Dargonesti

by Paul Thompson

  Rolling over to a more comfortable position, Vixa banished the ghostly echo from her mind. Sister of the sea? No longer. Not here in Qualinost.

  Vixa spent the remainder of the summer in the city, home with her parents. Her sleep continued to be troubled by dreams of the sea. To divert herself, she composed a long letter to Samcadaris, which she sent by the simple expedient of tying it to Lionheart’s saddle and sending the griffon home.

  Summer heat gave way to the gold-and-red chill of autumn. Vixa assumed command of the Wildrunners, the rangers of Kagonesti ancestry who’d served Kith-Kanan so well during the Kinslayer War. Her duties kept her in the northern woods for many weeks at a time. After her adventurous summer, she thought all she wanted was the peace and quiet of a remote outpost, yet she never felt at ease in the forest, not as she once had. Her nights were more disturbed now, the dreams of the sea frequently leaving her agitated and unable to sleep.

  Winter was gray and silent, as woodland winters usually are. Vixa spent nearly a month sick with fever, hot bricks in her bed to ward off the chills. She talked wildly in her delirium, raving about Urione, Nissia Grotto, Naxos, and other things that confounded the healers. Her fever would lessen for a short time, but hope was dashed as the illness took hold of her once more. At times they despaired for her life, but she was young and strong, and by the time the snows melted, she was on her feet again, unusually thin, with dark hollows beneath her eyes.

  The arrival of spring brought a courier from Qualinost. Among the other papers he carried was a strange letter addressed to Vixa. It had come, so the courier told her, when a griffon appeared over the city. The beast dropped a small scroll, upon which was written Vixa’s name. The letter had finally found its way to her, deep in the northern forest.

  Vixa untied the silk cord that bound the scroll. Tiny, elegant Silvanesti script filled the page. The letter read:

  To Her Royal Highness

  Princess Vixa Ambrodel

  Greetings:

  I regret not being able to respond sooner to your letter, but my duties have kept me quite busy. I am no longer marshal of Silvanost. That honor has fallen to Eriscodera, whom you met as a colonel last summer. An unlikely alliance has grown up between Eriscodera, Lord Agavenes, and the Speaker’s wife, Lady Uriona. They have opposed the Speaker’s attempts to restore contact with Qualinost. I fear Silvanost grows ever more insular. The Speaker has told me he hopes to abdicate in favor of his nephew. Uriona will oppose that, of course.

  I trust you are well, Princess. Though it saddens me to say it, I sometimes feel all our fighting was for naught, as we are ruled by Uriona anyway. At least the succession is assured and the line of Silvanos will continue. I remain

  Your friend,

  Samca

  A shudder ran through the Qualinesti princess. Perhaps Uriona’s prophecy had been right all along—at least in part. She had indeed been crowned in the Tower of the Stars, and now occupied the most ancient elven throne in the world.

  Vixa put a hand to her head, attempting to massage the ache from her temples. The pain would not go away. It had been with her, off and on, for a week.

  She called her lieutenant. “I’m turning over command to you,” she told him, writing out her orders on a scrap of parchment. “As of today, you lead the Wildrunners.”

  The Kagonesti was stunned. “By why, lady? Is your health still poor?” he asked.

  “No, but I can’t stay here. If I do, I’ll go mad.”

  She packed a single cloth bag with a few necessities, as Kerridar stood by helplessly, at a loss to explain his commander’s sudden departure. “What shall I tell the Speaker? What shall I tell your mother?” he asked weakly.

  “I’ve left letters for them. They’ll understand.” She didn’t intend to bandy words with Kerridar all day. “I’ll probably return some day to visit, but I’ll never command the Wildrunners again. You’re a good soldier, Kerridar. I’ve been proud to serve with you.”

  She gripped his hand, ignoring his bewilderment. Vixa tied her bag to her saddle and mounted. The chestnut horse fretted in a circle. “Good-bye, Kerridar,” she called.

  “Fare you well, Lady Vixa. Astra go with you!”

