by Dragon Lance
The dragon was big – larger than the two reds Ashtaway had seen before – but terribly rended by battle. At first the elf thought it was dead, until he noticed the slow, rhythmic pulsing of one wounded flank.
“Look!” Hammana whispered, her voice taut – but with excitement, not fear. “There, held in the forepaw.”
Carefully Ashtaway stepped forward, looking down to get a clear look at the object held by the dragon.
“It’s the Ram’s Horn!” he replied. “Or one very much like it.”
“Yes – but it’s not the tribe’s horn. Look, it curls in the opposite direction … as if it came from the same ram, but from the other side of its head!”
They looked at each other, awestruck. The legend of the second Ram’s Horn was a part of Kagonesti lore, familiar to them both. At the time Darlantan bestowed the powerful talisman upon Father Kagonesti, he had claimed that the second horn would be held by the silver dragons, a symbol of the bond between wild elf and those mighty serpents. Yet it had never been heard in the dozens of centuries since, so the Kagonesti had come to view the story as a mystical legend.
“The second Ram’s Horn. The tales are true,” Hammana breathed, taking Ash’s hand as she stepped to his side. He welcomed the touch, feeling this as a moment of wonder, not danger. “Is it dead?”
“Not yet, thank you.” The words rumbled from the great mouth, though the jaws barely moved. With a grunt of effort, the silver dragon lifted its huge head from the ground and blinked with a pair of luminous yellow eyes.
Hammana rushed forward, kneeling before the great head as Ashtaway stepped more deliberately behind. “You called us, and we have come! How can we help you?” she asked, gently placing her hands to either side of the mighty jaws.
“Who are you?” asked the Kagonesti warrior, squatting before the silver dragon’s head.
“I am called Lectral among my people, and it would please me to be called that by you as well.” The dragon dipped his head, formally polite. “And you are of the wild elves?”
“I’m Hammana, and this is Ashtaway, a mighty warrior!”
“A mighty warrior of the Kagonesti. I am indeed honored.”
“My friend is overly kind,” Ashtaway declared, shaking his head in embarrassment. “I have only recently spiraled my tatoos, and my prowess is far from legendary.” In fact, while Ash had accompanied war parties against humans and House Elves, his only kills had occurred in a few fights against the scaly, lizardlike bakali – evil creatures that sometimes penetrated the Kagonesti woodlands and were slaughtered by the wild elves whenever they were encountered. While he had fought well, there were many other braves in the tribe who had earned higher battle honors.
“Perhaps not legendary yet, but you will be.” The dragon said this with a shrug, as if it were a statement of fact, not conjecture. Ashtaway felt a shiver of apprehension tinged with profound wonder.
“Who hurt you?” the warrior asked protectively, as if he himself was ready to avenge the attack.
“Four red dragons fell upon me, just two days since. I killed two, but I’m afraid the other two got the best of the fight. They must have been in something of a hurry, though – they left me wounded, when they could have finished the job.”
“Are you badly hurt? The cuts look deep,” Hammana observed.
“It will be long before I fly again.” The dragon wriggled his mangled right wing, but the leathery membrane barely twitched weakly. “And some of these bites, I fear, may begin to fester.”
“Hammana is a healer of much skill,” the warrior said hurriedly. He turned to the woman. “Can you help him?”
“I need mud, for poultices – and bring me strands from the inner bark of young pines. I saw some mushrooms beside the trail that I’ll fetch, and I think I noticed the smell of lilyweal. I’ll gather some of that as well.”
Leaving the dragon, who seemed not the least bit concerned by his grievous wounds, the pair scoured the woods for a time, gathering the items Hammana needed. While he searched, Ash located a deep, dry cave in the base of the sheer obsidian cliff. He returned to Lectral, who was intrigued by this suggestion of shelter and limped after the warrior to the foot of the black stone wall.
“This will do quite nicely,” the silver dragon admitted.
