The History of Krynn: Vol I

by Dragon Lance

  “There are other dangers here,” Amero said, hoping to divert Duranix. “Tiphan returned yesterday by means of some kind of spirit power. He claims to have mastery over it.”

  “I feared as much.” Now it was the dragon’s turn to tell Amero about his findings. He described what he had discovered on the plains – the remains of a bloody fight, the residue of power, the spirit stones, and the dead centaur.

  Amero shook his head sadly at the loss of Miteera’s gallant warrior. “Tiphan’s changed – or been changed by these stones,” he said solemnly. “Even his appearance is altered.”

  “He seeks to imitate the elf priests. He would become like Vedvedsica.”

  “He must be stopped!” Amero declared. “That power is as wrong for humans as it is for elves. Just look at the evil done by Pa’alu all those years ago with a simple amulet!”

  Pa’alu had been a nomad warrior who’d been in love with his chieftain, Amero’s sister, Nianki. When she failed to return his affection, he had made a deal with the Silvanesti priest Vedvedsica for an amulet to compel Nianki’s love. A terrible accident had occurred. The amulet had indeed caused Nianki to fall in love, but that love was directed along unnatural lines, toward her brother. Much sorrow had ensued, leaving Pa’alu dead, Yala-tene wrecked by the rebellious nomads, and Nianki driven into self-exile with her band of loyal followers.

  “I’ll search for this Zannian,” Duranix declared. “You’ll have to deal with Tiphan for now.”

  “Konza may still have some influence over his son. I’ll speak to him in the morning.”

  Amero intended to say more, to smooth over their confrontation over Beramun, but it was not to be. Having spoken his mind, Duranix stalked to the rear of the cave. It was obvious he was still angry, and Amero’s heart was heavy as he returned to the hoist.

  Beramun stood in the basket regarding him nervously. Somehow, his many burdens seemed to lighten when he looked at her, and he smiled.

  “Is all well?” she asked.

  “Well enough,” he said, climbing in and pulling the slip knot. The basket sank toward the ground.

  She wrung water from her long hair. “It was brave of you to defend me,” she said quietly.

  “I was in no danger. Duranix would not hurt me.”

  “He’s a beast. A very great beast, but not human. Can you be sure of him?”

  “Very sure.” Amero looked into her black eyes. More sure than I am of you. He kept that thought to himself.

  The basket bumped into the pile of sawdust Amero used to cushion the landing. He climbed out first, then helped her jump down. His hands were still around her waist when she skidded in the sawdust. He held on to keep her from falling.

  After a few seconds, she said, “You can let go now.”

  Amero released her. He was thankful the dark night hid the blood burning in his face.

  “Thank you, Arkuden.” She clasped his hand lightly. It was a simple gesture of gratitude, nothing more, but the fleeting contact set his heart racing.

  *

  By lamplight the stones looked very ordinary: mottled gray chips of varying sizes. A few had streaks of gold in them, but only a few. Konza sat at the table in his simple house, the pile of stones before him. Across from him sat his son, his appearance so strangely altered by his recent journey. Konza had begun to believe the alterations ran even deeper than mere appearance.

  “You see, father, these stones are the key to power,” Tiphan said, running his hands over the dusty pile. “According to my elven manuscripts, they contain a portion of the power of a mighty spirit confined to the stone in ages past.”

  “These bits of rock?”

  “Yes. Here is a treasure greater than all the bronze in Silvanost!”

  Tiphan was sorting the stones by size and weight. Even the bits that flaked off them were pushed carefully into a tiny heap. Konza watched this peculiar process with a plainly skeptical expression.

  “How did Penzar and Mara die?”

  “What?”

  Tiphan’s blue eyes, seemingly all the brighter for the white lashes now framing them, lifted from his work to stare at his father. “Elves killed them. I told you that. We were set upon by more than a hundred Silvanesti warriors. Penzar was slain, then Mara, and the centaur. It all happened so quickly, I couldn’t help them. The only reason I survived was because of the stones.”

  “I see.” The older man drummed the tabletop with his fingers for a few seconds, then shook his head. “No, I don’t. How? How were you able to command the power of the stones?”

