Evermeet

by Elaine Cunningham

  Nakiasha took the girl’s arm. “Come, child. Let the Gold elf attend to sending messages. We must form the Circle, and lend the warriors what help we can.”

  The door to Horith Evanara’s office flew open, striking a ringing blow against the living rock of the chamber wall.

  Captain Horith was not at all surprised when Zaor Moonflower burst into the room. The tall, blue-haired Moon elf had swiftly climbed the ranks of the Leuthilspar guard, and had sought reassignment to the fortress city of Ruith. Already Zaor had made his command into perhaps the finest fighting unit among the many that trained and garrisoned within the walls of Lightspear Keep. Zaor was well liked by the fighters, but he did not always show proper respect for either the rank or the wisdom of the keep’s commanders.

  “I heard of the approaching flight of dragons. Why have you not called forth the dragonriders?” the young warrior demanded.

  The captain fixed a cool stare upon his most promising—and most troublesome—officer. “You mean the squadron commanded by those Durothil crones? I think not. This battle—if indeed there is a battle—belongs to me.”

  “You cannot be serious! You’ve never seen the destruction a rampaging dragon can leave behind. I have. This matter goes far beyond clan rivalry, or personal pride!”

  “Have a care how you speak,” the Gold elf said coldly. “I assure you, the situation is under control. The Durothil dragonriders need not hear of it.”

  “You have not even sent word?” said Zaor in disbelief.

  Angry now, Captain Horith rose—and immediately regretted the act. It was difficult to assert authority over an elf who stood head and shoulders above him. Though, in truth, he suspected that Zaor Moonflower would be formidable even at half his size.

  “The situation is under control,” the Gold elf repeated in a tight voice. “The dragonriders are not needed, and neither, Captain Zaor, is your presence in my office. You are dismissed.”

  But the Moon elf stood his ground. “Warriors afoot have little chance against a single dragon, much less a hundred. You know that as well as I. What, then, do you intend to do?”

  When Horith hesitated, Zaor slammed the desk with one fist in sudden wrath. “This is as much my affair as yours! I’ve a hundred elves under my command, and I’ll be damned as a drow before I’ll march them blindly to their deaths! If you have a plan, speak!”

  “The Starwing fleet,” Horith said grudgingly. “Star ships, man-o-wars that sail through the clouds as nimbly as common ships do the seas. They are kept in secret in the sea caves of Sumbrar. Beyond the Council members and the ships’ crew, few elves know of them.”

  Zaor fell back a step as he absorbed this wonder. “How many ships?”

  “Ten. All well-crewed and heavily armed,” the Gold elf said with pride. “Finer warships do not exist, on this world or any other. If the need arises, I will command the battle myself from the flagship.”

  “Even so, what chance have ten ships against a hundred dragons?” Zaor shook his head. “No, Lady Mylaerla must be alerted at once.” He spun and stalked from the office.

  “If you do,” hissed the captain, “I will see you stripped of rank.”

  Zaor did not pause. “And If I don’t,” he returned with grim certainty and in a voice that rang though the corridors, “we will all be dead.”

  Leaving the Gold elf sputtering with rage, the Moon elf captain hurried through the halls of Lightspear Keep to the stables beyond. In the adjoining pasture awaited his horse. No common beast, this, but a moon-horse, a magical beast capable of great speed. He would have need of it, for the Eagle Hills were nearly fifty miles to the west, and too much time had been wasted on Horith Evanara’s pride.

  Zaor leaped upon the stallion’s back and urged it forward with a thought. As he rode through the streets to the western gates, the Moon elf’s gaze fell upon a round, white-marble tower, one of the finest buildings in all of Ruith. This was the Pegasi Aerie. Even now, winged horses and their riders were circling the city, landing on the flat roof of the Aerie, practicing the endless, complex maneuvers that had shaped them into a legendary defensive force.

  For a moment, Zaor was tempted to stop and try to persuade the Gold elf commander into joining his mutiny. But he knew that such an effort would fail; furthermore, he doubted that a score of winged horses would have much effect upon a hundred rampaging dragons.

