by Dragon Lance
He had attracted attention with loud roars, drawing the populace into the streets and onto rooftops and balconies, where they stared upward in a mixture of terror and awe. Then Deathfyre spoke to them in their own language, telling them that their new master had come … that he was the one who would lead them to power and glory.
“If you do my bidding,” he had bellowed, the sound of his voice echoing from the three great mountains flanking the city of fire, “you shall thrive and grow mighty! But if you resist, know that you shall die!”
Men trembled and women wailed at the coming of the mighty wyrm, but the numerous ogres in the city howled and cheered, hailing the vision of a master that arose from the distant fog of their tribal dreams. These accolades still rang out, and a frenzy had spread through Sanction, bringing throngs into the narrow streets, igniting chaotic revelry and frantic prayer in approximately equal proportions.
But for now all these lesser beings, the two-legged throngs of his legions, were beneath Deathfyre’s notice. His cry was meant for other ears, some near and others distant, and – unlike the bellows with which he had terrified Sanction – it was audible to those listeners alone.
In the depths of the city’s sewers, a black head emerged from the murk, probing for the source of the piercing summons. The young dragon had dwelt here for a long time, ever since it had emerged from the sacred orb that had been the focus of a short-lived cult. Now it crept through the muck, pushing upward, stalking along a street, scattering merchants and mercenaries alike until it took wing, striving without understanding to reach the lofty summit.
Through the arid waste of the Estwilde desert, the cry wafted like a scorching wind, penetrating the eroded columns of an ancient palace. Gusts carried eddies of sand into swirling funnels, marking the clean-picked skeletons of many camels, horses, and men. The hot wind swept on, pushing through the ruins into a barren, dry chamber where dwelt a serpent of pure turquoise blue. That wyrm raised its wicked head, sensing the cry, and then it, too, took wing, rising over the desert toward the horizon of the rugged Khalkists. The blue dragon flew with a purpose, a sense of mission like nothing it had ever known.
In distant Xak Tsaroth, the cry fell from the sky, pushing through a ring of armed guards that garrisoned a cordon about the once-grand home of a wealthy merchant. It had been a long time since that merchant had been seen, and though numerous brave men had ventured into the house to see what was wrong, none of them had ever emerged. Thus this permanent detachment of warriors had been left as a precaution.
Now the guards recoiled in terror as a crimson monster roared forth, scarlet wings flapping wildly, cruel jaws gaping. The red dragon filled the street with lethal gouts of fire, burning numerous men-at-arms and bystanders before it took wing. Once airborne, the wyrmling marked a course for Sanction, like his kin-dragons answering the piercing, intuitive cry.
And from countless other hatching dens they came as well, these dragons born in treasure rooms and dungeons and manor houses throughout Ansalon. They took wing as soon as they were touched by their immortal queen’s message, in the first days out of the egg for some, after many years of surreptitious feeding and growing for others. The chromatic dragons were guided by an instinct older than the trio of mountains that surrounded Sanction, the Lords of Doom that had emerged from the chaos of Darklady Mountain’s destructive eruption.
They joined Deathfyre over the course of several days, hundreds of wyrms of all the Dark Queen’s colors. Greens flew in wide formations, while blues and reds dived and darted, striving for supremacy. Dragons of black came out of the night, and wyrms of icy white flew from the glacial south, all of them awakened and compelled, drawn by the irresistible summons of the Queen of Darkness.
“I blazed my way from Xak Tsaroth in a fury of fire and claw and fang!” boasted crimson Tombfyre, crowing in exultation, describing the men-at-arms who had fallen dead, lethally charred by his fiery breath.
“And I was master of all the sewers of Sanction. There I dwelt in comfort, eating well, until I hastened to obey your summons!” announced black Corro.
“As for me, I was comfortable in the midst of the northern desert,” explained Azurus, he of the turquoise-blue scales. “But finally the last of the camels was gone, and I began to grow hungry. And now that you have brought me here, I begin to see my purpose.”
