Darthoridan’s eyes flamed as he rounded on the High Mage. “You gave me that dagger as a wedding gift so that you might watch me!”
“And you should be glad of it,” the Gold elf retorted. “Had I not, you would be dead and this ship would be in human hands.”
That was true enough, but the warrior eyed Vhoori suspiciously. “I cannot believe you gave such a gift because you wished me well.”
“I came to your rescue, did I not?” the mage said impatiently.
Darthoridan nodded. “What do you want of me, then?”
“First, your silence. None need know of the Starwing fleet, or of Evermeet’s newest protector,” Vhoori said, nodding to the now-quiet sea. “Second, your support. I wish to become the next High Councilor.”
Darthoridan laughed, briefly and without humor. “You command ships that fly, magic enough to bind one of the sea’s most powerful creatures—”
“Two, actually,” the mage interjected. “There is already a kraken patrolling the waters north of Sumbrar.”
The Moon elf threw up his hands. “Why do you need my support? You could simply take what you desire!”
Vhoori Durothil shook his head. “You still do not understand. I have no wish to conquer, but to serve. The powers I have, I will wield for the good of Evermeet.”
“According to your lights,” Darthoridan said sarcastically.
“According to my right.” The mage’s usually calm voice rose with sudden passion. “The Durothil clan is the most ancient and honored of all those on this island. Our ancestors ruled Aryvandaar, and before that, Faerie itself. The Council’s time is nearly past. Evermeet must have one ruler, a worthy ruler from a worthy and proven dynasty. And who better than me and mine?”
“You wish to be a king,” Darthoridan said, thunderstruck.
Vhoori did not disagree. “I have ruled Sumbrar well. Evermeet is my due. There is more,” he said, breaking off the Moon elf’s attempted protest. “With my magic, I can look among the stars, below the sea, and to the Circles that gather in every comer of this world. Sometimes, dimly, I catch a glimpse of what will be. And this I tell you in all assurance: Evermeet will have a king.”
“And have you also foreseen that you are to be this king?”
The mage shrugged. “Perhaps I presume too much in seeking Evermeet’s throne. But more likely, in doing so I only hasten my own destiny. I tell you this because you are a strong voice in the council. Your word will go far. Swear fealty to me now, and in return you will hold your northern lands in the name of the crown. You will have power and honor beyond what most Silver elf clans could hope to achieve.”
Before Darthoridan could respond, he felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder. He looked down into his wife’s face. She nodded, her lovely features set in determination. “If swearing to Durothil will bring honor and position to our house, my lord, do so at once.”
The Moon elf was too weary to argue. He could not dispute Vhoori’s vision or his wife’s desire for a place of power in the court. Did he not wish the same thing? Was this not what he had desired all his life?
“Agreed,” he said curtly. “But beware of me, if you do not rule well.”
Vhoori’s smile was complacent. “There is little chance of that. Evermeet is becoming what she was meant to be. The dawn you see before you is that of a new and—you should pardon the expression—golden era.”
14
The Flight of the Dragons
he forest trees shook as Malar the Beast Lord screamed his rage into the night sky. Snarling and cursing, he paced the forest and set the mountains of Faerûn quivering with the reverberating echoes of his wrath.
This deep inland woodland was his haunt now. Not for him the remote islands and the angry waves of the sea. He was done with Umberlee, and she with him.
Twice now had the goddess of the sea fallen short of Malar’s expectations. It was not that Umberlee lacked power, but she was simply too capricious. The goddess had none of Malar’s single-minded focus. She was just as happy tormenting sailors off the sunny coasts of Chult as she was speeding human pirates on a raid to Evermeet. If one endeavor should fail, the goddess merely shrugged a white-capped shoulder and turned her attention elsewhere. The seas of Aber-toril were broad, and a single elven island could not hold Umberlee’s attention for long.