  Zaor turned away, riding through one of the randomly shifting gates in Ruith’s transparent walls. He could feel his moon-horse’s relief as they left the city behind. The stallion sped toward the hills, then climbed the first rugged slope as nimbly as a mountain goat.

  The Moon elf called a halt at the mouth of a cave. He dismounted, then urged the moon-horse to take refuge in the meadows to the west of the mountains. If all went as he hoped, he would not have need of such a mount in the battle to come.

  When the magical creature was safely out of sight, Zaor took up a curving bronze horn that hung from a hook at the cave’s entrance. He placed it to his lips and blew three quick blasts.

  Before the final echoes died away, Zaor found himself gazing into two pairs of golden eyes. One belonged to Ahskahala Durothil, the other to Haklashara, the venerable gold wyrm who was her partner. At that moment, Zaor could not say with certainty which of the two was the more formidable.

  The elf woman’s odd, almost reptilian eyes were the only hint of color about her. White of hair and skin, draped in pale chain mail and a silver-gray tunic, Ahskahala closely resembled the spear she carried: tall, slender, lethal. There was more warmth in the dragon’s amber gaze than in hers, and less menace.

  The warrior listened, tight-lipped, to Zaor’s warnings.

  “I can meet the flight with thirty dragonriders,” she said at last. “But I tell you now, it will not be enough. Monst of the dragons are younglings. Even if they were not, the numbers are against us.”

  “Perhaps the starwing ships will turn the balance,” Zaor said. Even as he spoke, he realized how hollow the words sounded.

  The dragon Haklashara cleared his throat, a horrible grating sound that reminded Zaor of the first stage of a rock slide.

  “What of the giant eagles that nest on the high crags?” suggested the wyrm. “Many times I have told you, elf woman, that they also might be persuaded to take on the training of you elves. At the very least, they might remove some of the burden of Evermeet’s defense from the shoulders of the dragon folk!”

  The elf glared at her mount. “This is not the time to sing that old song! Even if you were right—and mind you, I’m not saying you are—there is no time for it. Such birds must begin training the moment they emerge from their eggs. No untrained eagle would be able to work with an elven rider.”

  “Or vice versa,” the dragon put in snootily.

  Despite the bantering nature of this exchange, the dragon’s words gave Zaor a sudden, desperate idea. He knew that all the creatures who made Evermeet their home were closely bound to the magic isle. A common eagle in defense of its nest was a fearsome adversary. Perhaps as many as fifty giant eagles lived in the mountains to which they lent their name. If he could convince these creatures to join the coming battle, they might have a real chance.

  “Who leads the giant eagles?” he demanded of Haklashara.

  “Hmm.” The dragon raised a paw and tapped reflectively at his scaly chin with one massive claw. “That would be WindShriek, I believe.”

  “Do you know where to find him? Can you take me there?”

  “Her,” the dragon corrected. “WindShriek is a female, and as nasty-tempered as this other two-legged one before you. As to your questions, yes and yes. I know where her nest is, and I will take you there.” The enormous creature slipped from the cave, sinuous as a snake, then crouched down to allow Zaor to mount his back.

  “You would permit another elf to ride you?” demanded Ahskahala in astonishment.

  The dragon shot a look of pure, gloating delight at his elven partner. “Only an elf who posses
ses the good sense to recognize wisdom when he hears it,” he said slyly. A cryptic expression crossed his scaled visage, and he added in more serious tones, “And only the elf who bears such a sword.”

  Before Ahskahala could voice further protest, the dragon flexed his wings and leaped into the air.

  The sudden rush of wind and speed nearly tore Zaor from his seat. He grasped the horn of the saddle with both hands, hanging on for his life and swearing with a soldier’s fluency.

  A low, grating chuckle thrummed through the shrieking wind. “Get used to it, elf king,” advised the dragon. “As much as it pains me to admit, WindShriek in a dive flies even swifter than I!”

  Haklashara climbed steadily until all that lay beneath them was a bank of clouds. Suddenly he curved his wings in a tight arch and spun down in a sweeping circle.

  As they burst from the clouds, Zaor’s eyes widened in pure panic. The dragon was hurtling with incredible speed toward the sheer rock wall of a mountain.

