by Dragon Lance
Once again he found Hammana in the woods – though this time he didn’t surprise her. Instead, she stood in the midst of the clearing, watching the woods as he emerged from the underbrush.
“Hello, Pathfinder,” she said quietly. Her hazel eyes shined as she looked at him, her chin held proudly raised.
“Hammana. …” He crossed to her in long strides and took her hands in his.
“No.” She pulled back, and he saw that the shining in her eyes came from unshed tears. “I cannot let myself love you.”
He didn’t pursue, though his hands remained outstretched, reaching. “I am the Pathfinder now. I didn’t ask for the horn, but it’s a destiny that came to me – and I shall bear it, I hope, well.
“But I know already, Hammana, that I’m a different Pathfinder than those who came before me. I am not Iydaway or Barcalla or Father Kagonesti. Just as Iydaway changed the tasks of leadership by speaking and persuading rather than guiding in aloof silence, I, too, shall change. I will not make war against the humans, simply because they are human. Already I have done a thing unlike any other Pathfinder of the Kagonesti.”
“You … you will be a great leader of our people. This I know.” She seemed proud when she said this, and sad as well.
“But this peace with humankind is not the only way I will be different,” Ash persisted. He stepped forward and took her hands again, holding too tightly for Hammana to easily pull away. “Other taboos, too, date from an earlier time. They may have been right in the past, but I know they are wrong for me.”
She looked at him intently now, surprised and wondering.
“I will also be the first Pathfinder who takes a wife … if she will have me.”
For a moment, he didn’t know what she would say. The tears spilled down her cheeks then, overwhelming her efforts to blink them away.
“She will,” the elfwoman said, and his arms wrapped her as she fell against him.
“This is a wonderful development, truly splendid!” Lectral declared when, hand in hand, they went to the cave and shared their news. “A bit of departure from tradition, though, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Ashtaway agreed. “We live long lives, your people and mine, but I have learned that times can change, peoples can change – many things change.”
Lectral blinked sagely. “Even for elves and dragons,” he said with a contented nod.
CHAPTER 21
A FINAL PARTING
The two wild elves returned to the village together. As they entered the vallenwood glade, Ashtaway saw Faltath, bearing the fresh, plump carcass of a wild pig on his shoulders, emerge from the forest on the opposite side of the clearing.
“Ashtaway!” cried the delighted brave, casting his prize to the ground. “I thanked the gods for sending me this gift of game – and now I know the cause of our joy! We shall have a feast to celebrate your return!”
“I thank you, my friend. And know that there is even more to celebrate – on this day I shall speak to Wallaki about the taking of his daughter’s hand.”
Faltath’s eyes widened, then he threw back his head and whooped in delight. “You are the Pathfinder!” he declared heartily. “And you are sure to show the tribe some very interesting trails!”
The tribe immediately set to the preparations for a feast. Older women took Faltath’s pig and began to skin it, while several braves laid a bed of hardwood on the base of the fire pit.
Ashtaway crossed to the bark lodge where Wallaki, Hammana’s father, sat outside the door, enjoying the afternoon’s warmth. Blocked by the hut, the elder Kagonesti had not seen the pair return to the village.
“Welcome back, Pathfinder. Come sit with me and rest your feet after your long march. Do you have any further word of my daughter, or have you come straight from the Three Smoking Mountains?”
“Thank you.” Ash squatted beside the old warrior. “Hammana has returned to the village with me. She will come to see you soon.”
“But first …?”
“I would speak with you.” Ashtaway drew a deep breath and told Wallaki about the changes that he would make in his time-honored role. “I shall bear the Ram’s Horn as long as the tribe wants me to have it,” he concluded. “But, also, I will take a wife.”
Now Wallaki’s eyebrows raised and he looked at Ashtaway with keen interest. “Hammana is a precious girl, and a wonderful prize for any brave. She knows the arts of curing in ways that many healers who have studied for centuries can never master. Too, she is an elf of wondrous beauty, with many other talents as well. But I do not know how I should survive without her to tend to my needs.”