“Fly forth, my kin-dragons!” ordered Deathfyre, selecting the greatest among his flock as his agents. “Go to the realms of mankind and ogre, dwarf and bakali – all you can reach within a day’s flight of here. Gather warriors to my banners and bid them march to my city with all haste – and tell them that to disobey is to die.”
Corro, Azurus, Tombfyre, and many others flew toward the points of the compass, and within a few days they returned, bringing the promise of many troops following in their wake. A wave of warlike frenzy had swept the surrounding realms, and warriors of all races flocked to Sanction with bloodlust and avarice in their hearts.
At the feet of the Khalkists, the ogres once again answered the martial call, thousands of brutish warriors emerging from their dens and lairs. The descendants of a once-mighty and highly cultured race, they now snarled and growled like animals, smacking their lips at the prospects of fresh blood. The ogres were large and strong, and each carried a heavy, sharp-edged blade. As a force on the ground, they were a mass against whom very few troops would dare to stand.
From the lower valleys and fens of the Khalkists came the bakali, recruited by the black dragons, who relished the muck and mire favored by the reptilian savages. The lizard men remembered Deathfyre in their greatest legends, and they willingly gathered in a throng to once more serve their crimson master. The scaly-skinned warriors came by the hundreds and then the thousands, forming great encampments before the walls of Sanction, watched suspiciously by the humans who manned the city ramparts.
Corrupt humans came, too, drawn from Sanction and other realms by lure of treasure, or propelled by fear of consequences should they decline to serve. Barbarian horsemen rode in great swarms from the plains, and nomads marched southward from the deserts. Crude and brutal pirates trekked overland all the way from Balifor, and mercenaries from Tarsis and Xak Tsaroth arrived in increasing numbers, answering the universal lures of treasure and adventure.
And even some of the dwarves of the Khalkists, the children of those who had labored for Deathfyre in the gathering of the dragon eggs, added their banners to the crimson wyrm’s horde. Wicked and evil creatures, these cruel dwarves betrayed the proud and honorable legacy of their people, bribed by the dragons’ offers of all the gems they could capture.
The dragons that had answered Deathfyre’s summons circled the mountains and finally settled to the ground, landing on the flanks of the soaring volcanoes, so that from a distance the summits seemed to be mottled in patterns of the queen’s five colors. All of these deadly serpents had been born in secrecy, and many were already quite huge – a surfeit of food supplies had seen to that.
Now the dragons fluttered and roared, watching the troops stream toward the city below. Breath of fire and acid, ice and gas and lightning, blasted the skies in ritual challenge as the wyrms of the Dark Queen grew more aggressive, more anxious to unleash their power against the world. Inevitably fights erupted among them, leaving wings rent, scales torn from flesh, and lives lost as that pent-up fury built to a fever pitch.
And then their leader let them know that the attack would soon begin.
Deathfyre gathered his two-legged captains on the ground before the city walls. He appointed a mighty ogre, Garic Drakan, as commander of the army, and bade the dwarves, bakali, humans, and other ogres to show the chieftain such fealty as they would to the red dragon himself. When the roars had risen to a deafening crescendo, Garic put his army to the march, leaving Sanction behind as the horde advanced like a tide of ink onto the plains of Solamnia.
“Do we strike against the elves?” demanded mighty Azurus as the dragons fluttered their stiff win
gs and craned their necks, ready to attack. All knew the grim history of the Silvanesti wars, and vengeance was a powerful compulsion among the wyrms of Takhisis.
“No. This time it will be the humans who feel the brunt of our onslaught!” declared Deathfyre. He clearly remembered his matriarch’s firmest lesson: Find your strongest enemy and kill him! “Solamnia has become the greatest realm, the strongest empire on Krynn, and thus it shall be Solamnia that feels the fury of our queen’s wrath!”
“I myself will burn a hundred of the enemy warriors!” boasted Tombfyre, who was already a large serpent, capable of expelling a huge gout of flame. He rose to his haunches and bellowed a great fountain of fire into the sky.
“Ah, my son,” declared Deathfyre. “I know that you will earn the praises of our queen!”