  Tiphan smote the table with his fist, causing his father, the stones, and the small lamp to jump. “Questions, questions! What troubles you, old man? Aren’t you happy to have me back alive – and in possession of such enormous power?”

  “Yes, Tiphan, I am.”

  His tone was so sincere, Tiphan felt guilty. He sat back with a deep sigh. “Very well, father. I’ll show you how I was able to master the stones.”

  Rising, he went and removed the loose stone that hid his secret cache. He poked his arm into the hole and felt around for his scrolls. He found the longest parchment roll, drew it out, and unrolled it a span.

  “Here,” he said, showing the Silvanesti book to his father. “This is The Way to Bind the Sun, a book compiled by elf priests. It describes the stones of power and how a practiced artisan can use them.”

  Konza didn’t even glance at the scroll. “You know I can’t read,” he said.

  “You could learn! I’ve studied every scrap of Elvish script that’s come into this valley and talked to wanderers and traders who know the Silvanesti. This book tells of an ancient war among the spirits and how the victors and the defeated chose to remain on this mortal world, locked in stone for all time. Whole, these spirits are too willful for man or elf to control, but a small fragment can be called upon to release its power!”

  Konza was plainly impressed with his son’s erudition, but his expression was troubled as he asked, “What will you do with this power?”

  Tiphan gestured broadly. “Help Yala-tene, of course – in a hundred ways! The power is directed by my will, so whatever I wish can be done. Think of the deeds I could do! Instead of sweating long days to break stone and haul it to build the town wall, I might be able to command the stone blocks to rise and fly themselves into place! I could call forth rain in a drought, or sunshine during a deluge. If the harvest was poor, I could command the gardens to flower and grow heavy —”

  “Ah!” Konza struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. “The orchard! I forgot!” As Tiphan rolled up the Silvanesti scroll, the old man explained how the late icefall had ruined the spring planting.

  “The villagers were very angry with you,” he said. “Amero spoke to the Protector, and he told the planters you had misinterpreted his words when you claimed he said winter was over. If you’d been here, I think they would’ve torn you to pieces!”

  Tiphan smiled thinly. “But I wasn’t here. Isn’t that proof the power seeks me as surely as I desire it? Why else would I have had such an overwhelming urge to leave Yala-tene on that particular day?”

  Konza was taken aback. Tiphan had always thought well of himself, but since his return he was acting as though he, and not the great dragon, was the protector of Yala-tene. He didn’t even grieve over the deaths of his acolytes. When he spoke of the Arkuden, his tone now was openly arrogant.

  “Son, you must make amends,” the old man insisted. “Somehow you must help the planters.”

  Tiphan had returned the scroll to its niche. Turning slowly, he said, “You’re right, Father. That’s a fine notion.” He scooped up a single stone from the table. “I’ll do just that!”

  He draped a sheepskin robe around his shoulders and raced out the door. Konza had to scramble to catch up.

  The night was bright, the air crisp and cold. Their exhalations formed clouds around their heads.

  “If you want to see the orchard, shouldn’t we wait for daylight?” K
onza panted, pushing himself to keep up with Tiphan’s brisk stride.

  “There’s no time to lose. The next sunrise will shine down on a new orchard, and a new village!”

  They crossed Amero’s bridge, their sandals thumping loudly on the planks. It was quiet in the upper valley, still too cold at night for frogs and crickets to serenade. By the time they arrived at the upper end of the orchard it was just after midnight. Lutar was chinning itself on the horizon, and a vague pinkish light colored the scene before them.

  Tiphan stopped so suddenly Konza bumped into him.

  “Now what?” asked the old man, shivering despite his robe.

  “Watch, and say nothing,” was his son’s portentous warning.

  In truth Tiphan wasn’t at all sure he could invoke the power of the stone he held tightly in his hand. His escape from the elves might have been an accident, sparked by desperation. Still, Konza was watching. Better to test his technique before his own father than a crowd of skeptical villagers.

  Tiphan pressed his palms together, the stone wedged between them. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, he concentrated.

