Dragons of Winter Night

by Margaret Weis

  Then horn calls sounded from the woods behind them. Gilthanas and Laurana looked at each other in alarm. Theros, glancing back, stabbed his silver finger at the group urgently, then thumped himself on the chest—apparently pledging his word to answer for the companions. The horns sounded again. Silvara added her own pleas. Finally, the Kaganesti agreed, although with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  The companions hurried down to the water, all of them aware now that their absence had been discovered and that pursuit had started. One by one, they all stepped carefully into the boats that were no more than hollowed-out trunks of trees. All, that is, except Flint, who groaned and cast himself down on the ground, shaking his head and muttering in dwarven. Sturm eyed him in concern, fearing a repetition of the incident at Crystalmir when the dwarf had flatly refused to set foot in a boat. It was Tasslehoff, however, who tugged and pulled and finally dragged the grumbling dwarf to his feet.

  “We’ll make a sailor of you yet,” the kender said cheerfully, prodding Flint in the back with his hoopak.

  “You will not! And quit sticking me with that thing!” the dwarf snarled. Reaching the edge of the water, he stopped, nervously fumbling with a piece of wood. Tas hopped into a boat and stood waiting expectantly, his hand outstretched.

  “Confound it, Flint, get in the boat!” Theros ordered.

  “Just tell me one thing,” the dwarf said, swallowing. “Why do they call it the ‘River of the Dead’?”

  “You’ll see, soon enough,” Theros grunted. Reaching out his strong black hand, he plucked the dwarf off the bank and plopped him like a sack of potatoes on to the seat. “Shove off,” the smith told the Wilder elves, who needed no bidding. Their wooden oars were already biting deep into the water.

  The log boat caught the current and floated swiftly downstream, heading west. The tree-shrouded banks fairly flew past, and the companions huddled down into the boats as the cold wind stung their faces and took away their breath. They saw no signs of life along the southern shore where the Qualinesti made their home. But Laurana caught glimpses of shadowy, darting figures ducking in and out of the trees on the northern shore. She realized then that the Kaganesti were not as naive as they seemed—they were keeping close watch upon their cousins. She wondered how many of the Kaganesti living as slaves were, in reality, spies. Her eyes went to Silvara.

  The current carried them swiftly to a fork in the river where two streams joined together. One flowed from the north, the other—the stream they traveled—flowed into it from the east. Both merged into one wide river, flowing south into the sea. Suddenly Theros pointed.

  “There, dwarf, is your answer,” he said solemnly.

  Drifting down the branch of the river that flowed from the north was another boat. At first, they thought it had slipped its moorings, for they could see no one inside. Then they saw that it rode too low in the water to be empty. The Wilder elves slowed their own boats, steering them into the shallow water, and held them steady, heads bowed in silent respect.

  And then Laurana knew.

  “A funeral boat,” she murmured.

  “Aye,” said Theros, watching with sad eyes. The boat drifted past, carried near them by the current. Inside they could see the body of a young Wilder elf, a warrior to judge by his crude leather armor. His hands, folded across his chest, clasped an iron sword in cold fingers. A bow and quiver of arrows lay at his side. His eyes were closed in the peaceful sleep from which he would never waken.

  “Now you know why it is called Thon-Tsalarian, the River of the Dead,” Silvara said in her low, musical voice. “For centuries, my people have returned the dead to the sea where we were born. This ancient custom of my people has become a bitter point of contention between the Kaganesti and our cousins.” Her eyes went to Gilthanas. “Your people consider this a desecration of the river. They try to force us to stop.”

  “Someday the body that floats down the river will be Qualinesti, or Silvanesti, with a Kaganesti arrow in his chest,” Theros predicted. “And then there will be war.”

  “I think all the elves will have a much more deadly enemy to face,” Sturm said, shaking his head. “Look!” He pointed.

  At the feet of the dead warrior lay a shield, the shield of the enemy he had died fighting. Recognizing the foul symbol traced on the battered shield, Laurana drew in her breath.

  “Draconian!”