But Malar wondered if he would ever be able to think of anything else. The passing of centuries had done little to cool his hatred for elves or to blunt his desire to see Corellon Larethian bested. It was becoming increasingly clear, however, that an invasion of Evermeet was no easy matter.
Finally wearied by his ranting, the Beast Lord flung himself to the ground. Leaning his black-furred head against the trunk of an ancient oak, he sat and stared with malevolent red eyes up into the blackness of a moonless night. The night was as dark as any he had seen. A fine layer of clouds obscured the stars. This pleased Malar, for starlight was a source of joy and magic to the accursed elves. In his current mood he needed no such reminder of his elusive foes.
A faint, rosy pinprick of light in the eastern sky caught the brooding god’s attention. He squinted up, trying to remember what about it seemed so familiar. Suddenly the years fell away, and Malar remembered a distant time, a time of terrible destruction at the hands of the mightiest hunters known to this world.
The god sprang to his feet and sprinted through the forest. To the nearest mountain he ran, and he did not pause until he had left the tree line below him. Finally he stood near the mountaintop. The night sky lay open before him, a naked void of darkness bereft of any light but one.
By now the new star had risen high in the sky, huge and bright enough to shine through the mist. It hung over the mountains, glimmering like a single crimson eye. Malar threw up his arms and crowed with triumph. It was as he thought. The King-Killer had returned.
Perhaps some gods understood the rhythm of the stars, and marked the occasional coming of the brilliant red star. Malar was not such a god. But he remembered one thing—one very important thing. For reasons unknown, when the King-Killer shone bright above Faerûn, the dragons gathered and took flight.
At last, Malar knew how best to serve vengeance to Evermeet.
The god began to dance in the dim red light of the King-Killer. Tendrils of godly magic wafted off to search for the Beast Lord’s followers, and to slip into the dreams of those who listened. To all his priests and shamans Malar sent the same message:
Gather the faithful. The time has come for a Great Hunt.
The orc horde crashed through the forest, making no effort to conceal their presence or to mute the sound of their approach. There didn’t seem to be much point. The path of the dragonflight had passed over this land, leaving a broad swath of charred and lifeless forest.
“Don’ know why we’s acomin’ thisaway,” muttered a young, gray-hided orc who trailed along near the end of the procession. This was his first raid, and so far it had fallen far short of his expectations. A Great Hunt, indeed! They had yet to kill a single elf. Even four-legged game was scarce.
His companion shrugged and shifted his own unbloodied spear to the other shoulder. “Vapgard sez come, we come.”
“Not find nothing here,” the gray grumbled. “Why dragons gotta burn forest, anyhow?”
“Hmmph! You not remember the hungry winter? Hard snow. Too many wolves come south. Hard for orcs to find game.”
The gray orc grunted. Of course he remembered. He had not yet been old enough to be accounted a fighter, but he’d been old enough to hunt. His ears still rang with the memories of his mother’s blows when he came back to the cave day after day with an empty bag.
“What we do back then?” his companion persisted.
“Ah!” The orc bared his fangs in a grin as he grasped the meaning. “Some orcs burn forest. Other orcs, many many, wait by river.”
“I hear Vapgard’s brother float boats down river. Boats carry many orcs—more than many. They wait. We come behind.” The or
c stopped his march and planted his spear into the thick layer of ash. He held up his taloned hands. “Them, us,” he said gesturing first with one hand, then the other. With a fierce grin, he smacked his palms together.
“Smash ’em,” agreed the gray happily.
So encouraged, the young orc marched without complaint through the remainder of the day. By late afternoon, the horde had left the ruined forest behind. Ancient charred trees gave way to scrub, and then to meadow.
A howl of excitement started at the front of the mob and rippled back through the horde. The orcs began to surge forward. The gray waited for the wave of movement to reach him, and grant him space to run—and to kill.
“Long past time,” he grunted when at last he could level his spear. He ran out onto the meadow, noting that the grass was not only dried and brittle from dragonfire, but slick with blood. He pulled up short to keep from stumbling over what appeared to have been the haunch of a wood buffalo. Probably a morsel that fell from some dragon’s mouth.