Hammana, bearing an armful of herbs, roots, and tubers, found them at the cave. Ash built a small fire – for roasting some of the herbs – while the woman began applying poultices of mud and leaves to the worst of the dragon’s hurts.
“That feels much better,” Lectral allowed, stretching his neck around to let her swab a wound in his shoulder. “Now, if only you had a deer, perhaps, or a wild pig?”
Ashtaway shook his head, shameful. “This has been a hard time for hunting. I had stalked for three days when I heard your horn, and had not even seen the spoor of game.”
“It is the war,” Lectral said with a shrug. “With dragons in the air, the forest creatures must resort to extreme caution – those who survive, that is.”
“Aye. And the dragons fly closer than ever,” Ash noted. He described the encounter he had witnessed, carefully relating every detail of the red dragon attack and the heroic defense of the knights. “You told me of battling four, killing two. Perhaps they were the survivors.” Lectral listened in silence until the tale was fully told.
“This is both bad and good,” the great silver serpent declared sagely when Ash had concluded.
“I understand the bad – but how can it be good as well?” wondered the Kagonesti.
“The sending of her scouts this far to the south is a sign that the Dark Queen grows desperate. For too long her armies have been held in bloody stalemate on the Plain of Solamnia, at the brink of the Kharolis Mountains, and perhaps she begins to fear that victory may yet elude her. She must strike at the forces of Paladine in Palanthas, and until she breaches that range she cannot bring her army to bear.”
“I have heard of these mountains – but they are terribly far away, beyond the broad plain of Vingaard,” Ash said skeptically. “What importance can those battles have to these southern forests?”
“There has come a warrior, a knight called Huma. It is said that through him the forces of Paladine may yet find a way to defeat Takhisis, and to reclaim the plains they call Solamnia. The Queen of Darkness must have heard these tales as well – and she is frightened. Since her armies are held at bay, she no doubt seeks another way to strike at the knights in Palanthas.”
“But surely she will not find such a route through these southern forests? Only Silvanesti lies beyond.”
“Perhaps it is not attack, but defense, that is now on her mind,” Lectral suggested.
“Defense from what? We Kagonesti? Or does she fear that the arrogant House Elves of Silvanesti will take notice of her war and march forth to do battle?” The scorn in Ashtaway’s voice clearly showed his own estimation of that likelihood.
“I doubt she fears the elves. Surely Takhisis knows that if she leaves them alone they will not interfere with her plans for the human realms. Still, as her armies and arms are depleted, she must take steps to guard her base of power and supply in Sanction.”
“I have seen Sanction from the mountain heights. It is a smoky, miserable place – why must she guard it so carefully?”
The silver dragon was silent for several minutes, gathering his thoughts. Ash waited patiently until his companion once again spoke.
“For two reasons. Sanction holds the great forges where all of the dark army’s steel is smelted, and is the place where weapons that carry the war forward are forged. Her losses have been heavy, and it is known that her slaves are driven hard to hammer new steel, to forge weapons to replace those broken and abandoned on the fields. Sanction is where all this labor occurs. Great mounds of coal are stored there, as well as fields of iron and nickel from which that steel is forged. If she were to lose Sanction, her armies would be left without the lifeline of their power – the materials that allow her to wage
this war.
“And second, the city is the site of countless huge storage barns – the food that will keep her army in the field through the upcoming year. Were those to be destroyed, much of the evil strength would be dispersed by the need to forage.”
“Cannot the knights attack the city and destroy these forges?” Ashtaway wondered.
“I am certain that they would like to, but the city is guarded by walls and armies against attack from the west. Any attacking force would have to penetrate many barriers in the face of much resistance. Though they might desire to do so, I doubt that even the bravest warriors could succeed.”
“What does this have to do with dragons flying over the forest?”
“Just this, I suspect: As I stated, Sanction is secure against attack from the west. But as her situation grows more perilous, perhaps Takhisis worries about attack from some other quarter. True, Sanction is guarded by mountains to the north, east, and south, but the Dark Queen is fearful, and no doubt seeks to reassure herself that these avenues, too, are protected.”