  Power of the stone, hear me! he intoned silently. Bring forth the bounty of the soil! Raise up these wasted seeds into thriving, abundant trees! He repeated the wordless command over and over.

  Nothing happened. The night remained very still and cold. Tiphan felt a trickle of sweat run down his temple.

  “Never mind, son. Let’s go home.”

  His father’s gentle, pitying tone infuriated Tiphan. “Don’t interrupt!” he snapped. Speaking made him remember an important fact: He’d rescued himself from the elves by speaking the words aloud!

  “Power of the stone!” Tiphan intoned in a loud voice. “Hear my plea! Hear my command! Bring forth the bounty of the soil! Raise up the withered seedlings from waste and death! Come forth in life and plenty! Release your power! Come forth! Come forth!”

  The air around them shimmered. They felt a whisper of heat on their faces. The stone in Tiphan’s hands grew warmer. Very quickly, it became painfully hot.

  Raising both hands high and never ceasing to shout his invocation, Tiphan hurled the stone at the straw-covered field. As it flew through the air it left behind a visible trail of golden sparks.

  When the fragment hit the ground, there was a noiseless burst of white light. Konza turned away, hands over his ears, believing a thunderclap would follow. None did, but a lengthy wash of warm air enveloped them.

  “Tiphan!” Konza gasped. “What’s the matter?”

  His son had fallen to his knees and was shaking violently. Konza took him by the shoulders, thinking to aid him. However, the old man recoiled sharply when he saw his son’s face.

  Tiphan was laughing. Paroxysms of mirth shook him from head to toe.

  “Now do you see, old man?” Tiphan sputtered. Savage laughter continued to wrack him until tears ran down his cheeks. “Now do you see?”

  Konza looked at the ice-ravaged orchard. Something was indeed happening. Releasing his hysterical son, who collapsed onto his hands and knees, Konza walked into the frosty field. Where once the ground had been covered with damp hay, there was a now a fine green fleece growing from the foot of the far cliff down to the water’s edge.

  Konza knelt, brushing tentative fingers over apple and walnut trees, burltops, and more. Tiphan hadn’t simply repaired the seedlings killed by ice. He’d covered the entire expanse of ground in finger-length sprouts of all type and description.

  A hand fell on Konza’s back, and he flinched.

  “Isn’t it wondrous?” breathed Tiphan.

  “It’s terrifying!” said Konza honestly.

  Here was power to rival the great spirits. As his eyes roved over the dense mat of seedlings, Konza knew that such power wasn’t meant for ordinary men. He looked at his son nervously. Tiphan’s thoughts were obviously running along different lines.

  “The land will yield everything to us,” the younger man said, spreading his arms wide and inhaling deeply. “The world will be our garden! Nothing can resist my power!”

  Chapter 12

  Duranix had searched from the mountains to the Plains River, detecting no trace of Sthenn or his minions. This troubled him. There had been a far greater odor of the enemy back in Yala-tene, Duranix reflected, emanating from that black-haired girl.

  Thinking of Beramun made the dragon angry. He was certain she was up to no good, though how she fit into Sthenn’s machinations wasn’t clear.

  He turned south, crossing the landmark river. There were always plainsmen on its shores, watering their animals or traveling by raft or canoes. Nomads were keen-eyed and alert to any danger. He resolved to question any he could find about Zannian’s band. For that, he would need to take on human shape, since the wanderers would flee at the sight of his natural form.

  He landed in a grove of cherry trees. Hidden by clouds of pink blossoms, he shrank to a stocky, broad-shouldered, brown-haired man who vaguely resembled Amero. The disguise would not only allow him to approach any nomads he might meet, but would also serve to muffle his presence to Sthenn, if the green dragon was in the vicinity.

  Duranix emerged from the cherry trees and began to run. Human form or no, he ran faster than any other creature on the plain, surpassing even the astonishing speed for which the panther was famed. By noon, he was gazing down from a hilltop on the distant silver band of the river’s southern fork, and he’d encountered neither raiders nor plainsmen. He found the lack of customary nomads extremely disturbing. This time of year the savanna should have been dotted with many small bands moving south behind migrating herds of elk and oxen.

