In reply came the strong mental voice of the elf.
You were tricked, dragon. It is as simple as that. The terrible and mighty Klassh was tricked.
"Mindspeak? You have it?"
Yes, Klassh, and I have always known who you were; I have the gift. That is why you couldn't read my thoughts freely. In fact, though you didn't know it, you read only the thoughts and emotions I allowed.
"Who...?"
I truly am B'ynn al'Tor, half-breed son of the House of Tor, but my story is not as you supposed it. The elves are more enlightened these days and realize the strengths that the human-elf pairing can produce. Many of us are recruited to special assignments, for which our combination of superior strength, constitution and agility make us ideal. I am a Dragonsbane, a killer of dragons.
"Never heard ... of you," Klassh muttered.
None of your kind ever will. We leave no trace, just a dead dragon, killed by accident. It has done wonders to demoralize the dragonarmies. That's right, Klassh, B'ynn al'Tor continued. I came to kill you. Once I locked my mind onto yours, you didn't have a thought I didn't hear. You never made a move I didn't anticipate. I fed you the emotions and thoughts you wanted to hear. I played you like a fish, reeling you in, then giving you some slack, until the final yank lured you into my trap.
"How did you know about the sword?"
The sword is the Blade of Tor, an ancestral heirloom lost during the Kinslayer Wars. The same dwarves who gave me the secrets of Cobb Hall also informed me their ancestors had recovered the blade and hidden it in the great hall.
Silence from the dying dragon. Just the ever-slowing breath pumping in and out of his tortured lungs.
Nothing to say, dragon? B'ynn al'Tor asked. Goodbye then. You will die shortly and I will go on to kill many more of your brethren.
The elf watched as the dragon's eyes slowly closed for the last time, and he waited for a few hours to be sure Klassh was dead. Satisfied, B'ynn al'Tor, Dragonsbane, turned and climbed back up the ravine, never looking back.
* * * * *
In another century, Dunstan Van Eyre, student of Astinus, would write about the Dragonsbane:
During the Third Dragon War, a secret group of highly trained elves and half-elves was formed. It was chartered to hunt down and kill important dragons. The members were remarkable warriors and magi. They were Dragonsbane. Schooled in the physiology and psychology of their prey, the Dragonsbane used stealth, deception and consummate planning to eliminate the dragons one by one. They left no trace, ensuring every death looked like an accident. Though they operated for decades and though the dragons must have had suspicions about the many accidental deaths of their brethren, the dragons never uncovered any evidence of their existence. This sage only learned about them by accident, from a descendant of arguably the greatest Dragonsbane of them all, B'ynn al'Tor.
The motto of the Dragonsbane was: "One Dragon, One Bane."
Rumor has it that they still operate to this day.
Glory Descending
Chris Pierson
The summer wind bore autumn's faintest chill as it snapped the castle's blue-and-gold pennants. The knights on the castle walls wearily stamped their feet, squinting across the Solamnic plains toward the southeast. Always the southeast. One bold squire had been heard to say that if an army came upon the keep from the northwest, it could knock down the wall and be taking tea in the outer ward before anyone noticed. On learning about the jest, the boy's master had sent him to muck out the stables for his loose tongue. Good humor had been scarce in the keep for some time: the coming war with the Highlords had seen to that.
Still, Sir Edwin couldn't help glancing to the north-west with a grim smile as he emerged from the building that had once been the castle's chapel. That was before the Cataclysm, before the gods had turned their backs on the world. He shook his head as he marched up the stairs to the keep's high inner wall. The joke, he knew, had been harmless: though the knights were surrounded by the enemy, they knew there was no danger from the northwest. That wasn't where the bulk of their foe's army was concentrated.
The southeast, however, was a different matter.
Not that there was anything yet to see that way, either; the scouts had gauged the army at several days' march away, and Castle Archuran yet stood in the army's path. Still, there were dire rumors among the troops. Some even said the dragons had returned, darkening the skies with their wings as they had done in Huma's day.