“This knight called Huma must be a great man,” Ashtaway suggested, “for his presence to cause the Queen of Darkness such concern.”
“I am told that he is,” Lectral agreed. “And, no doubt, if there was any way through the mountains, the knights would make every effort to strike at Sanction. I suspect her fears on that score are groundless, but she will nevertheless make effort to patrol these forests, just to make sure.”
“I wonder what it is that brought the knights into the woodland. The force was too small for a battle such as you describe. This is far from their domain, as well,” the elven warrior mused.
Lectral shrugged a great shoulder. “Humans think that all Krynn is their domain – but who can guess why they ride where they will?”
“My fellow warriors have slain many humans. When they fight us, they seem crude and vicious, not at all courageous. Though I admit that these knights were different —”
“Isn’t this enough talk of war?” Hammana interrupted. She looked at Ashtaway pointedly. “Can you find some food?”
“Perhaps you might look along the valley below here, just to the north of my cave,” Lectral suggested. “I caught the scent of deer only yesterday. It may be that you will find food for your village – and, perhaps, a haunch that you could spare for your silver friend.”
“I go there immediately,” Ash declared, rising to his feet with dignity. “And if I meet with fortune, know that I will soon return.”
“Splendid,” Lectral said, pleasantly blinking his large yellow eyes, allowing Hammana to massage a blend of herbs into a raw patch between his nostrils. “I shall take a nap while you hunt, and dream of awakening to the smell of venison.”
With a deep, reverent bow, Ashtaway stepped to the mouth of the cave. By the time he started down the trail, the crippled dragon had already drifted off to sleep. Hammana, however, looked after him – and in her eyes he saw the glow of pride … or something more.
CHAPTER 11
SMOKE ON THE BLUELAKE
True to Lectral’s word. Ash found deer in the marshy vale. The warrior stalked during a long, moonless night, bringing down two plump does with a single arrow apiece. In the dawnlit hours he left one whole carcass before the cave in repayment for Lectral’s suggestion. Hammana announced that she would stay with the dragon for a few days, and Ash promised to carry word of her decision to her father, Wallaki.
Pledging to return soon, Ashtaway hoisted the other deer to his back and started toward the village. The gutted doe was heavy, but the weight felt good on the wild elf’s shoulders – and even under the load he maintained a steady, loping jog along the forest floor. The village beside the Bluelake was close, barely a dozen miles away, and he looked forward to returning there by midafternoon. His arrival, he knew, would be greeted with great happiness among all the villagers – it had been many months since a Kagonesti warrior had returned to the village with such a prize.
Ashtaway’s supple moccasins glided softly across the carpet of pine needles, moss, and soft loam. He drew his breaths in long, rhythmic inhalation – once for each four steps – and then exhaled in the same measured pattern. Sweat slicked his bronzed, tattooed skin, but the cool wind of his movement evaporated it quickly, bringing welcome relief from the oppressive summer heat.
He ran with trancelike concentration on his silent, measured progress, yet at the same time his mind remained alert to the forest all around. He listened for the cry of the hawk, or the cawing of angry crows – for any of the usual sounds of woodland life. As he drew nearer the Bluelake, with the morning’s mist burned away by the climbing sun, he grew mildly concerned by the extent of the silence around him.
One possibility, he knew, was that the creatures sensed him, and in their fear they held close to their dens and nests. But Ashtaway knew a great deal about the sensory capabilities of his fellow forest-dwellers, and he felt fairly sure that most of them were not aware of his stealthy passage. After all, he ran facing into the little breeze there was, ensuring that his scent did not precede him. Too, his footsteps were as silent as a stalking cat’s, such that even animals who might be cowering nearby would not hear him go past.