Ash might have pointed out that Wallaki had survived quite nicely while his daughter had been caring for Lectral, but he did not. Instead, he spoke with respect. “Perhaps two doeskins and the down of fifty geese would make your loneliness more comfortable,” he suggested.
Wallaki nodded. “That would help. But see these old fingers? They are too gnarled for proper fletching. I can still shoot, but I have no arrows.”
“You will soon have one hundred of the finest shafts that I can feather,” Ash promised, bowing his head. The dowry price was very high – and he was elated to pay it.
“Ah … that will do much to soothe my despair!” It was all the old shaman could do to keep from cackling in delight.
“We shall be wed with the autumn harvest,” Ash told the beaming priest. The Pathfinder rose and bowed respectfully before he went to spread the word through the rest of the village.
Ashtaway stood beside the slowly roasting pig, far enough away so that he didn’t get burned – but close enough for his silhouette to darken against the backdrop of brightness, as he looked across the faces of his people. The young Pathfinder felt a vague, unidentifiable sense of disquiet, wondering what unease lurked at the back of his mind. He wished that Iydaway could be here – and he wondered what his uncle would say about his break with tradition.
Then he realized another thing: He wished that Lectral, too, could share in this feast – that they could really celebrate the end of the Dragon War. But did he dare to hope that Huma’s victory over Takhisis would occur, that the scourge of evil dragonkind might be lifted from Krynn?
“What is it, my Pathfinder?” He felt a gentle hand in his and looked down into Hammana’s bright, penetrating eyes.
“I’m thinking of a friend,” he said quietly.
“I think our friend will come.”
Ashtaway patted her hand, appreciating her optimism even as he couldn’t share it. But she was no longer looking at him – instead, she raised a hand and pointed toward the forest encircling the village.
“Look!”
Shiny silver rippled through the trees, and Ashtaway and Hammana raised shouts of greeting as a broad snout poked out of the forest. Kagonesti voices shouted in alarm, mothers sweeping children into their arms as warriors raced toward the dragon that had suddenly appeared in their midst.
Ashtaway raised the Ram’s Horn to his lips and blew a joyful blast. “Hold!” he cried, as the warriors turned to look at him. “This is a friend – a very welcome friend!”
Stepping forward, Hammana at his side, he advanced to greet the mighty dragon.
The serpent, dragging his injured hind leg, limped into the clearing and coiled himself, smiling gently, at the edge of the village. Remembering Ash’s tale of the great silver dragon, Lectral Hornbearer, the Kagonesti gradually overcame their awe and came forward to regard the dragon, who returned their dignified inspection with a serious and serene expression.
Children stared at the dragon wide-eyed, but without fear. Some even ventured to approach, and soon Lectral was entertaining them by lifting them up on his broad snout and letting them slide, squealing, down his smooth, curling tail.
“It is a time for changes of many kinds,” Ashtaway observed solemnly.
“Aye, and friendships of many kinds as well,” the dragon replied as a giggling tot tumbled from his tail into the dirt. Children clamor
ed for more turns, but Lectral gently disengaged himself – after each of the youngsters had had a ride – and limped to the central clearing. The Kagonesti hurried about, cleaning dirt off the children, getting ready for the feast.
“It is good to see you so happy,” said Lectral. “For this alone I would have come to the village.”
Ashtaway didn’t miss the dragon’s meaning. “There is another reason that you came, then?”
“Yes. It is to make my farewells to you and Hammana, who have cared so well for me.”
“Farewells? But surely you’re not going anywhere? Not with the battle won, perhaps even the war! You must stay with us and celebrate the peace!”
“Alas, I cannot,” sighed Lectral with genuine regret. “For, as you suspect, the war is won. But the price of that victory is the departure of me, and my kind.”
“What do you mean?”
“They are winging to me, tonight. I came here to say good-bye to you and await Saytica – for the two of us will fly together.”