Most of the knights scoffed at this notion, but Edwin's face darkened as he considered it. His fellows put little stock in the old legends, but he had long believed, at risk of being branded a fool, that many of the tales were true. Edwin honored the memory of Huma Dragonbane, though few others did these days. If Huma was real, then so were the dragons-and where were they?
Edwin wondered if the answer to that question mightn't come all too soon.
He looked down the wall's crenelated length. At last he spotted the figure he sought, standing near the Southeast Tower. The man stood rigid, his back to the castle wall, his blue cloak whipping in the wind. The other knights gave him a wide berth as they paced the battlements, none pausing to exchange comradely greetings or banter with the down knight. Edwin sighed and started toward the knight, singing a few verses from an old Solamnic war song as he went:
To Hanford came the Hooded Knight,
With cloak of gold and steed of bay,
His sword a-flashing silver-bright,
A-thirsting for a wyrm to slay.
The Lord of Hanford welcomed him,
For woe and grief were his domain:
The dragon they named Angethrim
Had long since been the townsfolk's bane.
For many years the wyrm had flown,
His breath afire, his jaws oped wide,
Thrice monthly when the red moon shone;
Those few who stood against him died.
Edwin had never been much of a singer, but what he lacked in talent he more than made up for with zeal. The other knights smiled and saluted as he passed. It did his heart good to see them cheered so, when grimness was the order of the day.
There were many more verses to the song, and Edwin would have sung them all, but the dour knight silenced Edwin with a glance. That man was not cheered by the song; rather, he stiffened at the young knight's approach. Edwin stopped a respectful distance away.
"You do no one any favors, speaking of dragons so," the knight said.
Edwin shrugged. "'Tis but a song, brother, to raise the men's spirits."
"It sows fear," returned the knight. "Let the dragons remain children's stories."
"But what if-" Edwin caught himself, but not in time.
With a rattle of armor, the brooding knight turned away from the plains and glared angrily at Edwin.
The young knight endured his brother's piercing gaze for a moment, then looked away.
"You were about to say what if the rumors are true?" stated the older knight, his face drawn into a scowl, as usual.
Edwin looked at him in surprise. "Yes, brother, I have considered it. 'Rumors rarely blossom without the seed of truth,' so the saying goes."
The older knight glanced back at the barren plains. "But even if there are dragons among the foe, what good does it do to remind the men? They're nervous enough as it is. Putting dragons in their dreams only makes things worse, whether the dragons are real or fancy. I want an end to such nonsense!"
Edwin bowed his head, stared fixedly at the flag-stones. "Yes, Derek," he said wearily. In his thirty years, he'd said those words more often than he could recall.
Lord Derek Crownguard turned his head, then laid a gauntleted hand on Edwin's arm. "I don't mean to be harsh, brother," he said. "This war wears on us all, and I worry for the men's morale. Too much talk of dragons could break them." He paused, glancing up and down the wall to make sure none could hear. "Ofttimes, I wonder if Lord Gunthar's men haven't been spreading those stories with just that in mind."
Edwin nodd
ed, still staring past his brother. It was well known that there was more love between knights and goblins than between Derek Crownguard and Gunthar Uth Wistan. Both had long desired the coveted position of Lord Knight of the Knighthood, and the years of rivalry had built up a wall of stone between them.
Their political maneuvering was like a great game of khas, a game that was a favorite with Derek. Edwin had never much cared for khas, or for politics, but he understood that with Castle Crownguard facing imminent siege and Lord Gunthar-the nominal head of the High Council-presumably safe on Sancrist Isle, Derek was on the verge of losing the game. Edwin had the unhappy feeling-though he tried to rid himself of it-that losing at politics meant more to Derek than losing his family's castle and possibly his own life.
"Has there been word from Sancrist?" Edwin asked.
Now it was Derek who looked away. His shoulders slumped slightly, though only Edwin saw this. The fury in the older knight's eyes, though, was plain to any who looked his way. "None," he snarled softly. "Gunthar must surely know our plight. He's holding back, hoping I will fail!"
"You do him an injustice!" Edwin said. "How can you think that?"
