Preparations for the journey gave him plenty to think about. He was able to tell himself he didn’t care that Laurana avoided him. And, at the beginning, the journey itself was enjoyable. It seemed as if they were back in the early days of fall instead of the beginning of winter. The sun shone, warming the air. Only Raistlin wore his heaviest cloak.
Conversation as the companions walked through the northern part of the Plains was light-hearted and merry, filled with teasing and bantering and reminding each other of the fun they had shared in earlier, happier days in Solace. No one spoke of the dark and evil things they had seen in the recent past. It was as if, in the contemplation of a brighter future, they willed these things never to have existed.
At night, Elistan explained to them what he was learning of the ancient gods from the Disks of Mishakal, which he carried with him. His stories filled their souls with peace and reinforced their faith. Even Tanis—who had spent a lifetime searching for something to believe in and now that they had found it viewed it with skepticism—felt deep in his soul that he could believe in this if he believed in anything. He wanted to believe in it, but something held him back, and every time he looked at Laurana, he knew what it was. Until he could resolve his own inner turmoil, the raging division between the elven and human inside of him, he would never know peace.
Only Raistlin did not share in the conversations, the merriment, the pranks and jokes, the campfire talks. The mage spent his days studying his spellbook. If interrupted, he would answer with a snarl. After dinner, of which he ate little, he sat by himself, his eyes on the night sky, staring at the two gaping black holes that were mirrored in the mage’s black hourglass-shaped pupils.
It was only after several days that spirits began to flag. The sun was obscured by clouds and the wind blew chill from the north. Snow fell so thickly that one day they could not travel at all but were forced to seek shelter in a cave until the blizzard blew itself out. They set double watch at night, though no one could say exactly why, only that they felt a growing sense of threat and menace. Riverwind stared uneasily at the trail they left in the snow behind them. As Flint said, a blind gully dwarf could follow it. The sense of menace grew, the sense of eyes watching and ears listening.
Yet who could it be, out here in the Plains of Dust where nothing and no one had lived for three hundred years?
2
Between master and dragon.
Dismal journey.
The dragon sighed, flexed his huge wings, and lifted his ponderous body from the warm, soothing waters of the hot springs. Emerging from a billowing cloud of vapor, he braced himself to step into the chill air. The clear winter air stung his delicate nostrils and bit into his throat. Swallowing painfully, he firmly resisted the temptation to return to the warm pools and began to climb to the high rocky ledge above him.
The dragon stamped irritably upon rocks slick with ice from the hot springs’ vapor, which cooled almost instantly in the freezing air. The stones cracked and broke beneath his clawed feet, bounding and tumbling down into the valley below.
Once he slipped, causing him momentarily to lose his balance. Spreading his great wings, he recovered easily, but the incident only served to increase his irritation further.
The morning sun lit the mountain peaks, touching the dragon, causing his blue scales to shimmer golden in the clear light but doing little to warm his blood. The dragon shivered again, stamping his feet upon the chill ground. Winter was not for the blue dragons, nor was traveling this abysmal country. With that thought in mind, as it had been in his mind all the long, bitter night, Skie looked about for his master.
He found the Dragon Highlord standing upon an outcropping of rock, an imposing figure in horned dragonhelm and blue dragon-scale armor. The Highlord, cape whipping in the chill wind, was gazing within tense interest across the great flat plain far below.
“Come, Lord, return to your tent.” And let me return to the hot springs, Skie added mentally. “This chill wind cuts to the bone. Why are you out here anyway?”
Skie might have supposed the Highlord was reconnoitering, planning the disposition of troops, the attacks of the dragonflights. But that was not the case. The occupation of Tarsis had long been planned—planned, in fact, by another Dragon Highlord, for this land was under the command of the red dragons.
The blue dragons and their Dragon Highlords controlled the north, yet here I stand, in these frigid southlands, Skie thought irritably. And behind me is an entire flight of blue dragons. He turned his head slightly, looking down upon his fellows beating their wings in the early morning, grateful for the hot springs’ warmth which took the chill from their tendons.
