The History of Krynn: Vol V

by Dragon Lance

  As the tears filled her eyes again, she realized that they had been cheated. She had expected them to have more time together, but that had been cruelly snatched from them.

  Without thinking about it, she began to shimmer and glow.

  When the remainder of Huma’s army finally found him, he lay at the feet of a silver dragon. The beast had stood over him, guarding his body until he could be properly buried.

  The Kagonesti

  PART II

  Ashtaway

  1019 PC (Third Dragon War)

  Woodlands of Central Ansalon

  CHAPTER 9

  FOREST OF FIRE AND FURY

  The dappled pattern of black ink on bronze skin rippled through shadowy underbrush. A very keen observer might have discerned the shape there, but only after careful scrutiny – and in the time needed for such an inspection, the stealthy figure would have vanished, moving smoothly on.

  Ashtaway glided through the roughly wooded countryside. The Kagonesti looked upward, hazel eyes sweeping the surrounding crests of tree-lined bluffs and broken, rocky cliffs of granite bracketing these lower valleys. His skin, patterned in dark tattoos, blended with the underbrush even as he moved – he was an intrinsic part of the forest. Yet, for three days he’d been on the hunting trail, and it galled him now that he was still empty-handed as his steps carried him back toward the village.

  Indeed, these valleys showed not the slightest promise of game – no tracks in the muddy trails, no padded bower where a doe and her fawn had bedded down, or even any sign of grazing on the supple spring shoots that began to green the woodlands. Shaking his head in frustration, Ash decided to climb, hoping that the increased vistas along the rippling bluff line might give him the chance to see something, anything, that could offer a suggestion as to the whereabouts of game.

  The rocky heights, in the foothills of the Khalkist Mountains, had been the hunting grounds of his tribe since the time, more than two thousand years ago, when the Kagonesti had split from the elves of Silvanesti in the Great Sundering. The warriors of the wild elves tattooed their skin in black ink, as a sign of their permanent removal from the ranks of their civilized kinfolk. Ash bore a vivid imprint of an oak leaf enclosing his left eye, while on his chest was emblazoned the wide-winged silhouette of a hawk. He carried several weapons, including the strung bow in his hands, with a quiver of arrows and a long-hafted axe slung over his shoulder.

  The wild elf reached the mouth of a scree-filled ravine and turned upward, grasping branches with his wiry hands, unerringly finding with his moccasins those rocks set securely in the midst of the loose gravel. Breathing easily, his longbow and quiver resting on his back, Ashtaway glided toward the ridge with the same fluidity of movement that had carried him through the forest shadows.

  A wall of rock, perhaps thirty feet high, blocked the crest of the gully, and here the elf’s progress slowed – but only slightly. Without halting, Ash started up the sheer face, picking his route as he went, seizing with his fingertips narrow holds, or perching his toes on outcrops barely a fraction of an inch wide.

  Reaching the top, he jogged through open woodland, but despite the increasing vistas surrounding him, he saw no indication of any game worth his sleek, steel-tipped arrows. He passed through a sun-speckled meadow, barren of deer or wild pig. No elk grazed in the marshy saddle between two crests, nor did he hear or see sign of the great flocks of geese that were overdue to make their springtime migration.

  Ashtaway thought of Hammana and felt a sense of urgency – he would love to impress the elfwoman with fresh game, to see her eyes shining at him during the celebration feast, while Iydaway Pathfinder played his horn in joyous affirmation of the kill. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would consent to walk with him beside the lake – nothing in his knowledge could be finer than a few uninterrupted hours with the serene, gentle elfmaid.

  Though she was younger than Ashtaway by several decades, Hammana had already proven herself to be a healer of great skill, renowned among the four tribes. Her father, Wallaki, was the shaman of the Bluelake Kagonesti, and he had shared his priestly arts with his daughter. Hammana had used her natural talents to ease the sufferings of countless wild elves afflicted by illness or injury. Despite her youth, Hammana possessed maturity and inherent grace in measures far beyond the other women of the tribe, and Ashtaway’s heart pounded faster at the memory of her soft, impeccable beauty.