Derek looked at his brother sharply. There was no missing the unspoken accusation in the question: Derek would have done the same by Gunthar-if not worse- were the tables turned.
"He would do anything to keep me from becoming Grand Master," Derek growled. "Even withhold reinforcements. But it won't work." He stared back at his castle, eyeing it as if it were a rook on a khas-board. "Mark me, the day will come when Gunthar rues all he's done to thwart me."
They stood on the battlements together, neither saying more. Strangers were often amazed to discover that Derek and Edwin Crownguard were of the same blood. Derek was serious, dour and brooding, while Edwin's brow was clear, his eyes bright and guileless. "Naivet," some called behind his back.
In olden times, it had been the custom that a lord's firstborn son became his heir. His second son, with no lands to inherit, often entered the priesthood. Of course, there had been no priesthood since the Cataclysm, but it was a standing joke among the knights that Edwin may as well have been a cleric. Besides believing the ancient tales, he spent much of his time in the old chapel, where-he claimed-he found inner peace.
Derek scoffed at this notion. He would have never tolerated such behavior in anyone but his brother, and he had always hoped Edwin would grow out of it. Now, looking at Edwin-so blissfully free of the burdens lordship had placed on Derek-the older knight realized that Edwin would never change. And though some snickered at Edwin Crownguard and called him simple, Derek sometimes wondered if what others took for Edwin's naivete wasn't instead a clarity of vision Derek himself had never possessed.
"Ho! Look to the plains!"
The cry came from a young Knight of the Crown atop the tall Northeast Tower. He pointed afield. Derek, Edwin and the other knights turned and stared in shock. For a moment, all were silent, then one of the knights cursed softly.
"Virkhus and his legions preserve us," Edwin whispered. His fingers touched Trumbrand, his ancient sword.
Derek said nothing; he only stared toward the cloud-dotted horizon.
In the distance, black and curling with the chill wind, a thick plume of smoke had begun to rise.
*****
By midday, Castle Crownguard's inner ward was filled with refugees, most terrified beyond words. Eventually, the knights found a man not maddened by fear, and brought him to Derek in the keep's Great Hall.
"Linbyr of Archester, a tanner," heralded Sir Winfrid, the seneschal. He motioned for a portly, balding man to enter the hall.
Derek looked up from the great war table, with its map of Solamnia and markers representing the knights and the assumed locations of the Highlords' armies. As he studied the peasant in the ruddy firelight, he twisted one tip of his long brown moustache between his fingers. Linbyr stared back scornfully.
Unused to seeing such contempt in a mere commoner, Derek flushed with anger. "Don't stand there wasting my time! Out with it," he growled. "What ill befell you and your fellows?"
Linbyr was grim. "What ill? I'll tell you, my lord," he said, his voice thick. "We trusted your kind to protect us, that's what ill."
Derek half-rose, balling his hand into a fist, then checked himself. He couldn't let himself be baited; it was beneath him. Still, he spoke with enough rage to give Linbyr pause. "What do you mean by that?"
Linbyr cleared his throat. "What I mean, my lord"- he sneered disdainfully-"is that the armies of the Dark Queen have sacked Archester."
Derek scowled. "Impossible. Such a thing would never happen with Castle Archuran protecting-"
"Castle Archuran has fallen as well."
Derek was so shocked, he let the interruption pass. He caught his breath. "Lord Aurik?" he asked.
"Slain, my lord, along with his men."
Derek sat back in his seat. Lord Aurik had long been one of Derek's greatest political supporters. He had also been a friend, a formidable warrior, and an eminently honorable man. That he and Castle Archuran could have fallen was unthinkable. Derek had never heard of a siege so short. "What treachery wrought this?"
"No treachery, my lord," said Linbyr. His voice had at least softened with compassion for the fallen knights, but this pity only further inflamed Derek's temper. "The armies overran the castle."
Derek snorted. "In a thousand years, Castle Archuran's walls have never been breached, by siege or sorcery."
"That's as may be," Linbyr said, "but they crumbled like clay before the dragons."
Derek looked away, clenching his fist. So it had come true. Edwin's song had come true. He knew it was irrational, but he felt like laying the blame for the dragons on his brother.
