He didn't see the rock shifting behind him, stirred awake by the impact of the morningstar on stone.
Two more serpentine bodies uncurled. They caught Arlon's movement as he completed the gestures of his spell.
"Stay behind me," Bahrn commanded as Diadree tried to raise herself up to a sitting position.
They watched as a tiny wisp of flame hovered into being above Arlon's unruined palm, flowing and expanding into a blue-orange sphere of fire.
"Get ready to run," he hissed, knowing that Diadree would never be able to get out of the way of the flowing missile.
The sphere burst in the air where it was forming as a third anvil-shaped head swung out from the wall next to Arlon's raised hand. It struck the glowing sphere and the wizard in the same movement.
The magic dissolved as the anvil drove Arlon's body into the uneven cavern wall as the morningstar had buried his hand. His head snapped back against the stone, and he slid, limp, to the floor.
Bahrn held himself rigid. He pressed Diadree behind him as the wyrmlings came down from the wall. They stalked the cavern with their sightless eyes, heads drifting from side to side as if they could scent the air like bloodhounds on a track.
Finally, finding nothing moving, they slowed and collapsed to the cavern floor in a pile of rock. After a moment, they became indistinguishable from the other stone formations.
"Is he dead?" Diadree asked, looking from behind Bahrn's back at Arlon's still form.
Bahrn nodded. "Are you ready to go home, Diadree?" he whispered, hardly daring to breathe for fear the stone dragons would awaken again. "Amrennathed is sleeping again."
"Not yet," Diadree answered. "I have to stay."
Somehow, he wasn't surprised. He doubted she was in any condition to make the jostling trek back down the mountain. Her eyes were glazed, staring at something far away, and the hollows of her cheeks seemed deeper sunk into her face. It struck Bahrn that despite all of these things she looked much the same as she always had, back to the time of his childhood. She had been old then and was old now. He could never recall a time when she was young. He wondered why he was just realizing that.
"For how long?" he asked.
"Long enough to get the pieces out," she said. "Don't ask me how much time it will take. I've no idea."
"I mean how long have you lived here, Diadree-on the mountain?" He hesitated. "You knew Amrennathed, didn't you? You spoke to her."
"You're implying, I suppose, that she, I, and the mountain are of like age?" She offered a raspy chuckle. "No, boy. I'm not as old as the mountain-not quite. Amrennathed told me her name and exchanged words with me because we understood each other-two old women wanting a good place to live and die in peace. The mountain suited us." Her eyes turned heavy, dark. "Wouldn't you prefer that, human man, or would you be skewered on the point of spear and sword?"
"I am not a dragon, lady." Bahrn spoke gently, but for the first time since he was a boy staring in a window, he felt unsure and a little afraid of the old woman. He swallowed, forcing the feelings away and a smile to his lips. "Neither are you, Diadree, despite all accounts."
"This is no way to die either." Her eyelids fluttered-the darkness passed from her face, and a bit of the old humor returned. "Don't listen to me. If I stay here long enough, she will take them-the rest of the pieces. I hope."
Bahrn didn't know what to say.
"I'll mend your roof for you before I go," he found himself offering. "When you decide to go home."
"That's kind of you. You've not turned out too badly at all. I'm shocked almost to the point of exhaustion." She laid her head against the mountain and slept, a satisfied half-smile curving her lips.
THE STRENGTH OF THE JESTER
Murray J. D. Leeder
Mirtul, the Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR)
There was news from far and wide in the Jovial Juggler Inn that day. News of dragons. It was hearsay, mostly, but it had enough of a ring of truth to put everyone present on edge. Vague reports out of the north of a new Flight of the Dragons, like the one over the Moonsea and Dales seventeen years before, only wider-ranging and more deadly. A bulbous merchant from Hillsfar recalled the dragon slain over the city that time, so great that its corpse blocked the harbor for a month.
From a vacant table Khalt sat silent and listened. Most occupants of the tavern glanced at the elf occasionally but none dared approach him or question him. Wiry and leonine, with a tawny countenance and a huge dagger at his belt, he looked able and willing to fight at a moment's notice. The tattoo across his cheek told them that he was feral and dangerous, a reputation his people did little to discourage among outsiders. The fact that the tattoo was a dragon, its silver tail dangling down his chin and onto his neck, probably drew some interest, but Khalt didn't care to explain himself. Beregost was a merchant town, serving those traversing the Trade Way between Baldur's Gate and Amn, and certainly saw a great many types better not questioned.