  The journey up the Thon-Tsalarian was long and arduous, for the river ran swift and strong. Even Tas was given an oar to help paddle, but he promptly lost it overboard, then nearly went in headfirst trying to retrieve it. Catching hold of Tas by his belt, Derek dragged him back as the Kaganesti indicated by sign language that if he caused any more trouble, they’d throw him out.

  Tasslehoff soon grew bored and sat peering over the side, hoping to see a fish.

  “Why, how odd!” the kender said suddenly. Reaching down, he put his small hand into the water. “Look,” he said in excitement. His hand was coated in fine silver and sparkled in the early morning light. “The water glitters! Look, Flint,” he called to the dwarf in the other boat. “Look into the water—”

  “I will not,” said the dwarf through chattering teeth. Flint rowed grimly, though there was some question as to his effectiveness. He steadfastly refused to look into the water and consequently was out of time with everyone else.

  “You are right, Kenderken,” Silvara said, smiling. “In fact, the Silvanesti named the river Thon-Sargon, which means ‘Silver Road.’ It is too bad you have come here in such dismal weather. When the silver moon rises in its fullness, the river turns to molten silver and is truly beautiful.”

  “Why? What causes it?” the kender asked, studying his shimmering hand with delight.

  “No one knows, though there is a legend among my people—” Silvara fell silent abruptly, her face flushed.

  “What legend?” Gilthanas asked. The elflord sat facing Silvara, who was in the prow of the boat. His paddling was not much better than Flint’s, Gilthanas being much more interested in Silvara’s face than his work. Every time Silvara looked up, she found he was staring at her. She became more confused and flustered as the hours passed.

  “Surely you are not interested,” she said, gazing out across the silver-gray water, trying to avoid Gilthanas’s gaze. “It is a child’s tale about Huma—”

  “Huma!” Sturm said from where he sat behind Gilthanas, his swift, strong oar strokes making up for the ineptness of both elf and dwarf. “Tell us your legend of Huma, Wilder elf.”

  “Yes, tell us your legend,” Gilthanas repeated smiling.

  “Very well,” she said, flushing. Clearing her throat, she began. “According to the Kaganesti, in the last days of the terrible dragon wars, Huma traveled through the land, seeking to help the people. But he realized, to his sorrow, that he was powerless to stop the desolation and destruction of the dragons. He prayed to the gods for an answer.” Silvara glanced at Sturm, who nodded his head solemnly.

  “True,” the knight said. “And Paladine answered his prayer, sending the White Stag. But where it led him, none know.”

  “My people know,” Silvara said softly, “because the Stag led Huma, after many trials and dangers, to a quiet grove, here, in the land of Ergoth. In the grove he met a woman, beautiful and virtuous, who eased his pain. Huma fell in love with her and she with him. But she refused his pledges of love for many months. Finally, unable to deny the burning fire within her, the woman returned Huma’s love. Their happiness was like the silver moonlight in a night of terrible darkness.”

  Silvara fell silent a moment, her eyes staring far away. Absently she reached down to touch the coarse fabric of the cloak covering the dragon orb which lay at her feet.

  “Go on,” Gilthanas urged. The elflord had given up all pretext of paddling and sat still, enchanted by Silvara’s beautiful eyes, her musical voice.

  Silvara sighed. Dropping the fabric from her hands, she stared out over the water into the shadowy woods. “Their joy was
brief,” she said softly. “For the woman had a terrible secret—she was not born of woman, but of dragon. Only by her magic did she keep the shape of womankind. But she could no longer lie to Huma. She loved him too much. Fearfully she revealed to Huma what she was, appearing before him one night in her true shape—that of a silver dragon. She hoped he would hate her, even destroy her, for her pain was so great she did not want to live. But, looking at the radiant, magnificent creature before him, the knight saw within her eyes the noble spirit of the woman he loved. Her magic returned her to the shape of woman, and she prayed to Paladine that he give her woman’s shape forever. She would give up her magic and the long life span of the dragons to live in the world with Huma.”

  Silvara closed her eyes, her face drawn with pain. Gilthanas, watching her, wondered why she was so affected by this legend. Reaching out, he touched her hand. She started like a wild animal, drawing back so suddenly the boat rocked.