"Yes, my lord. Dragons," repeated Linbyr. "Out of the songs of old. The knights were too busy dying to defend our poor village." He shook his head. "And to think we believed they could keep us safe from harm."
With that, and without asking leave, Linbyr turned and left the hall. Derek made no move to stop him.
One word kept echoing in Derek's head. Dragons. Dragons had thrown down the walls of Castle Archuran, had slaughtered Aurik and his men, had dealt yet another blow to Derek's aspirations.
Carefully, he reached out and plucked the marker representing Castle Archuran from the map.
"My lord?"
Derek looked up from the table and saw Sir Winfrid in the doorway. The old seneschal's face was drawn with worry.
"Well? What is it?" Derek snapped, rather more harshly than he'd meant to.
Winfrid was well used to his lord's temper, and if he was stung at all by Derek's curtness, he gave no indication. "A rider approaches from the northwest, my lord," he said. "His shield bears the Knight's Crest."
Oddly, the first thought that occurred to Derek was that the joking squire had been wrong: the sentries were looking to the northwest, after all.
"A messenger from Lord Gunthar, do you think?" he asked.
Winfrid shrugged. "He nears the gates. The archers are standing at ready, my lord, lest it be a trick."
"Good," Derek said. "Let's see what this is about."
He followed Winfrid out of the hall and across the inner ward. Edwin was there, fussing over one of the villagers, a young woman with a bloodied leg.
Derek didn't spare him a second glance. Edwin had a knack for healing the sick and injured. He knew herb lore and how to set broken bones. People said his presence alone made them feel better. Derek thought it all nonsense. Neither his brother nor the frightened, exhausted villagers were foremost on his mind.
He and Winfrid went into the gatehouse, then climbed up the watchtower stairs. At the top, bowmen crouched between the merlons, arrows nocked. Derek peered past them, down the road that led to the castle's stout gates. A rider was approaching at a gallop, and his gleaming shield bore the kingfisher, rose, sword and crown of the Solamnic Knights. His armor was swathed in hunting greens, hiding his identity. The rid
er, nearing the gates, reined in his frothing chestnut horse. He glanced behind him furtively, as if expecting pursuit, then tried to climb out of his saddle. His legs gave out, and he fell to the ground with a crash and a muffled curse.
Derek watched the knight thrash on the ground. From the looks of him, the knight had seen hard fighting of late. That wasn't a surprise: the hills were rife with enemy outriders, and the roads were dangerous for a lone horseman to travel. The knight pushed himself to his knees, then yanked off his visored helm. A shock of red hair spilled onto his shoulders. The man's face was pale, and a thin trickle of dried blood had crusted on his chin, but there was a glint of laughter in his eyes as he gazed up at the watchtower.
"Hail to you, old friend!" he called up to Derek. He broke into a coughing fit-he had plainly been riding hard for some time, and was winded. "A fine day for a ride in the countryside, what?" he wheezed when he found his breath. His red moustache curled above a toothy grin.
Derek was amazed. The green cloak, the red hair, the irrepressible good humor: he knew only one such knight. "Aran?" he called as the man staggered to his feet.
"The last I knew," returned the red-haired knight. He glanced behind again-it seemed more reflex than conscious action-then back up at the watchtower. "I don't suppose you'd mind raising the gates and letting me in?"
*****
Derek descended to the bottom of the watchtower and started toward the castle gates. Two young squires preceded him to offer their assistance in helping Sir Aran Tallbow walk. Aran was doing his best to shoo them back. "Get away," he grumbled. "I've just ridden halfway across Solamnia. I can make it to the bleedin' courtyard on my own."
"Take his horse," Derek ordered the squires. "See she's rubbed down, fed and watered. And brush the burdocks out of her mane." Nodding and bowing, the squires took the animal's reins from Aran and led the horse through the barbican into the inner ward.
Aran Tallbow, Knight of the Crown, looked Derek up and down, then limped forward wearily. "It's good to see you again," he said, grinning despite his soreness from long hours in the saddle.
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