Khalt kept his focus on a shadowy corner of the taproom and the two figures meeting there. If the others knew who they were or what they were talking about, they would have cause to be much more than concerned.
A traveler from Turmish told a story he had heard in Erlka-zar a tenday before. It concerned a dragon that supposedly emerged from its lair in the mountains near Saradash and laid siege to the city, destroying much of it before finally being slain by the town guard and two local wizards. The Turmishan saved the most shocking part for last: "It was a brass dragon."
A gnome roared in laughter, perched atop a tall stool. "If a metallic dragon did all that, Saradash must have done something to deserve it."
"Don't be so sure," the burly barkeep replied. "They say these Flights have been going on for centuries, and I always wondered why only the evil ones should be affected."
Khalt's eyes narrowed. One of the two figures in the shadowy corner, the one clad in purple with a wild shock of white hair, was a man Khalt trusted more than any being on Faerim. But Trinculo's face, rarely seen without a wide grin, looked grimmer than Khalt had ever seen it. The other man, whom Trinculo called Chalintash, had a ruddy complexion and hair the color of rust. Khalt didn't trust him in the slightest.
The two of them roared in laughter a moment but soon returned to solemnity. Khalt wondered what could be so funny.
"Listen to yourselves," the gnome protested. "Your minds drift comfortably to the worst case scenario."
"He's right," piped in a black-haired trader from Waterdeep. "If something new is going on with the dragons, the right people must already know about it and are now taking actions to protect us all."
"Spoken just like a Waterdhavian," the Hillsfarian scowled. "Put your faith in your lords and your Blackstaf f. Tell me, what actions did they take the last time this happened? What will they do to defend Hillsfar?"
"From what I've heard of Hillsfar," the gnome said, "it's a shame that dragon didn't raze it to the ground."
"Hold it now, little friend," said the barkeep. "The Lathand'rites run Beregost and they don't look kindly on that sort of talk. So either you-"
The gnome leaped off his stool in Khalt's direction. "Don't you know?" he proclaimed. "If you walked into his city, you'd be tossed in jail and fed to monsters in an arena!"
Khalt didn't say a word in response and kept his gaze trained on the pair across the room, but lowered his hand to the hilt of his dagger.
The two across the room, lost in conversation, took no notice of the disturbance.
"If you don't stop harassing my customers," said the bar-keep, his voice barely raised, "you'll be spending the night in a cell instead of in your nice, warm bed."
The gnome walked upstairs, huffing, and the various merchants returned to their conversation, switching suddenly to topics far away from dragons. But the tension stayed and Khalt's hand remained on his dagger.
Fools, Khalt thought. The world is blazing and they gossip over it. Pettiness turns them against each other. Truly the Rage will bring out th
e worst in all folks, dragons and otherwise.
Khalt watched Chalintash turn and look directly at him.
He extended a finger and pointed. And Khalt saw the anger sleeping in his eyes.
With a cool breeze and a rustle of leaves, the dragon swept among the branches like a flash of lightning, its slender body weaving in and out of the majestic trees with seemingly impossible speed and grace. Its long, thin tail slashed its way through the passing branches but disturbed nary a tree, while what sunlight flowed through the thick boughs caught the dragon's polished wings and sent silver light filtering all across the shadowed settlement below. Each of the Trunalor stopped and beheld the spectacle playing out in the high trees, even those who had seen it a thousand times before. It was a marvelous vision, to be sure, but it had far greater significance to those elves. It meant thatTrinculo had returned.
Each time, they suspected that he would not come back. Few voiced it, except perhaps in those periods when he had vanished and wandered Faerun for years on end. Mercury dragons were creatures ruled by whims, who catered to the moment's impulse and the instant's pleasure. Some called it freedom, others irresponsibility, but mercury dragons could rarely be tied down. The bonds of friendship and honor that held Trinculo to the Trunalor, the wild elves of Amtar, were tight indeed.