The horde had spread out by now, and the orc had a better view of the battlefield. It was not what he had hoped for.
The field was littered with bodies—some of them forest creatures that the dragons had not eaten, but most of them elves. Some had been torn by massive claws and fangs, some blasted by dragonfire, others melted to the bone by a black dragon’s acid breath. The carnage was entertaining to observe, but it offered neither sport nor satiation. The young orc wanted to kill. He needed to kill.
Baring his fangs, he began to zigzag back and forth across the field, imitating the older orcs who kicked and prodded at the elven bodies. Every now and then, one of them found an elf who yet breathed. Each discovery was heralded by triumphant howls, and the sounds of thudding clubs and spears.
But the young orc’s status had placed him too near the back of the horde, and he was too late to claim any of the trophies taken that day. It occurred to him, when at last the secondhand battlefield fell silent, that this was not hunting at all, not really. They were more like ravens and wolves, cleaning up after the dragons.
The gray shrugged. Ravens and wolves—these were not so bad to be. And if he could not kill elves today, then tomorrow was nearly as good. The river was but a half day’s march to the south. Along the edge of the river was a large elven settlement. Though it had been fortified with walls and magic, it would fall readily enough. How could it not? The forest elves, archers and fighters who were the city’s advance defenders, were all dead. Moreover, the dragonflight usually followed the course of the river, and surely dragonfire had tumbled parts of the walls, perhaps even toppled those wicked Towers. And there were many, many orcs on the move, orcs who were in near-frenzy from their first taste of slaughter.
Tomorrow, the elven city. Tomorrow, the joy of the hunt and the pride of many trophies would be his.
Chandrelle Durothil, the powerful daughter of Evermeet’s high councilor, led her Circle in yet another spell of summoning. Even through the deep concentration of the spell, she could hear the unmistakable sounds of dragonflight beyond the tower windows—the thumping of giant wings, the screams and roars the massive creatures emitted as they wheeled and swooped.
She could also feel the powerful crackle of the magic that thrummed through the air. On all of Aber-toril, no creatures, not even the elves, were as inherently magical as the dragons. Only the rebirth of the dragonriders, the union of dragons and elves in an incredible joining of magic, offered the elves hope of survival against the approachng orc hordes.
The elves of Faerûn were not the only people to suffer from the flight of rampaging dragons. Wars between the races of dragons had been long and costly. Now the evil dragons of the south—red dragons, mostly, with a few smaller but no less deadly blacks—gathered together in nearly unprecedented numbers for the northward migration. Along the way, they deliberately destroyed the holdings of the peace-loving wyrms. Bronze dragons found their lakes reduced to drifting steam and cracked, lifeless beds. Grouts of flame melted rock, sealing entrances to the caves of silver and gold dragons and trapping many of the creatures within.
Chandrelle had been among the first elves to travel through the new gates that in recent years had linked Evermeet to the mainland. Her husband, a newcomer and a distant relative who also bore the name Durothil, had helped establish the gate between Evermeet and the city of his birth.
Now the city lay in near ruin. Once, it had been a fair place, protected by walls and powerful magic, and situated on the banks of a broad, trout-filled river. Dragonfire had destroyed the farmlands and forests beyond, and had blasted huge gaps in the walls. An entire quarter lay in smoking ruins. Only the mithal, a powerful shield of magic, had kept the city from utter destruction.
But the Tower still stood, High magi joined with the scores of other magi sent from Evermeet to help buttress the tower. They chanted powerful spells that summoned and bound the goodly dragons. In ancient times, dragonriders trained their mounts from birth, bonding to them with deep and mystical connections. There was no time for this now.
Shouts of excitement from the city below alerted the magi to their success. Chandrelle skillfully tapered off the flow of power and released the magi from their collective spellcasting.
“Seven more have come,” she said in a voice that still thrummed with power. “There are now enough dragons for us all.”