  She rode for days, stopping only for the horse’s sake. The rest periods had to be brief, because whenever she stopped, the ache in her head grew unbearable. Once she was moving again, the pain would subside. She avoided roads and villages, not wanting to meet anyone. By the evening of her third day of travel, she arrived at the ocean shore. There was nothing before her now but sand and rolling waves.

  She unsaddled the horse and took the bridle from its head. “You’re free, too,” she said, giving the animal’s rump a slap. The chestnut cantered away, snorting and shaking its head at the unaccustomed lack of restraint.

  Her headache had gone away, as she knew it would. In its place were unintelligible whispers. She couldn’t understand the words, but she knew what they signified. The voices wanted her to come into the water. Vixa dropped her bag on the sand and, like a sleepwalker, headed for the surf. As she went, she shed her clothing.

  Though summer was more than a month away, the water felt warm and indescribably good. She dove headfirst into the waves, swimming out beyond the line of breakers. A last glance back at the beach, and she sank beneath the surface. She kicked her feet until they were feet no more. Never had the transformation been so effortless and so welcome. Faster and faster she coursed through the depths. Now she could understand the voices. They said, “Come, Sister. Come home. Come home.”

  Before she’d gone half a dozen leagues, she was surrounded by dolphins. The sea brothers greeted her by name as they cavorted around her.

  “Why did you call me?” she asked in the water-tongue.

  “Our brother, our chief, commanded it,” they replied.

  Her heartbeat quickened. “Naxos?”

  “Naxos, yes. Our brother, our chief,” said one mottled gray dolphin. “He sent us to tell you that we have left the city. We have no home but the sea now. Come with us, Sister! Be consort to our brother, our chief!”

  “What has become of the Quoowahb of Urione?”

  “They have a new master, but we are free. Come with us, Vixa Dryfoot!”

  The pain and fatigue of her journey dropped away like a soiled cloak. Happiness filled her heart. Naxos was calling her. She would be free to roam the oceans, to live in peace. She would not have to fight wars or serve any master but nature itself.

  She turned her dolphin body away from the land. “Take me to Naxos,” she said to her brothers.

  DRAGONS

  of

  SUMMER

  FLAME

  An Excerpt

  by

  Margaret Wets and Tracy Hickman

  Chapter One

  Be Warned …

  It was hot that morning, damnably hot.

  Far too hot for late spring on Ansalon. Almost as hot as midsummer. The two knights, seated in the boat’s stern, were sweaty and miserable in their heavy steel armor; they looked with envy at the nearly naked men plying the boat’s oars. When the boat neared shore, the knights were first out, jumping into the shallow water, laving the water onto their reddening faces and sunburned necks. But the water was not particularly refreshing.

  “Like wading in hot soup,” one of the knights grumbled, splashing ashore. Even as he spoke, he scrutinized the shoreline carefully, eyeing bush and tree and dune for signs of life.

  “More like blood,” said his comrade. “Think of it as wading in the blood of our enemies, the enemies of our Queen. Do you see anything?”

  “No,” the other replied. He waved his hand, then, without looking back, heard the sound of men leaping into the water, their harsh laughter and conversation in their uncouth, guttural language.

  One of the knights turned around. “Bring that boat to shore,” he said, unnecessarily, for the men had already picked up the heavy boat and were running with it through the shallow water. Grinning, they dumped the
boat on the sand beach and looked to the knight for further orders.

  He mopped his forehead, marveled at their strength, and—not for the first time—thanked Queen Takhisis that these barbarians were on their side. The brutes, they were known as. Not the true name of their race. The name, their name for themselves, was unpronounceable, and so the knights who led the barbarians had begun calling them by the shortened version: brute.

  The name suited the barbarians well. They came from the east, from a continent that few people on Ansalon knew existed. Every one of the men stood well over six feet; some were as tall as seven. Their bodies were as bulky and muscular as humans, but their movements were as swift and graceful as elves. Their ears were pointed like those of the elves, but their faces were heavily bearded like humans or dwarves. They were as strong as dwarves and loved battle as well as dwarves did. They fought fiercely, were loyal to those who commanded them, and, outside of a few grotesque customs such as cutting off various parts of the body of a dead enemy to keep as trophies, the brutes were ideal foot soldiers.

