Dragonlance 16 - Dragons Of A Lost Star (34 page)

BOOK: Dragonlance 16 - Dragons Of A Lost Star
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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.

h 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 prefer 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

 

The dragon Khellendros, whose common name among the lesser creatures of Krynn was Skie, had his current lair I 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 wit 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 Sil-vanost 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.

The silver dragon Mirror had traveled an immense distance in human form since the night of the magical storm—the storm that had wounded and scarred him, knocked him from the skies over Neraka, sent him plunging to the rocks below. Lying there, dazed and blind and bleeding, he had heard an immortal voice singing the Song of Death and he had been awed and appalled.

He had wandered aimlessly for a time, searching for and then finding Mina. He spoke with her. She was the one who sang the Song of Death.

The voice in the storm had been a summons. The voice had spoken the truth to him and, when he had refused to accept the truth, the Bringer of the Storm had punished him. Robbed of his sight, Mirror realized that he might be the only one in the world to see truly. He had recognized the voice, but he did not understand how it could be or why. So he had embarked on a quest to find out. In order to travel, he had been forced to take human form, because a blind dragon dare not fly, whereas a blind human can walk.

Trapped in this frail body, Mirror was helpless to act. He was frustrated in his search for answers, for the voice spoke to him constantly, taunted him, fed his fear, singing to him of the terrible events happening in the world: the fall of Silvanesti, the peril of Qualinost, the destruction of the Citadel of Light, the gathering of the dead in Nightlund. This was his punishment. Although he could not see, he was made to see all too clearly those he loved dying. He saw them stretch out their hands to him for help, and he was powerless to save them.

The voice sought to make despair his guide, and it had almost succeeded. He stumbled along the dark path, tapping out his way with his stick, and when he came to places where he cast about him with the stick and felt nothing ahead, he sometimes wondered if it would not be easier to keep walking, to fall off the edge of the precipice into the eternal silence that would close his ears to the voice, the darkness of death that could not be more dark than that in which he lived.

His search for others of his kind who had heard the voice, who might have heard the ancient words and understood them, had failed. He could find no other silver dragons. They had fled, disappeared. That gave him some indication that he had not been alone in recognizing the voice, but that was not much help if he were alone in the world—a blind dragon in human form— unable to do anything. In the moment of his despair Mirror formed a desperate resolution. One dragon would know the truth and might share it. But he was not a friend. He was a longtime enemy.

Skie, the immense blue dragon, had not arrived on Krynn as a stranger, as had Malys and the others. He had been in the world for years. True, Skie had changed much following the Chaos War. He had grown larger than any blue dragon was ever meant to grow. He had conquered Palanthas—the Dark Knights ruled that wealthy land in his name. He had gained the grudging respect of the great ‘ red Malystryx and her green cousin Beryl. Although rumor had it that he had turned upon his own kind and devoured them, as had Malys and Beryl, Mirror—for one—had not believed it.

Mirror would stake his life on that belief.

The silver dragon left Solace seeking Skie, tracking his enemy using the eyes of his soul to find the trail. His trek had led him here, to the foot of one of the blue dragon’s mountain lairs. Mirror could not see the lair, but he could hear the enormous blue dragon roaming inside. He could feel the ground shake with every step Skie took, the mountains tremble as he lashed his tail. Mirror could smell the ozone of the blue’s breath, feel the electricity tingle in the air.

Mirror rested for several hours, and when he felt his strength return, he began to climb. A dragon himself, he knew that Skie would have opened up many entrances to his lair. Mirror had only to find one of them.

 

Skie regarded the slight human female standing before him with barely concealed contempt. He had fostered a secret hope that in this female commander of armies he would find, once again, his lost Kitiara. He had relinquished that hope almost immediately. Here was no hot blood, no passion. Here was no love of battle for the sake of the challenge and the thrill of outwitting death. This female was as different from Kitiara as the ice floe differs from the frothing, crashing waves driven by the storm.

Skie might have been tempted to tell this girl to go away and send some responsible adult to deal with him, but he knew from the reports of his agents that she had flummoxed the Solamnics at Sanction, brought down the shield over Silvanost, and been the death of Lord Targonne—gone and quite easily forgotten.

She stood before him unafraid, even unimpressed, though he could have cracked the lithe, frail body with the flick of a claw. He had teeth that were bigger than this human.

“So you are the Healer, the Bringer of Death, the Conqueror of Elves,” he grunted.

“No,” she said. “I am Mina.”

As she spoke, she lifted her gaze to meet his. He looked into the amber eyes and saw himself inside them. He saw himself sr’ shrunken, a lizard of a dragon. The sight was disquieting, made him ill at ease. He rumbled deep in his massive throat and arched his great neck and shifted the immense bulk of his body so that the mountain shook, and he felt reassured in his might and his strength. Still, in the amber eyes, he was very small.

“The One Who Heals, the One Who Brings Death, the One VVho Conquers is the One God,” Mina continued. “The One God I serve. The One God we both serve.”

“Indeed I have served,” Skie said, glowering. “I have served faithfully and well. I was promised my reward.”

“You were given it. You were permitted to enter the Gray to search for her. If you have failed in your search, that is not the fault of the One God.” Mina shrugged and slightly smiled. “You give up too easily, Skie. The Gray is a vast plane. You could not possibly have looked everywhere. After all, you did sense her spirit—”

“Did I?” Skie lowered his head so that his eyes could look directly into the amber eyes. He hoped to see himself grow large, but he failed. He was frustrated now, as well as angry. “Or was it a trick? A trick to get rid of me. A trick to cheat me of what I have earned.”

He thrust forth his great head near her, exhaled a frustrated, sulfurous breath. “Two centuries ago, I was taken from my home world and brought in secret to the world known as Krynn. In return for my services it was promised that I would one day be granted the rulership of this world. I obeyed the commands given me. I traveled the Portals. I scouted out locations. I made all ready. I now claim the right to rule a world—this world. I could have done so thirty-eight years ago, but I was told that now was not the time.

BOOK: Dragonlance 16 - Dragons Of A Lost Star
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