  Duranix stretched his senses wide, drinking in the faintest whiffs of auras and aromas. There was a sizable herd of oxen within range. He made note of that. A fat ox or two would be a fine antidote to the enormous hunger he’d built up after many leagues of running.

  Before racing off after his dinner, he caught another scent that put an end to his thoughts of food. Humans, two or three at most, with horses. At last, he had found the nomads he sought.

  A shrill whistling filled his sensitive ears. He quickly spotted the source of the sound. A bawling ox calf galloped through the widely spaced trees. Behind it was a trio of humans on horseback, whistling and shouting. They had long spears and were obviously trying to bring down the runaway beast.

  Duranix loped down the hill, angling to intercept the galloping calf. His sudden appearance on the beast’s left spooked the calf, and it veered away. Between the dust and flower petals from nearby trees, the riders didn’t see the calf change direction. They thundered straight ahead, whooping, until the one on the far left spotted Duranix. He reined up and shouted something to his comrades, who likewise slowed to get a look at the stranger.

  In the space of a few heartbeats, Duranix realized these fellows weren’t simple herders chasing a stray calf. They carried no ropes but were armed with flint-tipped spears and wore weird leather hoods decorated with animal bones, teeth, and vivid stripes, swirls, and splotches of paint. That much of the girl Beramun’s story was true. There were raiders on the plains.

  Followers of Sthenn weren’t likely to respond to polite queries, so Duranix took a more direct approach. He charged the center rider. The man’s horse shied violently, rearing on its hind legs. The rider, taken by surprise, fell and hit the ground hard. He rolled twice and lay still.

  The other two riders drove in, spears leveled. Duranix sprang at the nearest one, whose hood bore a wide stripe of bright red paint. The dragon grabbed Red Stripe’s spear shaft in both hands and yanked. The man flew off his horse and landed in the dirt.

  With no time to dodge the third human’s attack, Duranix hurled the captured spear at him. Backed by a dragon’s muscles, the long spear drove all the way through the last rider. His hands flew up, and he toppled backward off his animal.

  The first two men were senseless, so Duranix went over to the one he’d speared and hauled him to his feet. H
e tore the fearsome hood from the rider’s head, revealing him to be a young man with shaggy black hair and only the thinnest sprouts of beard on his chin.

  “Speak,” Duranix said roughly. “Who are you? Where do you come from?”

  The raider coughed blood. His eyes roved wildly, taking in the unmoving lumps that had been his comrades. “Takanu,” he gasped, “from Almurk.”

  The disguised dragon recognized the latter name from Amero’s recital of Beramun’s escape. “Is your chief named Zannian?” he demanded.

  The raider nodded feebly. Duranix dragged him to where his horse waited, cropping the spring grass a few paces away. Faint surprise registered in the dragon’s mind as he noted that all three horses had remained nearby. Unlike most of their kind, they didn’t seem alarmed by his dragon aura.

  He held the reins of Takanu’s horse with one hand and, with the other, threw the raider onto the animal’s back.

  “I’m going to spare you, Takanu, to go back to your chief and deliver this message – stay away from Yala-tene or face certain, swift death. Do you understand?”

  The raider didn’t reach for the dangling rawhide reins. He sat slumped in his saddle, one hand clutching his wounded side, shaking his head.

  Duranix repeated the message more loudly, adding, “Now go!”

  “I can’t,” the raider groaned.

  “Why not? Your wound isn’t fatal.”

  “I can’t return defeated, spared by an enemy,” the raider insisted. “I’ll be punished. Better to die now.”

  What kind of savages was he dealing with? “Then tell them you fought me and I ran away,” the dragon said with some asperity. “Tell them whatever you like, so long as you deliver my warning.”

  Takanu slipped a hand into his shirt. When he brought it out again, there was an obsidian dagger in his fist. Quicker than thought, he stabbed himself in the stomach and slid sideways off his horse.

  Deeply vexed, lightning snapping around his head, Duranix rolled the raider over. Takanu was dead. His hard landing had driven the dagger deep. Another messenger would have to be found.