DragonLance - Classics 2 - Dalamar the Dark

by Nancy Varian Berberick

  Shivering, Dalamar turned to the dead man in his arms, the lord who had come all the way to the border questing after a dream he would likely never have realized. On the ground, dropped on the stony path, lay something bright. Dalamar reached for it, taking up the embroidered scrollcase Tellin had carried out of Silvanost, the gift returned and the gift granted. He turned it over in his hand, the humming-birds hovered over ruby red roses, their tiny needle-like beaks dipping into pearly dew. He brushed it clean against the sleeve of his robe. The dust did not all come off, much of it ground into the delicate needlework, dulling the rose to brown.

  "Is he dead?" asked a woman, a Wildrunner on the path above. She stood bleeding, her arm in a rough sling, her head wrapped in a rag through which her blood seeped. This one had come off a battleground, only recently come from the front lines. "The cleric, is he dead?"

  Dalamar nodded, and he tried to hand her the scroll case, for it seemed to him that it weighed as heavily as the dead man did.

  She shook her head.

  "Didn't you serve him back in Silvanost, at the Temple of E'li?"

  Again, Dalamar nodded.

  The Wildrunner looked up the hill to where the dragon's corpse lay, to where the bright flames of fire shone not so far away. "Keep it, mage. Maybe you can get it back to his family and get yourself a reward for your trouble. But now"-she jerked her head back toward the forest and the fire-"now, leave the dead and come help me get the living out of here."

  Thus do soldiers speak who are often in the company of corpses. Dalamar nodded, and he eased the body of Tellin Windglimmer onto the stone, arranging his limbs in some decent order and bending to close his eyes. That was not easily done, for he had been as well strangled as though he'd been hung with a noose.

  "My lord," he said, but he didn't know what else to say. He hadn't known this cleric long, and they had not shared much more than unreasonable dreams and this plan that might see those dreams realized.

  Dalamar smiled, a bitter twist of his lips. How fast dreams die!

  "My lord, you saved for me my life." It was an old phrase, something out of poetry or prayer-he didn't remember which. The kind of thing Tellin Windglimmer would have liked and written out in lovely script with shining illuminations. Dalamar offered it in gratitude and folded the cleric's hands on his breast. "Go with E'li, for you will find with him your peace."

  But if the old phrase fit, it seemed to Dalamar that the traditional blessing was awkward as a lie.

  *****

  Down through the forest ran the mages and their escort of Wildrunners, though they did not run hard, and they did not run long before stopping often to rest. Too weary, the mages and many of the Wildrunners were weakened by wounds. They crossed the King's Road in two days' time, and by then no sign of a great burning could be seen in the north. It had rained there, heavily if the massing clouds were to be believed. If the fire was not drowned, it was no longer strong.

  Other things the people had to grieve for, though, for upon the King's Road they found the forest in ruin, fouled by the leavings of a horde of refugees-the campfires, the bones of old kills, boots that had failed, torn clothing, sometimes even a kettle or a pot that had grown too heavy to carry. Among this lay the refugee dead, those who had lost will and strength and could go no farther than where they fell. Ravens picked over these, cleaning the bones of elves who ran from the dragonarmy only to find death in the sweet forest miles away from Silvanost.

  Some wept to see the dead, the picked bones, the ragged clothing fluttering on corpses like pennons to call the scavengers. These wanted to bury the corpses, but they were convinced after long arguing that they had neither the time nor the tools for this. The same had been said of the dead in the glen. It seemed to Dalamar that the forest must be strewn north and south with corpses. The Wildrunners did the convincing, but they were not unmoved. One said to another, "I don't care if Phair Caron doubles her army. I don't care if she triples it! I am going back to fight, I swear it, and no one will stop me."

  "Will she double her army?" Dalamar asked as they crossed the road and went into the forest again. They would not follow this weary path, for the refugees now clogged the broad highway. He looked back over his shoulder at the ruin, the dead, and the ravens.