Saytica, Ash remembered, was one of Lectral’s female offspring – now a huge silver dragon in her own right. Her proud father had boasted that she was one of the foremost fighters in the dragon wing defending Palanthas.
“You’re going to fly? Fly where? And how?” Ashtaway couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He gestured at the scarred mass of the dragon’s once-mighty wings. “Saytica may be a mighty dragon – but do you think she’s going to carry you?”
Lectral smiled tolerantly, even puffing a brief snort of amusement.
“As to the where: We go to a place called the Isle of Dragons, a place beyond Ansalon. We – the dragons of silver and gold – are going there, and there we shall live out our days, and our generations.”
“How do you know this?” Ashtaway challenged.
“Peace is a thing of which even the smallest birds take note – it has been the song on the wind for these past days. It is a music that spreads across the world, a tale of hope and mystery that an ear as sensitive as mine cannot help but sense.”
The dragon smiled more broadly, mocking himself.
“Of course, it helped this morning that one of Saytica’s children – a nestling, barely, but a fast flyer – came to my cave and told me to make ready.”
“But Lectral – without wings, how will you fly?”
If the dragon had heard the question, he made no indication of the fact.
“They say that the Isle of Dragons is a splendid place, idyllic, bountiful to a dragon’s needs,” Lectral continued, his voice soft, dreamy. Ashtaway sensed that the great serpent did in fact relish the prospect of a pastoral life there.
The Pathfinder raised the horn to his mouth and began to play. He didn’t think about the notes, but let the music rise from somewhere within his soul. Lectral half-closed his eyes, listening dreamily, while the rest of the Kagonesti sighed softly with the poignancy of the melody.
The notes of the horn, this time, were fuller and more profound than could possibly have resonated in that slender tube. Ashtaway recognized great, keening chants in the rich melody and understood that the instrument played a song of dragons. He did not, could not, know that these sounds had not rung from the horn in more than two thousand years, but he sensed their historic portent as he heard them now.
Lectral raised his own horn, and these notes joined Ash’s in rising toward the sky, singing through the night. The elf had a strong feeling that Father Kagonesti himself hovered there, looking down at his people, his tribe. Ashtaway wondered what Kagonos thought about the changes in the world – and in the Pathfinder – that had come about during this portentous season.
In a flash of insight, he knew that the Elderwild was pleased.
At last, the big silver dragon lowered his horn and raised his eyes to the canopy of leaves over their heads. “They come,” he said softly.
Limping awkwardly, the great serpent hobbled through the village, and made his way between the vallenwoods that stood at the top of the lakeside bluff. Emerging from the trees, he looked toward the northwest, where Lunitari had just settled below the horizon. The Kagonesti came behind, reverently gathering along the crest of the precipice, looking across the star-dappled pattern of the Bluelake.
The tribe settled into silence as the wild elves waited, following the direction of Lectral’s gaze. Ashtaway still played, and still the notes of the horn keened impossibly deep and broad, and now the song expanded to fill the night.
The dragons came into sight first as silhouettes against the starlight, but as they flew lower the metallic glow of their wings shimmered even in the night sky. Many silver dragons circled overhead, most of them wheeling tirelessly far above the lakeside camp. A few dove, however, and one of these settled toward the great vallenwoods of the bluff’s top, spreading her wings to land in a gush of wind beside the gathered elves and the great, crippled serpent.
“Greetings, Honored Father.” Saytica, proud and beautiful, bowed to the great silver dragon. Her body was not as huge as Lectral’s, but Saytica was supple and slender in a way that suggested deep and abiding power.
“Welcome, my daughter.” Lectral’s voice, firm with ritual, was nevertheless warm with the depth of his love.
“I am glad to find you,” she said respectfully. “The time for flying is now.”
“Farewell, my friends,” Lectral declared with a bow of his head. Ashtaway watched in disbelief as the dragon’s body abruptly shimmered and shifted, shrinking rapidly until he stood before them as an old human man. Shaggy white eyebrows concealed his yellow eyes – though Ash could still see those eyes flash in amusement at the elves’ consternation.