  “Let the captain know we’ve arrived safely and that we’ve encountered no resistance,” said the knight to his comrade. “We’ll leave a couple of men here with the boat and move inland.”

  The other knight nodded. Taking a red silk pennant from his belt, he unfurled it, held it above his head, and waved it slowly three times. An answering flutter of red came from the enormous black, dragon-prowed ship anchored some distance away. This was a scouting mission, not an invasion. Orders had been quite clear on that point.

  The knights sent out their patrols, dispatching some to range up and down the beach, sending others farther inland. This done, the two knights moved thankfully to the meager shadow cast by a squat and misshapen tree. Two of the brutes stood guard. The knights remained wary and watchful, even as they rested. Seating themselves, they drank sparingly of the fresh water they’d brought with them. One of them grimaced.

  “The damn stuff’s hot.”

  “You left the waterskin sitting in the sun. Of course it’s hot.”

  “Where the devil was I supposed to put it? There was no shade on that cursed boat. I don’t think there’s any shade left in the whole blasted world. I don’t like this place at all. I get a queer feeling about this island, like it’s magicked or something.”

  “I know what you mean,” agreed his comrade somberly. He kept glancing about, back into the trees, up and down the beach. All that could be seen were the brutes, and they were certainly not bothered by any ominous feelings. But then, they were barbarians. “We were warned not to come here, you know.”

  “What?” The other knight looked astonished. “I didn’t know. Who told you that?”

  “Brightblade. He had it from Lord Ariakan himself.”

  “Brightblade should know. He’s on Ariakan’s staff. The lord’s his sponsor.” The knight appeared nervous and asked softly, “Such information’s not secret, is it?”

  The other knight appeared amused. “You don’t know Steele Brightblade very well if you think he would break any oath or pass along any information he was told to keep to himself. He’d sooner let his tongue be ripped out by red-hot tongs. No, Lord Ariakan discussed this openly with all the regimental commanders before deciding to proceed.”

  The knight shrugged. Picking up a handful of small rocks, he began tossing them idly into the water. “The Gray Robes started it all. Some sort of augury revealed the location of this island and that it was inhabited by large numbers of people.”

  “So who warned us not to come?”

  “The Gray Robes. The same augury that told them of this island also warned them not to come near it. They tried to persuade Ariakan to leave well enough alone. Said that this place could mean disaster.”

  The other knight frowned, then glanced around with growing unease. “Then why were we sent?”

  “The upcoming invasion of Ansalon. Lord Ariakan felt this move was necessary to protect his flanks. The Gray Robes couldn’t say exactly what sort of threat this island represented. Nor could they say specifically that the disaster would be caused by our landing on the island. As Lord Ariakan pointed out, perhaps disaster would come even if we didn’t do anything. And so he decided to follow the old dwarven dictum, ‘It is better to go looking for the dragon than have the dragon come looking for you.’ ”

  “Good thinking,” his companion agreed. “If there is an army of elves on this island, it’s better that we deal with them now. Not that it seems likely.”

  He gestured at the wide stretches of sand beach, at the dunes covered with some sort of grayish-green grass, and, farther inland, a forest of the ugly, misshapen trees. “Elves wouldn’t live in a place like this.”

  “Neither would dwarves. Minotaurs would have attacked us by now. Kender would have walked off with the boat and our armor. Gnomes would have met us with some sort of fiend-driven fish-catching machine. Humans like us are the only race foolish enough to live in such a wretched place,” the knight concluded cheerfully. He picked up another handful of rocks.

  “It could be a rogue band of draconians or hobgoblins. Ogres even. Escaped twenty-some years ago, after the War of the Lance. Fled north, across the sea, to avoid capture by the Solamnic Knights.”

  “Yes, but they’d be on our side,” his companion answered. “And our wizards wouldn’t have their robes in a knot over it. Ah, here come our scouts, back to report. Now we’ll find out.”