  The Wildrunner-she who had called him out of the glen-shrugged. "That's what we heard on the way down from the battle. Lord Garan doesn't care. He's asking for more soldiers from the Speaker. He's sent word by Windrider."

  All agreed, almost with one voice, that Lorac would give the Lord of House Protector all the help he needed. How not?

  Once more Dalamar looked back at the dead. They were all old, none of fighting age. Phair Caron had seen to it that the war-worthy were killed in their villages and towns. Where would Lorac find more men and women to fight? From the sparsely settled southern part of the kingdom? From the east where they were sailors but not fighters?

  A light mist of rain began to fall, chilling the skin. Dalamar hunched his shoulders against the cold and pulled up the hood of his filthy white robe. The trees all around seemed to fade, even the bright gold of the aspen leaves did not shine. It was, Dalamar thought, as though the forest were fading around them, vanishing before their eyes.

  A day later, when they crossed the Thon-Thalas on the ferry and entered Silvanost in the first hour of the morning, nothing seemed more substantial to him. The scent of baking drifted through the broad streets, dogs barked, children ran chasing each other through the gardens. Sun shone on the towers. Dew glittered in the grass. The temples gathered round the Garden of Astarin rang with prayer-chants, and the air hung with the smoke of incense. Dalamar saw it all, he smelled the city, he heard it, and it all felt like a dream of a place he used to know.

  The home of the best beloved of the gods ... It was a lie, and he saw that lie in every shining tower, in the face of everyone he passed, elves still certain-though a dark and terrible goddess pounded at their very door!-that E'li would save them, E'li still loved them. Dalamar recognized the lie each time he remembered the final words of a cleric who had died with his last prayer on his lips, with no god to intervene.

  Chapter 9

  The world is lost!

  The words whispered in the darkest corner of Lorac Caladon's heart, as they had since the night he'd been awakened from his dream of Istar.

  The world is lost unless you heed!

  So said the dragon orb. The crystal sphere lay shrouded in heavy white velvet upon its transformed stand. So said this artifact of his Tests in the Tower of High Sorcery, taken by him from a place where he'd been bidden to take nothing. Not taken, he reminded himself. Rescued! I rescued this orb, and it must have been right that I did, for did I not come out of my Tests whole and strong?

  Rescued ... but soon to be lost again, for the world is lost!

  Lorac heard the voice in his heart, in his bones. He heard it in his very soul, and sometimes it seemed that voice counseled despair, while at other times it seemed to offer hope. That's where we stand, he thought as he looked out from his throne to the small conclave he'd gathered in the Tower of the Stars. We stand between despair and hope.

  The light of the noontide poured in through the spiraling windows and down into the audience hall. Bitterly bright, that noon sun shed a cruel glare on the marble floor and the bejeweled walls. It made the gems and gold worn by those gathered look like brittle paste, lending them no beauty. Their faces seemed winter-pale and drawn in lines so hard and stark that these might have been the faces of starving people.

  Only see these people to know the truth of hopelessness, said his heart.

  Or was that the dragon orb speaking? One and all, his people protested that they had hope enough to keep the kingdom alive, hope enough to commit their sons and daughters to the cause of beating back the Dragon Queen's minions. And yet, and yet...

  So well do they love you, said the voice of the orb, so well, and thus do they show it, pretending to hope as though pretense might one d
ay change into truth.

  He looked at those gathered, his daughter, the Lords of House Protector and House Metalline, the Lady of House Cleric. Each cast secret glances at the white-shrouded object beside the throne. What is that? said the eyes of those who had not long before wondered at the ivory sculpture.

  None of the other House Holders were present. This was no gathering of the Sinthal-Elish, no formal seeking of advice from the Houses and the priests of the seven temples. This was a secret council swiftly summoned, each member chosen at the king's will, for the king's purpose.

  Lord Garan had come on his griffin, still wearing the grime and the filth of battle-blood, mud, tears, and sweat. The Lord of House Protector hadn't understood the message he'd received from the king last night, the sudden word to come home and to come swiftly. It showed on him, the puzzlement.