  Hammana would indeed be proud if he brought back a fine deer or pig, but would it be more than pride that gave her eyes that alluring light? In the corner of his mind, Ashtaway hoped that another emotion dwelled there as well – and, slowly, over the course of the past few seasons, he had begun to believe that it did. The feeling between them was a truth pressing with increasing force toward the surface of his and, hopefully, her awareness.

  Abruptly a shiver of alarm rippled along Ashtaway’s shoulders and, for the first time in several hours, he froze.

  He looked around at the steep bluffs rising in leonine majesty from the surrounding woods. Something unseen, but powerfully menacing, threatened to trouble this pastoral place. He thought he knew the nature of the threat, and he was afraid.

  Ashtaway stood atop the summit of one of the granite precipices, concealed by lush undergrowth and a few large boulders. The place was familiar to him – indeed, the bluff’s top had been one of his favorite overlooks since he had discovered it as an exploring youth nearly a hundred years before. Crouching, he examined the valley floor, and almost immediately the glint of sunlight on metal caught his eye. Expressionless, he watched a file of armored riders pass along a lowland trail, moving at an easy walk. Often the treetops concealed the horsemen from his view, but occasionally they passed through a meadow or along the shore of a rock-bordered lake, giving him ample time to study the interlopers.

  He was very interested in the humans, but as he remembered his ripple of apprehension, he knew that they were not the thing whose presence had troubled the forest itself. Yet they still deserved watching. All of them were cloaked in metal clothes and rode steeds much larger than the other horses the Kagonesti had seen. The man in the lead carried a pennant bearing an insignia of a red rose.

  Ashtaway suspected that the men might be Knights of Solamnia. During his rare contacts with the Qualinesti elves he had heard of the knights, surprised that even the haughty, long-lived House Elves spoke of them in not uncomplimentary terms. Tales of knightly discipline, bravery, and loyalty to an altruistic cause had impressed the young Kagonesti warrior, and now, given the chance to watch the mounted, armored warriors, he seized the opportunity with all of his woodland skill.

  Of course, humans in general were the traditional enemies of his tribe. Ash had never personally battled them, but for centuries the older warriors had ceaselessly driven men from the forests whenever they had tried to build their towns or to cut their long, unnatural roadways. Many men had fallen to Kagonesti arrows, and not a few braves had felt the cut of human steel.

  Ashtaway wondered about the purpose of this company’s presence here. The column numbered several dozen men, each mounted on a horse the size of a bull elk. Clad all in metal, except for visors raised to expose their faces, the knights must have been stiflingly hot. Yet none seemed to object, and indeed they held to that steady walk.

  Again the Kagonesti felt a shiver of alarm, and now the menace had a familiar taste. Ashtaway looked skyward, let his eyes sweep toward the distant horizons.

  The first tangible sign of approaching danger was the shade flickering across the ground, dappling the sun-speckled waters of a lake where only a cloud shadow should be. Looking farther upward, Ashtaway saw a pair of young red dragons – not as massive as the hugest of their kind, but still terrifying. The wyrms searched for the knights, he sensed, and flew on a course that would take them directly over their enemies.

  Ashtaway watched, fascinated, as the dragons swept closer. The knights had not observed the danger yet – a fact that could only test their mettle to the
limit when battle was ultimately, suddenly, joined. As the file of riders entered a broad, wet clearing, the Kagonesti knew that the mutual discovery would soon occur.

  The wild elf had experienced the awesome horror of dragons, and he fully expected the knights, when they saw the serpents, to tumble from their saddles and writhe in abject horror as the crimson wyrms dove toward them.

  Of course, if the targets of the ambush had been Kagonesti, Ashtaway would have warned them of the danger. He could have shouted, tumbled free some large rocks, or flashed the silver-steel head of his axe in the sun.

  Since these riders were only humans, however, the elven warrior decided to watch and see what would happen. True to his suspicions, the dragons and the knights quickly spotted each other. With a shrill screech of triumph, the two reds tucked their wings, racing downward in an awe-inspiring dive.