Khalt Laathine never doubted that his friend would always return. The dragon tattoo on Khalt's cheek was a constant mark of their connection. He knew Trinculo better than anyone, and even as the mirror-scaled dragon touched down amid the green shadows, he could tell something was wrong. As the children of the tribe came to greet him, his smiles were forced, his laughter mirthless.
Khalt finished setting a new snare on the perimeter of the camp and walked over to join them.
"Child of Avachel," said Ferla, the tribe's leader and shaman. Under centuries of his leadership, the Trunalor had survived near-constant hostilities from their many enemies, including gnolls and other evils spilling out of the Gate of Iron Fangs to the southwest and the degenerate drow-spawned men of Dambrath, who had hunted the Trunalor for sport for centuries. "We welcome you back to the heart of the forest. What news do you bring of the outside?"
Trinculo's vast silver bulk seemed to melt around him as his form shrank and contracted into the appearance he usually took with the Trunalor, of a white-haired yet youthful wild elf dressed in outlandish green and purple robes. The form was much more accommodating within the tight nest of trees, and he enjoyed interacting with the elves on their own level. Trinculo was so full of energy he could barely withstand a moment of stillness. He wore on the nerves of many Trunalor but he was so relentlessly upbeat and good-natured as to win over even the most hard-hearted.
"Much news, Treeclimber," said Trinculo. His clownish spirit was often put to use deflating Ferla's occasional stoicism, but now Trinculo seemed almost as serious as the shaman. He spoke slowly, for one thing, uncharacteristic for him-when excited he could speak so quickly that no one could understand his words. "I won't be able to stay long."
"So you have said many times," said Khalt, emerging behind Ferla. "Even those times when you ended up staying decades."
Trinculo let out a ring of liquid laughter that cheered the hearts of all who heard it. He stepped forward and embraced his friend. "It's true this time, Khalt," he said. "There's much I must tell you."
When Trinculo was properly greeted by all the folk of the tribe, Ferla, Khalt, and he retired to Ferla's shadowed glade, sacred to Rillifane Rallathil. Trinculo paced constantly and spoke in fast bursts. He told them that the wy vern their scouts had battled near the Landrise was not alone in its apparent madness. He saw much more evidence of the same phenomenon, and heard travelers discuss such on the road to Three Swords. Finally, he received a magical missive from an ally of his, a copper dragon.
"Some sort of sickness is enveloping dragonkind. Fits of insanity, afflicting dragons of all kinds. This isn't the first time this has happened, but this is different… I don't know how, exactly. I don't have many details. Chalintash was concerned for the security of the message."
"A sickness of dragons," Ferla repeated, as if to dispel the ramifications of such a thing.
"Are you in danger?" asked Khalt.
"I don't believe I am," Trinculo said, in his haste running the words together. Khalt doubted his answer. "I don't know if this will affect the Trunalor. You can deal with the wyverns easily, but there may be other dragons lairing in the forest that I don't know about. Try not to attract their attention. And if the blues in the Gnollwatch Mountains rouse, we can only hope they point their claws at Dambrath and not here."
"But you cannot stay to help us face these possible dangers?" said Ferla, a hint of accusation in his voice.
"No," Trinculo said, his eyes drifting downward. "I have my own mission. I'm going to meet Chalintash for more information. I'm afraid I can't keep to Avachel's pledge right now."
The silvery dragon Khalt bore on his face was not Trinculo, though Trinculo often liked to pretend that it was. It was the Jester. Some knew him as Aasterinian, but to Khalt he had no name but Avachel. Many centuries before, the vicious Arkaiun Empire, the barbarians who fell to the dark elves beneath their homeland, interbred with them and became the Dambraii, terrorized their neighbors without mercy. They enslaved the gentle folk of Luiren and even dared challenge Halruaa, and among their conquests they sought the Forest of Amtar, invading the trees with a force armed with flame and axe.