“A – a human?” stammered the young chieftain after he regained his voice. “Why not take the form of an elf?”
The old man’s face wrinkled into a smile. “Tradition, really. You see, my grandsire favored a body such as this. There were those who believed it to be his true form. In any event, I find that these whiskers, this old and wrinkled shape, suits me well.”
The old man hobbled to Saytica’s side, and the sleek silver neck bent low to allow him to mount. Seated between her wings, the man gave a single, regal wave, and Ashtaway felt a brief tug of melancholy. It seemed that more than a part of his life was closing – indeed, it was the conclusion of an epoch of Krynn. A world without dragons … what would that mean?
Then Saytica took to the air in a downrush of wings and a powerful spring. The elves watched for several minutes as she and her rider climbed into the sky, until the pair merged with all the other shadowy outlines there. In a sweeping, grand formation, the serpentine shapes turned to the north, slowly winging toward the horizon.
Gradually Ashtaway become aware of Hammana’s hand in his. Together they watched the dragons wing northward for many long minutes, until their shadowy forms disappeared over the distant horizon.
Kaz and the Dragon’s Children
(1015 PC)
He had learned to sleep with the battle-axe clutched in his hands, a trick that had saved his life more than once. Even now, with the war supposedly over for more than a month, it was a wise thing to do, for there were still those who would have seen him dead simply because of what he was. Three days ago, he had barely escaped the local militia. They’d wanted to make him pay for what his kind had done in the service of the Dark Goddess, Takhisis. Small matter that he had served with the Knights of Solamnia and chosen to fight against his old masters in the waning weeks of the war. Kaz was a monster in the eyes of humans, and to some that made him forever an evil that needed to be extinguished. Birth alone had condemned him to that fate.
The savage history of the minotaur’s race had not helped, either.
Kaz’s huge hands tensed imperceptibly. He opened his eyes a crack. He could see little, for the moons were hidden by the clouds, and dawn was still at least an hour away. What little he did see did not aid him. And so he listened. A sound, a slight sound, had broken the normal pattern of night noises and stirr
ed the veteran warrior to waking. It might have been nothing more than an anxious rabbit, a clumsy bat, or Tempest, his own horse, shifting position, but Kaz didn’t think so. He had not survived this long jumping at animal noises. This was something more.
If those infernal soldiers have tracked me down again, Kaz thought in bitterness, then this time I will stand and fight regardless! In the war against the legions of the Dark Queen, he had fought beside a lone knight called Huma, a knight whose honor and skill would earn him the titles of Dragonbane and Huma of the Lance. When defeat had appeared imminent, Huma had brought to the desperate defenders of good the legendary dragonlances, which had turned the tide by bringing down the dragons of doom and despair. Huma himself had died defeating the Dark Goddess.
Honor was the most important force in a minotaur’s life, and Kaz had admired Huma for his honor. The knight’s unshakable belief in the goodness of the world had changed the minotaur. Kaz had sworn that his weapons would be raised against only those who followed the path of evil. It was his tribute to one he considered the greatest champion of all.
A tribute he was finding very difficult to survive. The soldiers who had almost captured him three days ago had basically been good men trying to clear their land of the stragglers and marauding bands that had sprouted up like weeds after the Goddess’s armies had been routed. It had been quite reasonable for them to assume that a minotaur wandering this far south was a part of those scattered forces. Unfortunately, they had not allowed Kaz any time to present proof otherwise. The documents and medallion given to him by the masters of the Solamnic orders were secure in the hidden compartment of his saddlebags. He doubted that his pursuers would believe the proof even if they allowed him the chance to display it Scared humans had the bad habit of killing first, asking questions later.
Kaz continued to listen, but the night was now silent save for the anxious movements of his horse. The silence in itself was ominous, for even the sounds associated with the dark had ceased. Kaz opened his eyes a bit farther.