  Expectantly Ashtaway turned back to the knights, wondering if they would topple from their horses in panic or simply flee headlong through the woods. Surprisingly, they did neither. The first of the men shouted a harsh command, audible even to the distant elf – indeed, Ash was impressed by the lack of hysteria in the sound.

  Immediately the knights scattered, individual riders racing toward the scant shelter of nearby trees. As the lead dragon, still shrieking, plunged landward, silver shafts sparkled in the sun. Some of the knights had crossbows, and they released their missiles with uncanny speed and accuracy. The serpent’s cries took on a shrill, painful note, and the broad wings shifted to carry it off to the side. Flying awkwardly, the wyrm settled with a splash of muddy water to the marshy ground in the center of the clearing.

  The second dragon, even larger than its mate, cried out in fury. Huge jaws gaped, and Ashtaway felt a tremor of sympathy as he saw a great fireball explode outward, sweeping around several tree trunks – and consuming the horses and riders who sought shelter there.

  Ignoring the death screams of their comrades, a dozen knights charged with leveled lances toward the dragon as the serpent landed in an open space between several trees. The wyrm reached out, crushing one rider with its great claws, then incinerating several more with another firestorm. At the same time, sharp steel lance heads pierced the dragon’s flanks, drawing a shrill cry of pain. The serpent struggled to break free, flapping its wings frantically as the knights plunged their long-shafted weapons deeper.

  Several men drew huge swords and chopped into the monster’s flesh as it flailed. Ash was deeply impressed by the force behind these blows. He watched the steel weapons plunge deep through the monster’s scaly skin. Blood flowed from the wounds as the dragon bellowed, pivoting through the midst of nearly a score of dead knights.

  The dragon tried to raise its head, jaws gaping, for another explosive breath, but now the surviving knights drove in, chopping and hacking at the exposed neck. One man in particular, bearing a two-handed sword with a golden hilt, threw all caution to the wind as he stood before the writhing wyrm. With a mighty, shuddering stab, he thrust the weapon through the red-scaled breast, all the way into the serpent’s corrupt, seething heart. The beast reared and then, serpentine body shivering with tremors, collapsed forward in one dying lunge. The monster’s death shriek turned to a gurgle as it convulsed and died, fully burying the courageous knight beneath the crimson bulk of its body.

  The first dragon, during the death fight of its companion, struggled through the sticky muck, flapping and clawing desperately. Many arrows, which to Ashtaway looked like tiny darts in the distance, glittered from its right wing. Apparently the knights had been trained to concentrate their shots, and to good effect – obviously the beast had been too badly injured to fly. The Kagonesti reflected, grimly impressed, that crippling one wing of a flying creature was every bit as effective as injuring them both.

  But the crimson monster could still breathe, and when its companion fell, fatally pierced, the survivor erupted with a screech of pure hatred. Fire exploded once, twice, and again from those widespread jaws, incinerating the remaining knights even as the humans turned to meet the new threat. Even in the face of certain death, the men remained steadfast – not one threw down his weapon or turned in a useless attempt at flight.

  Ashtaway continued to watch, awestruck, as the wounded dragon crawled away from the bloody battle. Dragging its useless wing in the dirt, it disappeared into the forest. The Kagonesti warrior remained immobile and silent for several minutes after the last scarlet scales on the serpent’s tail had vanished into the shadows.

  Finally he moved, though he didn’t take the trail back to the village. Avoiding the scene of the battle, Ash worked his way along the high crests. All the while, the moves of the combat replayed in his head like the steps of an elaborate dance. The battle offered by the knights had been the greatest act of courage he had ever witnessed. Furthermore, the fact that the heroes had been humans now forced him to reexamine a number of previously held beliefs and assumptions – obviously, short lives did not equate to a craven existence.

  A sound reached his ears and sent a jolt of alertness through Ashtaway’s body – a tingling sense of delight that took him completely by surprise. The noise was repeated, and the wild elf recognized the distant blaring of a horn, its music impossibly sweet, delightful.