  “I’m sorry,” Gilthanas said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. What happened? What was Paladine’s answer?”

  Silvara drew a deep breath. “Paladine granted her wish, with a terrible condition. He showed them both the future. If she remained a dragon, she and Huma would be given the Dragonlance and the power to defeat the evil dragons. If she became mortal, she and Huma would live together as man and wife, but the evil dragons would remain in the land forever. Huma vowed he would give up everything—his knighthood, his honor—to remain with her. But she saw the light die in his eyes as he spoke, and, weeping, she knew the answer she must give. The evil dragons must not be allowed to stay in the world. And the silver river, it is said, was formed from the tears shed by the dragon when Huma left her to find the Dragonlance.”

  “Nice story. Kind of sad,” said Tasslehoff, yawning. “Did old Huma come back? Does the story have a happy ending?”

  “Huma’s story does not end happily,” Sturm said, frowning at the kender. “But he died most gloriously in battle, defeating the leader of the dragons, though he himself had sustained a mortal wound. I have heard, though,” the knight added thoughtfully, “that he rode to battle upon a Silver Dragon.”

  “And we saw a knight on a silver dragon in Ice Wall,” Tas said brightly. “He gave Sturm the—”

  The knight gave the kender a swift poke in the back. Too late, Tas remembered that was supposed to be secret.

  “I don’t know about a Silver Dragon,” Silvara said, shrugging. “My people know little about Huma. He was, after all, a human. I think they tell this legend only because it is about the river they love, the river who takes their dead.”

  At this point, one of the Kaganesti pointed at Gilthanas and said something sharply to Silvara. Gilthanas looked at her, not understanding. The elfmaid smiled. “He asks if you are too grand an elflord to paddle, because—if you are—he will allow your lordship to swim.”

  Gilthanas grinned at her, his face flushing. Quickly he picked up his paddle and set to work.

  Despite all their efforts—and by the end of the day even Tasslehoff was paddling again—the journey upstream was slow and taxing. By the time they made landfall, their muscles ached with the strain, their hands were bloody and blistered. It was all they could do to drag the boats ashore and help hide them.

  “Do you think we’ve thrown off the pursuit?” Laurana asked Theros wearily.

  “Does that answer your question?” He pointed downstream.

  In the deepening dusk, Laurana could barely make out several dark shapes upon the water. They were still far down river, but it was clear to Laurana that there would be little rest for the companions tonight. One of the Kaganesti, however, spoke to Theros, gesturing downstream. The big smith nodded.

  “Do not worry. We are safe until morning. He says they will have to make landfall as well. None dare travel the river at night. Not even the Kaganesti, and they know every bend and every snag. He says he will make camp here, near the river. Strange creatures walk the forest at night—men with the heads of lizards. Tomorrow we will travel by water as far as we can, but soon we will have to leave the river and take to land.”

  “Ask him if his people will stop the Qualinesti from pursuing us if we enter his land,” Sturm told Theros.

  Theros turned to the Kaganesti elf, speaking the elven tongue clumsily but well enough to be understood. The Kaganesti elf shook his head. He was a wild, savage-looking creature. Laurana could see how her people thought them only one step removed from animals. His face revealed traces of distant human ancestry. Though he had no beard—the elven blood ran too purely in the veins of the Kaganesti to allow that—the elf reminded Laurana vividly of Tanis with his quick, decisive way of speaking, his strong, muscular build, and his emphatic gestures. Overcome with memories, she turned away.

  Theros translated. “He says that the Qualinesti must follow protocol and ask permission from the elders to enter Kaganesti lands in search of you. The elders will likely grant permission, maybe even offer to help. They don’t want humans in Southern Ergoth any more than their cousins. In fact,” Theros added slowly, “he’s made it plain that the only reason he and his friends are helping us now is to return favors I’ve done in the past and to help Silvara.”

  Laurana’s gaze went to the girl. Silvara stood on the riverbank, talking to Gilthanas.

  Theros saw Laurana’s face harden. Looking at the Wilder elf and the elflord, he guessed her thoughts.