Fools, Skie thought scornfully. All they’re waiting for is a signal from the Highlord to attack. To light the skies and burn the cities with their deadly bolts of lightning are all they care about. Their faith in the Dragon Highlord is implicit. As well it might be, Skie admitted, their master had led them to victory after victory in the north, and they had not lost one of their number.
They leave it to me to ask the questions—because I am the Highlord’s mount, because I am closest to the Highlord. Well, so be it. We understand each other, the Highlord and I.
“We have no reason to be in Tarsis.” Skie spoke his feelings plainly. He did not fear the Highlord. Unlike many of the dragons in Krynn, who served their masters with grudging reluctance, knowing themselves to be the true rulers, Skie served his master out of respect—and love. “The reds don’t want us here, that’s certain. And we’re not needed. That soft city that beckons you so strangely will fall easily. No army. They swallowed the bait and marched off to the frontier.”
“We are here because my spies tell me they are here, or will be shortly,” was the Highlord’s answer. The voice was low but carried even over the biting wind.
“They … they …” grumbled the dragon, shivering and moving restlessly along the ridge. “We leave the war in the north, waste valuable time, lose a fortune in steel. And for what—a handful of itinerant adventurers.”
“The wealth is nothing to me, you know that. I could buy Tarsis if it pleased me.” The Dragon Highlord stroked the dragon’s neck with an ice-caked leather glove that creaked with the powerful movements. “The war in the north is going well. Lord Ariakas did not mind my leaving. Bakaris is a skilled young commander and knows my armies nearly as well as I do. And do not forget, Skie, these are more than vagabonds. These ‘itinerant adventurers’ killed Verminaard.”
“Bah! The man had already dug his own grave. He was obsessed, lost sight of the true purpose.” The dragon flicked a glance at his master. “The same might be said of others.”
“Obsessed? Yes, Verminaard was obsessed, and there are those who should be taking that obsession more seriously. He was a cleric, he knew what damage the knowledge of the true gods, once spread among the people, can do us,” answered the Highlord. “Now, according to reports, the people have a leader in this human called Elistan, who has become a cleric of Paladine. Worshipers of Mishakal bring true healing back to the land. No, Verminaard was farseeing. There is great danger here. We should recognize and move to stop it—not scoff at it.”
The dragon snorted derisively. “This priest—Elistan—doesn’t lead the people. He leads eight hundred wretched humans, former slaves of Verminaard’s in Pax Tharkas. Now they’re holed up in Southgate with the mountain dwarves.” The dragon settled down on the rock, feeling the morning sun finally bringing a modicum of warmth to his scaled skin. “Besides, our spies report they are traveling to Tarsis even as we speak. By tonight, this Elistan will be ours and that will be that. So much for the servant of Paladine!”
“Elistan is of no use to me.” The Dragon Highlord shrugged without interest. “He is not the one I seek.”
“No?” Skie raised his head, startled. “Who, then?”
“There are three in whom I have particular interest. But I will provide you with descriptions of all of them”—the Dragon Highlord moved clo
ser to Skie—“because it is to capture them that we participate in the destruction of Tarsis tomorrow. Here are those whom we seek.…”
Tanis strode across the frozen plains, his booted footsteps punching noisily through the crust of wind-swept snow. The sun rose at his back, bringing a great deal of light but little warmth. He clutched his cloak about him and glanced around to make certain no one was lagging behind. The companions’ line stretched out single-file. They trod in each other’s tracks, the heavier, stronger people in front clearing the way for the weaker ones behind them.
Tanis led them. Sturm walked beside him, steadfast and faithful as ever, though still upset over leaving behind the Hammer of Kharas, which had taken on an almost mystical quality for the knight. He appeared more careworn and tired than usual, but he never failed to keep step with Tanis. This was not an easy feat, since the knight insisted on traveling in his full, antique battle armor, the weight of which forced Sturm’s feet deep into the crusted snow.
Behind Sturm and Tanis came Caramon, trudging through the snow like a great bear, his arsenal of weapons clanking around him, carrying his armor and his share of supplies, as well as those of his twin brother, Raistlin, on his back. Just watching Caramon made Tanis weary, for the big warrior was not only walking through the deep snow with ease but was also managing to widen the trail for the others behind him.