  Near Garan stood Elaran and Keilar. One spent all her days in prayer, the other spent all his in the making of weapons and armor. "Prayer and weapons, they will be all we need," Elaran had said in the summer when news had come of the first forays of Phair Caron's armies. Keilar had agreed with all his heart and all his faith in the sword-smiths of his House. Now it did seem to each-Lorac saw it in their eyes, was sure he read it in their hearts-that both prayer and sword were failing.

  Sunlight moved across the floor in increments so small that only an ancient eye could mark them. Lorac's eye marked each moving of the light, as he marked the changes, war-wrought and cruel, that had come to his people. His heart ached for them all. Garan, who had lost so many of his Wildrunners in this wretched summer, seemed to have aged years in only months. Garan loved his soldiers, every one as though they were his own sons and daughters. Upon scrolls in the libraries of House Protector, their names had been written, made immortal in the annals of the kingdom. If all those scrolls perished, burned by war, it would be Lord Garan who could speak those names still. They lived in his heart.

  The world is lost. The land is lost!

  As lives the land, so live the elves. Silvanos himself had spoken these words. A prayer, a chant, the sound of one's blood beating in the heart-those simple words were all that and more. They were how an elf understood the world and his place in it. In his heart, King Lorac repeated them reverently. Ah, but who would speak those words otherwise?

  And the orb beneath his hand-Lorac started, withdrawing his hand from the thick white velvet shroud. When had he reached to touch the orb? With artful carelessness, he placed his hand on the arm of his throne.

  Recalled to his purpose, Lorac said, "My lords and ladies. Will you do me the kindness of paying your attention?"

  A form of speaking. Of course they would. All eyes turned to him as he breathed the words of an imaging spell, ancient words, soft and silken, learned in Istar in the years before anyone imagined Takhisis would call dragons back to Krynn.

  The Speaker of the Stars lifted his hand, gnarled and old. He gestured with one finger as though it were an artist's brush. He drew images upon the air, a map broad and tall. It showed the world of the Silvanesti, a world of beloved forests, of beauty and grace, of people whose lives moved in quiet, well-ordered rounds of peaceful watches, for long generations untroubled and untouched by the clamor of the folk who lived outside. Here was the Silvanesti Nation, shown from its northern border, now burning, to the southern tip where stood the port of Phalinost. Even now the broad bay was filling with a fleet of tall ships. White sails shining in the sun, filling with the wind, those swan-breasted ships tugged restlessly at their moorings, eager for the sea.

  "Now, heed," said the elf-king.

  Alhana's hand tightened on his shoulder, then loosed. He felt it trembling, slightly. Lord Garan held still, but Elaran and Keilar looked up, their eyes narrowing.

  "Lord Garan, tell me: How did you leave the border-land?"

  Garan drew himself up tall, the Lord of the Wildrunners. He took a step forward. "My lord king, Phair Caron has harried us all the summer long. She fights us now in autumn, but she hasn't claimed any land for herself. It all lies still in our hands."

  A sigh whispered around the chamber, echoing hollowly. What Lord Garan said was truth, and yet it was not. Towns and cities in the north stood empty now, their towers the halls of ghosts. The dragonarmy had done nothing but drive out the people, whipping them down to the south, down to Silvanost, the capital of the Silvanesti. The first of a sea of them had entered the city only this morning, ragged, weeping, some-it must be said-half-mad with grief and rage. These were the first. It was said by Wildrunners who had seen them that more would follow. Silvanost would choke on the ever-swelling river of refugees, for the Highlord would not abandon the tactics that had served her well till now. Phair Caron would move swiftly and strongly, in hatred sweeping down through the emptied land to camp outside the walls of the city until towered Silvanost starved in winter and begged for surrender terms before spring.

  "Tell me this, Lord Garan: Can you beat her back?"

  The old warrior lifted his head proudly, standing eye to eye with his king. "We will die to the last man and woman trying."

  Lorac nodded. It was the reply he had expected. "If you don't die to the last man and woman, if you spend the rest of the season till winter fighting Phair Caron and her dark goddess, can you win?"