  “Odd to see jealousy in the face of one who—according to rumor—ran away to become the lover of my friend, Tanis, the half-elf,” Theros remarked. “I thought you were different from your people, Laurana.”

  “It’s not that!” she said sharply, feeling her skin burn. “I’m not Tanis’s lover. Not that it makes any difference. I simply don’t trust the girl. She’s—well—too eager to help us, if that makes any sense.”

  “Your brother might have something to do with that.”

  “He’s an elflord—” Laurana began angrily. Then, realizing what she had been about to say, she broke off. “What do you know of Silvara?” she asked instead.

  “Little,” Theros answered, regarding Laurana with a disappointed look that made her unreasonably angry. “I know she is highly respected and much loved by her people, especially for her healing skills.”

  “And her spying skills?” Laurana asked coolly.

  “These people are fighting for their own survival. They do what they must,” Theros said sternly. “That was a fine talk you made back on the beach, Laurana. I almost believed it.”

  The blacksmith went to help the Kaganesti hide the boats. Laurana, angry and ashamed, bit her lip in frustration. Was Theros right? Was she jealous of Gilthanas’s attention? Did she consider Silvara unworthy of him? It was how Gilthanas had always considered Tanis, certainly. Was this different?

  Listen to your feelings, Raistlin had told her. That was all very well, but first she had to understand her feelings! Hadn’t her love for Tanis taught her anything?

  Yes, Laurana decided finally, her mind clearing. She’d meant what she’d said to Theros. If there was something about Silvara she didn’t trust, it had nothing to do with the fact that Gilthanas was attracted to the girl. It was something indefinable. Laurana was sorry Theros had misunderstood her, but she would take Raistlin’s advice and trust her instincts.

  She would keep an eye on Silvara.

  5

  Silvara.

  Although every muscle in Gilthanas’s body cried for rest and he thought he couldn’t crawl into his bedroll soon enough, the elflord found himself wide awake, staring into the sky. Storm clouds still hung thickly overhead, but a breeze tinged with salt air was blowing from the west, breaking them up. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of stars, and once the red moon flickered in the sky like a candle flame, then was snuffed out by the clouds.

  The elf tried to get comfortable, turning and twisting until his bedroll was a shambles, then he had to sit up and untangle himself. Finally he gave up, deciding it was impossible to sleep on t
he hard, frozen ground.

  None of the rest of his companions seemed to be having any problems, he noticed bitterly. Laurana lay sleeping soundly, her cheek resting on her hand as was her habit from childhood. How strangely she’d been acting lately, Gilthanas thought. But then, he supposed he could hardly blame her. She had given up everything to do what she believed right and take the orb to Sancrist. Their father might have accepted her back into the family once, but now she was an outcast forever.

  Gilthanas sighed. What about himself? He’d wanted to keep the orb in Qualin-Mori. He believed his father was right.… Or did he?

  Apparently not, since I’m here, Gilthanas told himself. By the gods, his values were getting as muddled as Laurana’s! First, his hatred for Tanis—a hatred he’d nurtured righteously for years—was starting to dwindle away, replaced by admiration, even affection. Next, he’d felt his hatred of other races beginning to die. He’d known few elves as noble or self-sacrificing as the human, Sturm Brightblade. And, though he didn’t like Raistlin, he envied the young mage’s skill. It was something Gilthanas, a dabbler in magic, had never had the patience or the courage to acquire. Finally, he had to admit he even liked the kender and the grumpy old dwarf. But he had never thought he would fall in love with a Wilder elf.

  “There!” Gilthanas said aloud. “I’ve admitted it. I love her!” But was it love, he wondered, or simply physical attraction. At that, he grinned, thinking of Silvara with her dirt-streaked face, her filthy hair, her tattered clothes. My soul’s eye must be seeing more clearly than my head, he thought, glancing fondly over at her bedroll.

  To his astonishment, he saw it was empty! Startled, Gilthanas looked quickly around the camp. They had not dared light a fire—not only were the Qualinesti after them, but Theros had talked of groups of draconians roaming the land.