An enormous cloud of debris roiled into the air, so thick that it obliterated the light of the sun. Those crossing the river lost their footing, tumbled into the water. Those on the bank began hollering and running this way and that in confusion and panic, as the ground continued to heave and buckle beneath their feet.
“What are your orders?” a captain shouted.
“Hold your ground,” his superior, a Knight of Neraka, answered tersely.
“That’s easier said than done,” the captain returned angrily, staggering to keep his balance. “I think we should get the hell out of here!”
“You have your orders, Captain,” the Knight shouted. “This will stop in a—”
With an ear-splitting crack, an enormous tree limb broke loose and fell with a thundering crash, burying the Knight and the captain beneath its branches. Cries and moans came from the wreckage, pleas for help, pleas that Rangold ignored. He didn’t know what the rest of the army planned to do, and he didn’t care. As the captain had suggested, Rangold was going to get the hell out of here.
He started to scramble up the bank, but at that moment he heard an ominous, rolling, thunderous rumble. Turning to find the source of the sound, he saw a horrifying sight. A wall of water, bubbling and foaming, rushed down on them. The quakes caused the banks of the White-rage River to crumble. Fissures split open the rock ravines through which the river ran. Freed of its confinement, driven into tumult by the repeated tremors, the river went on a wild rampage.
The water uprooted trees, tore huge chunks of rock from the cliff faces through which it thundered, carried the rock and debris before it.
Rangold stared, appalled, and then turned and began to run. Behind him, those trapped in the water shrieked for help, but the rising river swiftly drowned their cries, as it swept them downstream. Rangold tried to clamber up the bank, but the sides were steep and slippery. He knew a moment’s horrible fear, and then the water crashed into him with a force that shattered his breastbone and stopped his heartbeat. His body, limp and bloody, became just one more bit of debris the river carried downstream.
Bellowing and shrieking in rage, Beryl sank deeper and deeper as the ground gave way. The earth cracked beneath her weight. The cracks spread and radiated outward. Buildings, trees and homes collapsed and slid into the widening fissures. The headquarters of the Knights of Neraka, that squat, ugly building, fell in upon itself with booming crash. Debris rained down upon the dragon, striking her in the head, puncturing her wings. The castle of the king, built of living aspen trees, was destroyed, the trees uprooted, limbs shattered, huge trunks twisted and snapped.
The elves of Qualinost, who had remained to defend their homeland, died in the rubble of the homes they had wrought with such care, died in the gardens they had loved. Though they knew death was imminent and that there was no escape, they continued to fight their enemy, stabbing at Beryl with spear and sword until the pavement split asunder, gave way beneath their feet. The elves died with hope, for though they had perished, they believed that their city would survive and rise again from the ruins.
It was well they died, before they knew the truth.
Beryl realized suddenly that she was not going to survive, that she could not escape. The knowledge bewildered her. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to end. She—the mightiest force to have ever been seen on Krynn—was going to die an ignominious death in a hole in the ground. How could this have happened? What had gone wrong? She didn’t understand.…
Boulders rained down on her, cracking her skull and breaking her spine. Splintered trees ripped holes in her wings, falling rocks snapped the tendons. Sharp, jagged stones slashed open her belly. Blood spurted from beneath her scales. Pain wrenched her and twisted, her and she screamed for death to come to release her. The monster who had slain so many moaned and writhed in agony as rocks and trees and crumbling buildings pummeled her. The immense, misshapen head sank lower and lower. The red eyes rolled back. The broken wings, the thrashing tail grew still. With a last sigh, a bitter curse, Beryl died.
Tremors shook the ground around the elven city as the Immortal Hand pounded on it with a fist of hatred. The earth quaked and shattered. Cracks widened, fissures split the bedrock on which Qualinost had been built. The red dragons, looking down from the skies, saw an enormous, gaping hole where once had stood a beautiful city. The reds had no love for elves, for they had been enemies since the beginning of time, but so terrible was this sight, expressive of awful power, that the reds could not rejoice. They looked down upon the ruin and bowed their heads in reverence and respect.
The tremors ceased. The ground settled, no longer heaved and quivered. The White-rage River overflowed its banks, poured into the immense chasm where once had stood the elven city of Qualinost. Long after the quakes stopped, the water continued to boil and bubble and surge and heave, wave after wave crashing upon the newly created banks. Gradually, the river grew calm. The water lapped tremulously at the new banks that now surrounded it, hugged them close, as if shocked by its own fury and bewildered by the destruction it had wrought.
Night came without starlight or moonlight, a shroud drawn over the dead who rested far beneath the dark, quivering water.