But Avachel, a great quicksilver wyrm who spent his time traveling far and wide, happened upon the war and joined the elves against the Arkaiun. Many Trunalor died in the defense of their homeland, but the Arkaiun were repelled and never returned to the Amtar with such numbers. Erevan Ilesere, the Seldarine's Unseen Trickster and the god of elf rogues and wanderers, took notice of Avachel's actions and took him as a companion. In time, Avachel became a god in his own right, revered by all the goodly woodland races, and a diligent protector of wild elves across Faerun. When Trinculo pledged his undying loyalty to Avachel, his spirit was forever bound to the wild elves, and he spent much of his life living and fighting with them.
"I will not lie to you," Ferla said. "I would rather you stay. Our tribe values your counsel, your aid, and your spirit. I cannot hold you here, but I must ask, is there not danger to our tribe that you might defend us from better than any?"
Trinculo nodded solemnly. "Yes, Ferla, there's danger everywhere now. I don't want to leave, but I think I can best protect us all far away from here. Chalintash and his allies want me to go on a mission. He says that I might help put an end to the Rage."
"You cannot be dissuaded, I see," Ferla concluded. "I wish you luck and speed. May Avachel's strength never fail you."
"I hope you'll offer the same wish to me," Khalt said. "I shall accompany Trinculo in his task."
"Khalt, no!" Trinculo protested.
"You are needed here, Khalt," Ferla reminded him.
"Trinculo is in need," Khalt said. "He has helped us so many times, it's only right we do the same. I was weaned on the stories of the Unseen Trickster, Avachel, and all their adventures-would Erevan abandon Avachel in such a crisis?"
"Tell me, Khalt," asked Trinculo. "Just how would I be upholding Avachel's oath if I deprived the Trunalor of one of their best warriors in their time of need?"
"And tell me, Trinculo," shot back Khalt. "Just how do you except to get through this mission, whatever it is, without me?"
Trinculo fought it for a moment, but it was no good. He broke out into a stream of laughter that Khalt suspected could be heard in Dambrath. Khalt turned to Ferla with his index finger pointed squarely at his own cheek. "This tattoo is meant to remind us that the pledge goes both ways. We owe Trinculo much more than he owes to us."
Ferla sighed. "The impetuosity of youth. I leave it to you, Trinculo."
Trinculo shook his head. "I'll regret this later, I know. Saddle me up."
"What were you laughing at?" asked Khalt. Trinculo's
discussion with Chalintash had concluded and the two of them had retired to their room in the Jovial Juggler.
"Laughing?" asked Trinculo as he paced back and forth. Trinculo was always filled with restless energy, but now Khalt could see every vein of the human form he wore bulging and pulsing. "When?"
"At one point you and Chalintash both laughed. What was that over?"
"Oh," said Trinculo, stopping in place. "It was at the idea. It's absurd. The Talons of Justice are rounding up metallics who defy Lareth's plan. 'Justice and good above'-that's their code of honor. And 'Honor and respect to righteous innocence.' Where's the justice, where's the good in this? Chalintash told me that two silver Talons came by his lair and he had to fly halfway around Anauroch to escape them."
We're nothing but rogues and fools to His Resplendency, just because we don't want to stick our heads in the ground, go catatonic, and hope for the best! Now if that's not funny, I don't know what is!" He resumed pacing.
Khalt understood Chalintash's decision to meet with Trinculo in an inn called the Jovial Juggler as a deeply cynical one. Chalintash was a copper dragon, and alongside mercuries they were said to be the most lighthearted of all dragonkind, famous lovers of humor and jokes.
And when the strength of the jester fails…
"Why did he point at me?" asked Khalt. "And you know what I'm speaking of."
"Yes, that." Trinculo looked down. "It wasn't about you in particular. It was about elves. Nobody's saying that elves are behind what's happening today. Not at all. In fact-"
"What are you telling me?" Khalt demanded.
Trinculo looked him in the eye. "Elves did it. The Rage. Elves designed it. Gods know how long ago… but it was your people, Khalt."
"Why?" asked Khalt. "Why would the elves do that?"
"To hold us back." The words seemed to give Trinculo pain even as he said them. "Dragons once ruled this world, and the elves wanted to take our place. So the high mages designed this curse of insanity. It made dragons reckless, fighting each other, leaving their lairs to get killed. It even made them devour their own eggs. Draconic numbers decreased, and so the elves could build their civilizations."
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