And when the dragons of evil took wing, they darkened the sky. Aided by their skyborne allies, Garic Drakan’s army swept forward on the ground, quickly subduing the realms around the mountains, squashing the peoples who dwelt in the foothills as if these minor kingdoms and duchies were so many villages and camps. Ultimately the great serpents led the invasions from Sanction onto the plains of Vingaard, a tide swarming westward toward the realm of the proud knights.
On the ground, the armies of the ogre Garic Drakan marched forth. Columns diverged across the prairie, destroying settlements, pillaging strongholds, battling any band of armed men that dared to raise a blade. Legions of mercenary horsemen preceded the brutal foot soldiers, making savage onslaughts against every city and town in their path. Bakali lizard men swarmed behind the riders, killing mercilessly, while the heavy ogres and tens of thousands of human footmen plodded relentlessly forward, a crushing wave of irresistible force that swarmed in a lethal tide.
In the face of this onslaught, the Knights of Solamnia rode forth from their castles to do battle. Companies of the Sword, the Crown, and the Rose all formed courageously. True to honor, duty, and the Measure, they faced attacks by overwhelming armies, until the dragons of the Dark Queen flew from the skies, driving the human warriors back with horrendous casualties.
But during these initial campaigns, mindful of the impetuous advance that had led to destruction in Silvanesti more than a thousand years before, Deathfyre held his legions to a more measured pace. Led by Tombfyre and Azurus, the mighty red dragon’s wings of flying serpents rarely flew far ahead of the troops on the ground, and those spearheads were held in check as well. Deathfyre insisted that his horsemen remain within supporting distance of the rest of the army, until ultimately the army of the Dark Queen plodded forward in a well-disciplined wave, relentlessly burying everything across a thousand-mile swath of ruin.
And always Deathfyre remained alert for reports of the dragons of metal. Surely they dwelt in the west and would learn of the attack. But where were they? When would they enter the fight? He couldn’t know the answer, and so he made certain that he was ready. In fact, this was one of the major reasons for the measured advance of his force. He didn’t want to expose a far-flung spearhead to annihilation at the hands of a sudden dragon counterattack.
Still, much of the pride of Solamnia bled and died on the plains of Ansalon. Dargaard Keep fell, and the mighty Vingaard River was crossed, with the castle of the same name besieged. Everywhere the army of Deathfyre met victory and left grieving, ruin, and destruction once the vanguard had passed.
But where were the dragons of metal? Until they flew, Deathfyre knew that his vengeance would remain incomplete.
Quarry
(ca. 1053 PC)
The stench of elf filled the ancient red dragon’s nostrils. It did not register immediately in his slumber-filled brain, but when it did, Klassh jolted awake, every fiber of his being on full alert. Still, he did not move. Any movement on his part would disturb the mountainous pile of gold, silver and gems on which he rested. Keeping his breathing regular, Klassh slowly half-opened one eye and scanned the triangular Great Hall, looking with satisfaction on the enormous hoard he had collected over the centuries, until he found the elf. The thief was alone, crouched in a far corner, working on the lock of a long, thin box, which the dragon had never seen before. Near that corner of the room, Klassh also noticed a concealed door – now open – that he had not known was there.
“Damned dwarves,” the dragon said to himself. “They can never have enough back doors and you can never find them all.”
Fully awake now, Klassh realized that the elf smelled slightly off – like bad fish. Studying the elf, the dragon noted the broad shoulders, tall, wiry frame, and silver hair.
“Half-elf, most likely,” mused Klassh. “Probably won’t taste good. The half-breeds never do.”
Strangely, although well armored, the thief wore only an empty scabbard at his side. The burnished elven chain mail had leather strips woven through the rings to dampen much of the noise of the metal. A hooded gray cloak was thrown over the elf’s shoulders, out of the way of his hands as he worked.
The irritated dragon watched the elf as it diligently applied itself to the lock. Like a stalking cat not ready to alert its prey, the dragon remained perfectly still.
Click. The lock opened.