Of all of the companions the one Tanis might have felt closest to, since they had been raised together as brothers, was the next, Gilthanas. But Gilthanas was an elflord, younger son of the Speaker of the Suns, ruler of the Qualinesti elves, while Tanis was a bastard and only half elven, product of a brutal rape by a human warrior. Worse, Tanis had dared to find himself attracted—even if in a childish, immature fashion—to Gilthanas’s sister, Laurana. And so, far from being friends, Tanis always had the uneasy impression that Gilthanas might well be pleased to see him dead.
Riverwind and Goldmoon walked together behind the elflord. Cloaked in their furskin capes, the cold was little to the Plainsmen. Certainly the cold was nothing compared to the flame in their hearts. They had been married only a little over a month, and the deep love and compassion each felt for the other, a self-sacrificing love that had led the world to the discovery of the ancient gods, now achieved greater depths as they discovered new ways to express it.
Then came Elistan and Laurana. Elistan and Laurana. Tanis found it odd that, thinking enviously of the happiness of Riverwind and Goldmoon, his eyes should encounter these two. Elistan and Laurana. Always together. Always deeply involved in serious conversation. Elistan, cleric of Paladine, resplendent in white robes that gleamed even against the snow. White-bearded, his hair thinning, he was still an imposing figure. The kind of man who might well attract a young girl. Few men or women could look into Elistan’s ice-blue eyes and not feel stirred, awed in the presence of one who had walked the realms of death and found a new and stronger faith.
With him walked his faithful ‘assistant,’ Laurana. The young elfmaid had run away from her home in Qualinesti to follow Tanis in childish infatuation. She had been forced to grow up rapidly, her eyes opened to the pain and suffering in the world. Knowing that many of the party—Tanis among them—considered her a nuisance, Laurana struggled to prove her worth. With Elistan she found her chance. Daughter to the Speaker of the Suns of the Qualinesti, she had been born and bred to politics. When Elistan was foundering among the rocks of trying to feed and clothe and control eight hundred men, women, and children, it was Laurana who stepped in and eased his burden. She had become indispensable to him, a fact Tanis found difficult to deal with. The half-elf gritted his teeth, letting his glance flick over Laurana to fall on Tika.
The barmaid turned adventuress walked through the snow with Raistlin, having been asked by his brother to stay near the frail mage, since Caramon was needed up front. Neither Tika nor Raistlin seemed happy with this arrangement. The red-robed mage walked along sullenly, his head bowed against the wind. He was often forced to stop, coughing until he nearly fell. At these times, Tika would start to put her arm around him hesitantly, her eyes seeing Caramon’s worry. But Raistlin always pulled away from her with a snarl.
The ancient dwarf came next, bowling along through the snow; the tip of his helm and the tassel “from the mane of a griffon” were all that were visible above the snow. Tanis had tried to tell him that griffons had no manes, that the tassel was horsehair. But Flint, stoutly maintaining that his hatred of horses stemmed from the fact that they made him sneeze violently, believed none of it. Tanis smiled, shaking his head. Flint had insisted on being at the front of the line. It was only after Caramon had pulled him out of three snow drifts that Flint agreed, grumbling, to walk “rear guard.”
Skipping along beside Flint was Tasslehoff Burrfoot, his shrill, piping voice audible to Tanis in the front of the line. Tas was regaling the dwarf with a marvelous tale about the time he found a woolly mammoth—whatever that was—being held prisoner by two deranged wizards. Tanis sighed. Tas was getting on his nerves. He had already sternly reprimanded the kender for hitting Sturm in the head with a snowball. But he knew it was useless. Kender lived for adventure and new experiences. Tas was enjoying every minute of this dismal journey.
Yes, they were all there. They were all still following him.
Tanis turned around abruptly, facing south. Why follow me? He asked resentfully. I hardly know where my life is going, yet I’m expected to lead others. I don’t have Sturm’s driving quest to rid the land of dragons, as did his hero Huma. I don’t have Elistan’s holy quest to bring knowledge of the true gods to the people. I don’t even have Raistlin’s burning quest for power.