33
Nalis Aren
any miles away, Gilthas and his retinue parted with Tarn Bellowsgranite, the dwarven thane, then traveled south. They had ridden with what haste they could, the Lioness pushing them, for she feared that Beryl’s army would split, send one force marching south to intercept the refugees
while one force seized and held Qualinost. Despite her urging, their pace was slow, for their hearts were heavy and seemed to weigh them down. Whenever they came to the top of hill or ridge, Gilthas halted and turned in the saddle to stare at the horizon in some vain hope of seeing what was happening.
“We are too far away,” his wife reminded him. “The trees block the view. I left runners, who will come after us swiftly to report. All will be well. We must move on, my love. We must move on.”
They had stopped to rest and water their horses when they felt the ground shudder beneath their feet and heard a low rumble, as of a distant storm. The tremor was mild, but it caused Gilthas’s hand to shake so that he dropped the water skin he had been filling. He rose and looked to the north.
“What was that? Did you feel that?” he demanded.
“Yes, I felt it,” said the Lioness, coming to stand beside him. Her gaze joined his, and she was troubled. “I don’t know what that was.”
“There are sometimes quakes in the mountains, Your Majesty,” Planchet suggested.
“Not like that. I’ve never felt anything like that. Something has gone wrong. Something terrible has happened.”
“We don’t know that,” the Lioness said. “Perhaps it was nothing but a tremor, as Planchet says. We should keep going—”
“No,” said Gilthas. “I’m staying here to wait for the runners. I’m not leaving until I find out what has happened.”
He walked away, heading for a rock promontory that thrust up out of the ground. The Lioness and Planchet exchanged glances.
“Go with him,” the Lioness said softly.
Planchet nodded and hurried after Gilthas. The Lioness instructed her troops to set up camp. She looked often to the north, and when she did, she sighed softly and shook her head.
Gilthas climbed with fevered energy; Planchet had difficulty keeping up with his king. Reaching the top, Gilthas stood long moments, staring intently to the north.
“Is that smoke, do you think, Planchet?” he asked anxiously.
“A cloud, Your Majesty,” Planchet replied.
Gilthas continued to stare until he was forced to lower his gaze, wipe his eyes.
“It’s the sun,” he muttered. “It’s too bright.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Planchet softly, looking away. Imagining he could read the young king’s thoughts, he added, “Your Majesty’s decision to leave was the right—”
“I know, Planchet,” Gilthas interrupted him. “I know my duty, and I will try to do it, as best as I am able. I wasn’t thinking about that.” He looked back to the north. “Our people have been forced to leave their ancient homeland. I was wondering what would happen to us if we could not go back.”
“That will never come to pass, Your Majesty,” said Planchet firmly.
“Why not?” Gilthas turned to look directly at him, curious to hear the answer.
Planchet was confounded. This was so simple, so elementary. “Qualinesti is ours, Your Majesty. The land belongs to the elves. It is ours by right.”
Gilthas smiled sadly. “Some might say the only plot of land to which we mortals have an inherent right is the plot where we are finally laid to rest. Look down there. My dear wife paces like the giant cat for which she was named. She is nervous, worried. She does not want to stop. She wants to keep going. Why? Because our enemies pursue us. They hunt us—on our land.”
“We will take it back—”
“Will we?” Gilthas asked quietly. “I wonder.” He turned back to the north. “We are a people in exile. We have nowhere to go.” He slightly turned his head. “I’ve heard the reports about Silvanesti, Planchet.”
“Rumors, Your Majesty,” Planchet returned, embarrassed and uncomfortable. “We cannot confirm them. We were going to tell you, but the Lioness said you were not to be troubled. Not until we knew something certain—”
“Certain.” Gilthas shook his head. With the tip of his boot, he traced in the dust an outline of an oblong, six feet in length and three feet wide. “This is all that is certain, my friend.”
“Your Majesty—” Planchet began, worried.
Gilthas turned to stare back to the north.
“Is that smoke, do you think?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Planchet. “That is smoke.”
The runner caught up with them during the night. Accustomed to traveling under the cover of darkness, the Lioness and her rebel elves marked the trails as her Kagonesti ancestors had done long before her, using the petals of flowers that glowed in the darkness to indicate which fork to take, leaving glow worms trapped in bottles on a pile of rocks, or smearing a tree with phosphor. Thus the runner had been able to follow their trail even after night fell.
They had not lit a fire. The Lioness had counseled against it. They sat silently in the darkness, no one telling tales or singing a starsong, as they might have done in happier times.