Klassh quickly closed his eye again as the elf checked to see if the dragon had heard the noise. Satisfied that the beast still slept, the elf threw back the lid. Klassh opened his eye again, watched as the elf drew forth a magnificent glowing broadsword that fairly sang with enchantment. The dragon was stunned by the realization that such an artifact had been in his possession and he’d never known it!
The elf quickly sheathed the sword and started slinking toward the open door, completely ignoring the other fabulous treasure lying literally at its feet. Klassh sent a gout of flame flaring at the elf. It must have been watching, however, because he managed to dodge the fire by ducking behind a pile of blackened plate mail and scorched bones, the remains of foolish knights who had dared to challenge Klassh. The flame ignited some moldering tapestries and a few wooden chests, filling the hall with smoky light.
The dragon had long ago learned that his enormous form was not well suited to negotiating the glittering dunes of precious metals, gems and trinkets heaped high throughout the room, so Klassh muttered a word of magic.
The dragon stifled a cry of pain as his neck contracted and his torso folded in on itself. Once his great mass had shrunk by a quarter, his head and limbs reshaped themselves to a feline form. Flaming red hair sprouted all over his body, most thickly on his head and neck, where a large silky mane grew. Smaller, but sharper, claws protruded from his paws, glistening in the shadowy firelight.
Now with a cat’s agility, the dragon gathered himself, let out a thunderous roar and leapt with tremendous strength toward the elf’s hiding place. Gold and silver flew through the air as he landed gracefully on the floor and bounded over the armor. Alighting on the far side of the pile, Klassh saw the elf scurrying to a more protected position among the gleaming heaps of treasure. It slipped out of sight behind a stack of wooden chests.
The dragon followed the elf, sniffing the air, hoping to use his feline sense of smell to detect the thief. Unfortunately, the acrid reek of the burning tapestries blocked out all other odors; the smoke also made it difficult for Klassh to see farther than a few feet ahead.
At last, the dragon found a trace of the elf’s fetor in an opening between a few of the chests. Pawing away at the crack, his claw caught on a piece of cloth. With a triumphant roar, Klassh attempted to yank the elf out of its hiding place. The dragon had hold of the elf’s gray cloak, now singed and stained with soot.
The dragon heard a creak from above. Klassh looked up too late to see the pile of chests crashing down on him. The elf was nowhere in sight. The chests knocked Klassh to the ground, pinning his forelegs. He tried to free himself, but could not gain the leverage.
As the fires began to die down and throw heavy shadows throughout the Hall, Klassh changed form again. Pain wracked his body as his form altered and flowed, legs and arms m
erging with his torso. The debris shifted and settled. He used his serpentine form to slither out from under the chests. As he emerged from the wreckage, he spotted the elf. The thief faded into the shadows near a large pile of coins.
Unable to maintain the limbless snake form for too long, the dragon shifted and reduced his size again, forcing his head, limbs and torso to approximate a humanoid form.
Though now about the size of a large ogre or small hill giant, Klassh could never be mistaken for either one. With tough, red, reptilian skin, flashing red eyes, and huge muscles rippling throughout his torso, arms and legs, he looked more like a demon from the Pits than any Krynn-born creature. Breathing heavily and momentarily weakened by the multiple transformations, Klassh surveyed the chamber.
Klassh strode toward the heap of coins where he’d last seen the creature. As always, when in human form his senses were dulled and sluggish. He could smell nothing but smoke and fire. His efforts proving fruitless, the dragon stalked toward the dwarf-made door, intending to guard it against the elf’s escape.
Metal scraped on stone. Klassh ran to the large pile of weapons – leftovers from the dead knights. A sword fell to the ground. Rounding the pile, the dragon found nothing but a large gem near the fallen sword. Realizing this had been yet another distraction, Klassh turned to look at the secret door. He spotted the elf making a break for it.
Kicking the sword, Klassh sped toward the door. The elf made a flying leap into the opening. The dragon lunged and managed to wrap a scaly hand around the elf’s ankle. The elf pitched forward. Klassh twisted the elf around in midair and hurled him away from the door. The thief flipped like an acrobat, and landed gracefully. It drew its magical shining sword in one smooth motion.