  Lord Garan did not drop his gaze, and he did not stand any less proudly. "My lord king, we will not know until we try."

  Robes rustled. From outside the hall came the quiet murmurings of servants in their goings and comings, a voice lifted in question, another laughing to answer. In the hall, silence sat upon all. Elaran glanced at Keilar. The weapon-smith kept still, his hands quiet. Only his eyes moved, darting from one to another, then to the king.

  "Tell me this, Lord Garan, and speak truly: If you spend the rest of the season till winter and through to spring righting Phair Caron, can you win?"

  Lord Garan's face flushed. His long eyes glittered. "My lord king-"

  "Can you win, my old friend? Or will you stand beside me all winter long, each time I must turn away another refugee driven down from the northlands, from the midlands, from outside our very city? Will you stand and say, 'Forgive us, but we are choking on refugees now and we cannot feed ourselves. You may not enter here, but you may go out into the forest and die knowing how sorry we all feel about that.' Will you stand with me and say that?"

  A silence settled in the great audience hall. Only breathing was heard.

  The world is lost! Unless you heed!

  The elf-king almost shouted those very words, the dictum of the orb. They beat in him like the rhythm of his own heart. He'd heard them over and again, waking and sleeping, and he found in them, curiously, not despair but hope. Unless you heed . . . The orb spoke of hope, and it spoke of power. It spoke of promise, and it spoke of a way to defeat the Highlord Phair Caron.

  Not only her defeat did it promise. It promised the defeat of the Dark Queen herself, the ruin of Takhisis. O you sweet gods of Goodness and Light! How to measure that boon if it were granted?

  The world is lost, unless you heed me! Come and take what I have for you. If you do otherwise, the world is lost!

  Lorac rose from the Emerald Throne. Though the orb remained hidden beneath the white velvet shroud, in his heart, in his veins, in his very blood, he felt its light pulsing, a drumbeat calling him to action. He looked at his daughter, Alhana, white as marble, her eyes glittering as with fever. What he would say would not surprise her. He had formed his plan alone, but he had spoken of it to her, for Alhana would play a heavy part in it. A burden unasked for would fall upon her slender shoulders. She did not smile to encourage; she had been all the night protesting. No matter, no matter, he knew what must be done.

  "Now hear me," he said to Lord Garan. "Listen," he said to Elaran and Keilar. "I will not play at gambling with the lives of my people. Plans have been laid against this day, and this is what will happen: You, my Lord Garan, will sent out your scouts and you will bid them go to every village and
town and city where people yet live, and into the woods where the refugees wander. They will proclaim this message: 'Gamer up your families and go down to the sea. Go to Phalinost where every person will find a place made and waiting for him. Prepare for a sea journey, and know that you will return.' "

  "Exile," Garan whispered, the terrible word like sentence of death. "Speaker, will you do that? Will you lead us all out of the land into exile while the foul armies of Takhisis flow into the kingdom and hold it forever against us?" In his eyes Lorac saw such pain as war-gotten wounds had never given him. "Tell me, Lorac Caladon: Have I failed you, then?"

  Like an ache in the heart of the king, those words from the proud warrior.

  "You have not failed me, my old friend." The Speaker of the Stars came down from the dais. He took Garan's hands in his, unconsciously shadowing the ritual blessing a king gives a new-made Wildrunner. So had these two stood, many years before, offering and accepting fealty. "No king has had better service than I have had from you, but I must ask you this one more time to serve me again in this cause of shepherding our people to safety. You will not be long gone from the kingdom, and when you and our people return, you will see that all has been done for the best."

  "I will not be gone long. My lord king-what about you?"

  Lorac turned from him, releasing his hands, and went back to his throne. It seemed to him that the steps to the dais had grown steeper in the moments since he'd descended, steeper and longer. When he reached the throne, his daughter took his hand. He looked into her eyes, the deep amethyst pools that so reminded him of her mother. There he saw fear, reckoning, and, above all other things, courage. He turned, and he looked down at the four gathered.