Gilthas kept apart from the others, his thoughts straying back to his childhood as they had done often since his parting from his mother. He was remembering these times, thinking of his mother and his father, of their love and tender care for him, when he saw the guards jump to their feet. Their hands going to their swords, they ran to surround him.
Gilthas had not heard a sound, but that was not unusual. As his wife constantly teased him, he had “human ears.” Sword drawn, Planchet came to stand by the side of his king. The Lioness remained in the center of the clearing, peering into the darkness. She whistled the notes of the song of the nightingale.
The answer came back. The Lioness whistled again. The elves relaxed, although they still kept up their guard. The runner entered the camp and, sighting the Lioness, approached her and began to speak to her in Kagonesti, the language of the Wilderelves.
Gilthas could speak some Kagonesti, but he could catch only fragments of the conversation, for the two kept their voices low, and the runner spoke too fast to be understood, his speech broken only by pauses for breath. Gilthas might have walked over and joined in the conversation, but he was suddenly unable to move. He could tell by the runner’s tone that the news he was conveying was not good.
Then Gilthas saw his wife do something she had never before done. She fell to her knees and bowed her head. Her mane of hair covered her face like a veil of mourning. She lifted her hand to her eyes, and Gilthas saw that she wept.
Planchet gripped Gilthas’s arm, but the king shook him off. Gilthas walked forward on feet that were numb. He could not feel the ground beneath them, and he stumbled once but caught himself. Hearing him approaching, the Lioness regained control of herself. Scrambling to rise, she hastened to meet him. She clasped his hands in hers. Her hands were as cold as death, and Gilthas shivered.
“What is it?” he demanded in a voice he did not recognize. “Tell me! My mother—” He could not speak it.
“Your mother is dead,” the Lioness said softly, her voice trembling and husky with her tears.
Gilthas sighed deeply, but his grief was his own. He was king. He had his people to think about.
“What about the dragon?” he asked harshly. “What about Beryl?”
“Beryl is dead,” the Lioness said. “There is more,” she added quickly, when she saw Gilthas about to speak.
“The tremor we felt …” Her voice cracked. She moistened dry lips, then continued. “Something went wrong. Your mother fought alone. No one knows why or what happened. Beryl came and … your mother fought the dragon alone.”
Gilthas lowered his head, unable to bear the pain.
“Laurana struck Beryl with the dragonlance but did not kill her. Furious, the dragon smashed the tower.… Your mother could not escape.…”
The Lioness was silent a moment, then went on. Her voice sounded dazed, as if she could not believe the words she was speaking. “The plan to snare the dragon worked. The people dragged her out of the skies. Your mother’s attack kept Beryl from breathing her foul gas. The dragon was down on the ground, and it seemed she was de
ad. She was only shamming. Beryl heaved herself off the ground and was about to attack when the ground gave way beneath her.”
Gilthas stared, appalled, unable to speak.
“The tunnels,” said the Lioness, tears trailing down her cheeks. “The tunnels collapsed beneath the dragon. She fell in and … the city fell in on top of her.”
Planchet gave a low cry. The elven guards, who had edged close to hear, gasped and cried out.
Gilthas could say nothing, could make no sound.
“Tell him,” the Lioness ordered the runner in a choked voice, averting her face. “I can’t.”
The runner bowed to the king. The man’s face was white. His eyes were wide. He was only now starting to recover his breath.
“Your Majesty,” he said, speaking the Qualinesti tongue, “I grieve to tell you that the city of Qualinost is no more. Nothing remains.”
“Survivors?” Gilthas asked without a voice.
“There could be no survivors, Your Majesty,” the elf said. “Qualinost is now a lake. Nalis Aren. A lake of death.”
Gilthas took his wife in his arms. She held him fast, murmuring incoherent words of comfort that could bring no comfort. Planchet wept openly, as did the elven guards, who began to whisper prayers for the spirits of the dead. Bewildered, overwhelmed, unable to comprehend the enormity of the disaster, Gilthas held fast to his wife and stared out into the darkness that was a lake of death washing over him.
34
The Presence
he blue dragon circled over the treetops, searching for a place to land. The cypress trees grew thick, so thick that Razor talked of flying back to the east, to where grassy fields and low rolling hills provided more suitable sites. Goldmoon would not permit the dragon to turn back, however. She was nearing the end of her journey. Her strength waned with the passing seconds. Each beat of her heart was a little slower, a little weaker. What time she had left to her was precious, she could not waste a moment. Looking down from the dragon’s back, she watched the river of souls flowing beneath her, and it seemed to her that she was not borne forward by the dragon’s strong wings but by that mournful tide.
Dragons of a Lost Star Page 47