  The knights rose to their feet. The brutes who had been sent into the island’s interior hurried forward to meet their leaders. The barbarians were grinning hugely. Their nearly naked bodies glistened with sweat. The blue paint with which they covered themselves, and which was supposed to possess some sort of magical properties said to cause arrows to bounce right off them, ran down their muscular bodies in rivulets. Long scalp locks, decorated with colorful feathers, bounced on their backs as they loped easily over the sand dunes.

  The two knights exchanged glances, relaxed.

  “What did you find?” the knight asked the leader, a gigantic red-haired fellow who towered over both knights and could have probably picked up each of them and held them over his head. He regarded both knights with unbounded reverence and respect.

  “Men,” answered the brute. They were quick to learn and had adapted easily to Common, spoken by most of the various races of Krynn. Unfortunately, to the brutes, all people not of their race were known as “men.”

  The brute lowered his hand near the ground to indicate small men, which might mean dwarves but was more probably children. He moved it to waist height, which most likely indicated women. This the brute confirmed by cupping two hands over his own breast and wiggling his hips. His own men laughed and nudged each other.

  “Men, women, and children,” said the knight. “Many men? Lots of men? Big buildings? Walls? Cities?”

  The brutes apparently thought this was hilarious, for they all burst into raucous laughter.

  “What did you find?” said the knight sharply, scowling. “Stop the nonsense.”

  The brutes sobered rapidly.

  “Many men,” said the leader, “but no walls. Houses.” He made a face, shrugged, shook his head, and added something in his own language.

  “What does that mean?” asked the knight of his comrade.

  “Something to do with dogs,” said the other, who had led brutes before and had started picking up some of their language. “I think he means that these men live in houses only dogs would live in.”

  Several of the brutes now began walking about stoop-shouldered, swinging their arms around their knees and grunting. Then they all straightened up, looked at each other, and laughed again.

  “What in the name of our Dark Majesty are they doing now?” the knight demanded.

  “Beats me,” said his comrade. “I think we should go have a look for ourselves.” He drew his sword partway out of its black leather scabbard. “Danger?” he asked the brute. “We need steel?”

 
; The brute laughed again. Taking his own short sword—the brutes fought with two, long and short, as well as bow and arrows—he thrust it into the tree and turned his back on it.

  The knight, reassured, returned his sword to its scabbard. The two followed their guides deeper into the forest.

  They did not go far before they came to the village. They entered a cleared area among the trees.

  Despite the antics of the brutes, the knights were completely unprepared for what they saw.

  “By Hiddukel,” one said in a low voice to the other. “ ‘Men’ is too strong a term. Are these men? Or are they beasts?”

  “They’re men,” said the other, staring around slowly, amazed. “But such men as we’re told walked Krynn during the Age of Twilight. Look! Their tools are made of wood. They carry wooden spears, and crude ones at that.”

  “Wooden-tipped, not stone,” said the other. “Mud huts for houses. Clay cooking pots. Not a piece of steel or iron in sight. What a pitiable lot! I can’t see how they could be much danger, unless it’s from filth. By the smell, they haven’t bathed since the Age of Twilight either.”

  “Ugly bunch. More like apes than men. Don’t laugh. Look stern and threatening.”

  Several of the male humans—if human they were; it was difficult to tell beneath the animal hides they wore—crept up to the knights. The “man-beasts” walked bent over, their arms swinging at their sides, knuckles almost dragging on the ground. Their heads were covered with long, shaggy hair; unkempt beards almost completely hid their faces. They bobbed and shuffled and gazed at the knights in openmouthed awe. One of the man-beasts actually drew near enough to reach out a grimy hand to touch the black, shining armor.

  A brute moved to interpose his own massive body in front of the knight.

  The knight waved the brute off and drew his sword. The steel flashed in the sunlight. Turning to one of the trees, which, with their twisted limbs and gnarled trunks, resembled the people who lived beneath them, the knight raised his sword and sliced off a limb with one swift stroke.