His conclusions did not cause him an overwhelming sense of concern, though they did serve to heighten his alertness. After all, the scarcity of game had not been the only effect of the war. Perhaps another flight of dragons had soared overhead during the night. If the creatures had flown over this stretch of forest, the lingering awe of their presence might be enough to hold the lesser creatures trembling in their nests for a day or more – even lesser creatures like elves or humans, Ashtaway reflected wryly.
The warrior was grateful that his village, though spacious and open on the ground, was screened from the sky by its verdant canopy of vallenwoods. The elves were careful to leave no sign of their presence along the shore, where the Bluelake sparkled at the foot of the steep bluff. Even alert dragons, flying slowly, would be unable to spot the Kagonesti community from the air.
Now, as he jogged beneath the fine weight of venison and diligently probed his surroundings with eyes, ears, and nose, another part of his mind reflected on the battle between the knights and the red dragons. It remained much on his mind, and not just because of the valor displayed by the doomed Knights of Solamnia. There was also the indication, by the presence of both the human and dragon combatants, that the scourge of war might be drawing nearer to the Kagonesti wilds than ever before.
He recalled Lectral’s words about Sanction. That smoldering city, nestled in the valley between three rumbling volcanoes, had seemed to him a hellish place on the lone occasion when he had observed it. At that time Ashtaway had discovered a winding, narrow valley leading up to the saddle between two of the smoking mountains. The finding of paths had long been a skill of his people, and Ash had initially been pleased in his discovery, for the mountainous trail was apparently known to no other. His disappointment had been keen when he learned that it led to such a useless place.
The miles passed beneath his leather soles, half a dozen, then ten, and soon he knew that the village was near. His heart lightened, anticipating the joy that his burden would bring to his villagemates. His uncle Iydaway, Pathfinder of the tribe, had grown too old for the hunt himself – but Iyda would no doubt compose a song for the occasion, probably to play on the Ram’s Horn around the feast fire tonight. Old Iydaway had been a great hunter and warrior in his prime, and now the venerable Pathfinder took great pride in the accomplishments of his elder nephew, even going so far as to give Ash his keen steel axe blade upon the young warrior’s initiation to manhood.
Now, the Kagonesti hunter thought with a thrill of pleasure, his uncle would be very pleased —
Abruptly Ashtaway froze, his reveries interrupted by an acidic, reptilian smell. Bakali! The lizardlike humanoids served the Dark Queen with ruthless loyalty in her war, and twice before Ashtaway had fought – and slain – individual bakali who had
wandered too far from their tribes. In each of those occasions he had been repelled by the characteristic stench now wafting through the woods before him.
Yet the scent reaching his nose was far more powerful than he had felt even when in the clasp of a bakali’s slime-coated limbs. There must be a large number of the lizardmen – a war party – that even now could be encircling the Kagonesti village.
Ashtaway lowered the deer to the ground and shrugged his bow off his shoulder in one smooth, soundless gesture. Nocking an arrow, he resumed his advance as soundlessly as before. Still he moved with fluid grace, but the sinew of his muscle rippled through his skin, as taut as his bowstring. Even as he took each step with precise care, his eyes flashed constantly to the left and right. His nostrils twitched, desperately sampling the air for further information about the menace.
He moved along the gradually descending floor of a narrow valley, with two hilltops rolling irregularly to the left and right. Less than two miles ahead the valley emptied into a lush vallenwood grove along the shore of a pristine lake – the site of Ashtaway’s village for the last century. Since the lingering stench was carried only by the air – there was no spoor of the bakali on the trail or underbrush – the Kagonesti suspected that the lizardmen had crept into the valley at some point ahead of him.
The tribe always kept a warrior on lookout in these hills, but they had never been menaced by attack here before, so the sentry duty tended to be casual. Still, if the elven warrior – whoever he might be on this day – happened to be alert, there was a good chance that the village could be warned.
Ashtaway tensed, instinctively drawing back the bow as another alarming scent came to him. His nostrils sampled the air, found the fresh smell of blood – elven blood.