Sturm nudged him and pointed ahead. A line of small hills stood on the horizon. If the kender’s map was correct, the city of Tarsis lay just beyond them. Tarsis, and white-winged ships, and spires of glittering white.
3
Tarsis the Beautiful.
Tanis spread out the kender’s map.
They had arrived at the foot of the range of barren and treeless hills which, according to the map, must overlook the city of Tarsis.
“We don’t dare climb those in daylight,” Sturm said, drawing his scarf down from his mouth. “We’d be visible to everything within a hundred miles.”
“No,” Tanis agreed. “We’ll make camp here at the base. I’ll climb, though, to get a look at the city.”
“I don’t like this, not one bit!” Sturm muttered gloomily. “Something’s wrong. Do you want me to go with you?”
Tanis, seeing the weariness in the knight’s face, shook his head. “You get the others organized.” Dressed in a winter traveling cloak of white, he prepared to climb the snow-covered, rock-strewn hills. Ready to start, he felt a cold hand on his arm. He turned and looked into the eyes of the mage.
“I will come with you,” Raistlin whispered.
Tanis stared at him in astonishment, then glanced up at the hills. The climb would not be an easy one, and he knew the mage’s dislike of extreme physical exertion. Raistlin saw his glance and understood.
“My brother will help me,” he said, beckoning to Caramon, who appeared startled but stood up immediately and came over to stand beside his brother. “I would look upon the city of Tarsis the Beautiful.”
Tanis regarded him uneasily, but Raistlin’s face was as impassive and cold as the metal it resembled.
“Very well,” the half-elf said, studying Raistlin. “But you’ll show up on the face of that mountain like a blood stain. Cover yourself with a white robe.” The half-elf’s sardonic smile was an almost perfect imitation of Raistlin’s own. “Borrow one from Elistan.”
Tanis, standing on the top of the hill overlooking the legendary seaport city of Tarsis the Beautiful, began to swear softly. Wispy clouds of steam floated from his lips with the hot words. Drawing the hood of his heavy cloak over his head, he stared down into the city in bitter disappointment.
Caramon nudged his twin. “Raist,” he said. “What’s t
he matter? I don’t understand.”
Raistlin coughed. “Your brains are in your sword-arm, my brother,” the mage whispered caustically. “Look upon Tarsis, legendary seaport city. What do you see?”
“Well …” Caramon squinted. “It’s one of the biggest cities I’ve seen. And there are ships—just like we heard—”
“ ‘The white-winged ships of Tarsis the Beautiful,’ ” Raistlin quoted bitterly. “You look upon the ships, my brother. Do you notice anything peculiar about them?”
“They’re not in very good shape. The sails are ragged and—” Caramon blinked. Then he gasped. “There’s no water!”
“Most observant.”
“But the kender’s map—”
“Dated before the Cataclysm,” Tanis interrupted. “Damn it, I should have known! I should have considered this possibility! Tarsis the Beautiful—legendary seaport, now landlocked!”
“And has been for three hundred years, undoubtedly,” Raistlin whispered.
“When the fiery mountain fell from the sky, it created seas—as we saw in Xak Tsaroth—but it also destroyed them. What do we do with the refugees now, Half-Elf?”
“I don’t know,” Tanis snapped irritably. He stared down at the city, then turned away. “It’s no good standing around here. The sea isn’t going to come back just for our benefit.” He turned away and walked slowly down the cliff.
“What will we do?” Caramon asked his brother. “We can’t go back to Southgate. I know something or someone was dogging our footsteps.” He glanced around worriedly. “I feel eyes watching—even now.”
Raistlin put his hand through his brother’s arm. For a rare instant, the two looked remarkably alike. Light and darkness were not more different than the twins.
“You are wise to trust your feelings, my brother,” Raistlin said softly. “Great danger and great evil surround us. I have felt it growing on me since the people arrived in Southgate. I tried to warn them—” He broke off in a fit of coughing.
Dragons of Winter Night Page 3