Along with the other mages, Chandrelle hurried from the tower to greet the newcomers. One of the dragons, a gold female, stepped forward and dipped her massive head in a gesture of respect to the High Mage.
“We have heard what you plan to do,” the dragon announced in a voice that shook the Tower. “It is madness.”
“It is needed,” Chandrelle insisted. “Your people cannot fight the evil dragons alone, nor can we. We need your powers of flight to overtake and surround those who fly north. You need our High Magic to stop them.”
“And when they are slain? What then?”
“Then your kind can once again live in peace, and we elves can rebuild our cities.”
The dragon shook her golden head. “So much power, so little wisdom,” she murmured.
“You will not help us?” Chandrelle pressed.
“We have little choice. Your magic compelled us to come—it compels most of us to serve.”
It was not the endorsement that Chandrelle would have liked, but it would have to do. The mage quickly explained to the newly arrived dragons their part in the plan. Hastily fashioned saddles were brought and strapped onto the creatures. Today was the practice flight. There could be only one.
Excitement mingled with trepidation as Chandrelle climbed onto her dragon mount. Dragonriders had used magic for centuries, but never before had a Circle attempted to join together while riding dragons!
The creature’s wings unfolded with a loud, booming crash. Before Chandrelle could catch her breath, the dragon was airborne.
As a High Mage of Evermeet, during her years in the Towers of Aryvandaar Chandrelle had seen many wonders. None of them equalled dragonflight for sheer exhilaration. They soared upward like a shooting star in reverse. In moments the city was as vague as a forgotten dream, the river a mere ribbon. The elf threw back her head and laughed into the racing wind.
When the clouds lay below them like mounds of snow and mist, the dragon leveled off and began to circle. Other dragons broke through the clouds, and one by one they fell into formation. It was time for the casting to begin.
Chandrelle sank deep into herself, seeking the magic that flowed through her and with it reaching out to the minds of the other magi. One by one, she pulled them into the Weave. The elf gathered the threads and wove them into a single spell of destruction—the most powerful spell attempted since that which had sundered the One Land in a time of legend.
At first light the following day, the High Magi and their dragon mounts gathered for final preparations. Their mood was somber, even though the testing of the spell had gone well. Perhaps, because it had go
ne so well. The magnitude of the destruction they would soon unleash was not an easy thing to contemplate.
Nevertheless, more than a hundred pairs of dragons and riders took to the air that morning. They climbed high into the sky until they were well above the sunrise clouds, and then flew with magically enhanced swiftness toward the north.
The path of the dragonflight was not difficult to follow. Sometimes in search of prey to fuel their flight, sometimes just for the love of destruction, the evil dragons burned the land and slaughtered all the creatures they found. Black and red these dragons were, and in the charred and blood-soaked land they left a grim reflection of themselves.
Before highsun, the dragonriders overtook their quarry. The horde of evil dragons swept low to the ground, intent upon their orgy of destruction. At that height the winds were capricious, the air thick with a blend of morning mist and smoke from the burning woodlands. The evil dragons could not fly as swiftly as those that pursued them.
At a signal from Chandrelle, the dragonriders dispersed and began to form a wide circle over the horde of dragons below. They flew in careful formation, like an enormous flock of glittering gold and silver geese.
The elven magi began the chant, summoning the magic and spinning it in a dizzy circle. Together they formed a whirling cone of air and magic, a storm larger than any the world had known, and sent it plunging down toward the dragons below.
There was no warning, no time for the migrating dragons to pull away from the attack. One moment, the sounds filling the air were those of their own making: the boom and crackle of the burning woodlands, the distant cries of fear and pain from the forest creatures below, their own triumphant roars. All these were muted, suddenly and completely, by the descending cone of magic.
The whirling winds caught the dragons and spun them helplessly about. Many were killed in the first sudden rush of explosive sound and power. Their enormous bodies acted as bludgeons as the wind whipped them against their still-living comrades.
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