  He was reminded of the three-spiraled Ram’s Horn that his uncle, Iydaway Pathfinder, played on important or ceremonial occasions. The sound of this distant music was similar, yet even more grand – fuller of body, more resonant in tone. And despite its distance, something told the elf that this horn played a song for him, and for him alone.

  Even as he wondered about the sound, he began to run, not consciously aware that he had been summoned.

  CHAPTER 10

  LECTRAL

  Ashtaway ran tirelessly, coasting down from his lofty vantage, sprinting along flowered meadows and down shaded forest trails. Like a deer he flew over shallow streams, darting around thickets, speeding dizzily when the undergrowth thinned. He raced for hours, unaware of time or distance, knowing only a joyous sense of anticipation.

  Finally his footsteps faltered. The wild elf’s forest senses suddenly signaled an alarm. He slowed to a trot along a narrow deer trail, then stopped altogether, listening.

  Other footsteps thudded quietly through the woods, but not silently, like the running of a Kagonesti brave. Crouching, Ash melted into the brush beside the path. Someone else came along the same trail – and ran with a great deal of grace and speed, to judge from the sounds.

  Abruptly she came into sight around a bend, and when he recognized Hammana, Ashtaway’s heart trilled with delight. The elfwoman’s slender body was garbed in a gown of soft doeskin, her black hair braided into a single, lush plait that usually lay over her shoulder – though now it trailed behind, flying from the speed of her run. Her beaded moccasins glided lightly, making little sound – for the Kagonesti women were nearly as adept in stealth and woodcraft as were the men.

  She was a healer, not a warrior, and she did not have the warrior’s constant alertness. Her bright, hazel eyes were downcast, her face wrinkled in concentration as she raced closer to Ashtaway.

  When she was still a dozen paces away, he stepped into the trail and called her name, wanting very much not to frighten her. She gasped slightly and pressed her fingers to her mouth as she suddenly stopped, but Ash thrilled to the realization that she concealed a sudden, secret smile. She was not displeased to see him!

  “Greetings, Warrior Ashtaway,” she said formally. Then she frowned. “Did you hear it as well?”

  “The horn? I am on my way to find its source.”

  “I heard it calling, and I had to do the same. But what do you think it is?”

  Hammana came closer, and Ash was once again struck by her beauty and serene grace. Since childhood she had possessed that sense of self-assurance he found so refreshing and impressive. Perhaps because she was blessed with her unusual skill, she lacked the self-effacing shyness that characterized so many young Kagonesti women. Ofte
n Ashtaway had watched her in the village, and sometimes had even gone into the woods to spy on her as she wove nets by the marshy edge of the Bluelake. The few times they had walked that shoreline together were experiences burned indelibly into the young warrior’s memory.

  Now fate had drawn them both to this compelling sound, and this fact excited and disturbed him. Surely that was a portent of destiny – that the two of them were meant to be together. Only as these thoughts filtered through his mind did he remember her question.

  “It – it sounds like the Ram’s Horn, or a bigger version of it,” he suggested. “I’ve heard my uncle play it many times.”

  “I, too,” she reminded him. “Though this did not sound like the signal of our Pathfinder.”

  They fell into step side by side, jogging along quickly – though not so fast that they couldn’t converse. “Where were you when you heard it?” he asked.

  “At the lake shore,” she said. “There were fishers there, too, but none of them noticed the sound – I asked them.”

  “Only you … and me,” he said, his tone serious, the significance of the fact not lost on either of them.

  She started to ask something and then, as they came around another bend in the trail, halted with a gasp of breath.

  Ashtaway protectively took another step before he, too, ceased moving. The woods opened into a wide clearing, with a cliff of black rock rising steeply beyond. He could only stare in awe at the creature that lay, coiled, in the center of the open space.

  Silver scales rippled in the sun, though in many places the argent surface was broken by cruel cuts and ugly, bleeding gashes. One leathery wing, also silver, was half-spread onto the grass, while the other was twisted awkwardly at the great creature’s side. The serpentine neck curled through a full circle, and the broad snout was turned to face them – though both silver eyelids remained close.