  The wyrm’s deep, booming chuckle bounced off the mountain, to be echoed again and again by the hills beyond. Just as Zaor was certain he could glimpse before him the shadows of Arvandor’s trees, Haklashara wheeled abruptly to one side, then glided down to land with astonishing lightness and ease upon a large stone ledge.

  The winds still roared in Zaor’s ears as he leaped down from the saddle. Even so, he was nearly deafened by a shrieking cry, a scream so powerful that it shook loose rocks and sent them tumbling down the rocky face of the mountain. With a flurry of wings, WindShriek rushed at the invaders.

  Zaor’s moonblade hissed free of its scabbard. The elf brought the sword up in guard position and held his ground.

  An aura of power, like a shining blue haze, surrounded the elf. Magic gleamed like captured lightning along the rune-carved length of the sword. Yet Zaor did not attack the wondrous bird.

  Taller than a war-horse and garbed with golden feathers, the giant eagle was magnificent in her fury. Zaor only hoped that WindShriek, like Haklashara, recognized the significance of the magic sword and the destiny of the elf who wielded it.

  WindShriek halted beyond the glowing aura, her wings batting wildly and her furious golden eyes fixed upon the dragon. The buffeting winds from her flailing wings threatened to sweep Zaor from his feet despite the sword’s protective shield of magic.

  “Why you come by my nest, dragon?” demanded the eagle in a high, ringing voice. “Bring lotsa blue magic, elf with sword. How come? You wanna steal egg, you plenty late! Eggs hatch, hatchlings now fledglings. Children not here—fly far and strong!”

  “Do you take me for a starling or a squirrel? I’m no nest robber, and well you know it!” the dragon huffed.

  Zaor took a single step forward. “Do not blame Haklashara for this intrusion, Queen WindShriek. Evermeet has need of you and your strong children.”

  The eagle cocked her head and examined the elf. “Who you?”

  “For a creature with your legendarily keen eyesight, you’re remarkably slow to see what’s before you,” the dragon said dryly. “You don’t recognize the power of the sword, do you? It pulses as if it were the heart of Evermeet! ‘Lotsa blue magic,’ indeed! This is the elven king, you feather-brained dolt! He has come at last.”

  It was not a claim that Zaor felt he could make, nor one he wished to reaffirm. To his relief, WindShriek accepted the dragon’s pronouncement without question. “Why you come by my nest, elf king?”

  “I come to bring word of great danger to your people and mine,” the elf said. “You are not a night bird, so it might be that word might not have reached you. A bright red star shines in the eastern sky. When this happens, oftentimes a flock of evil dragons gathers to join in a flight of destruction. This time, they are heading directly for Evermeet. We must stop them before they reach the island.”

  The giant eagle pondered this. “What you want WindShriek to do, elf king?”

  “You are queen of your kind. Lead them into battle. The risks will be great,” he told her gravely, “and many of your own will not return. The same is true of all who will fight, be they eagles or dragon folk or elves. Yet there is no other choice before us, but death for all.”

  “Hmm. Eagle people never fight dragons,” WindShriek mused, but there was no fear in her voice.

  “I have,” Zaor asserted, “and I trust that your battle prowess is equal to the task. If you will work with me, I believe together we can turn them back.”

  “Trust, elf king?”

  WindShriek stared at the elf for a moment, her wild eyes unreadable. Then she lunged at him, her hooked beak diving toward his throat.

  Trusting his instinct, Zaor did not flinch or attempt to parry the attack. The enormous beak snapped shut a finger’s breadth from his face. Nearly eye to eye, the eagle and the elf regarded each other.

  The giant eagle stepped back. “You plenty brave, elf king,” she said approvingly. “You trust WindShriek, WindShriek trust you. Eagle people fight with elves and dragons this day.”

  “Now that that’s settled,” the dragon said, “I’ll take my leave. Ahskahala is not the most patient of elves, and her disposition does not improve with pending battle. Your majesties.” Without irony, the great creature inclined his horned head to the eagle and the elf, and then leaped from the ledge into the air.

  WindShriek spread her wings, as well. “You not gonna walk, are you?”

  This effectively settled Zaor’s next problem—how to persuade the giant eagle to allow him to ride upon her back. The elf climbed onto her wide shoulders sitting just behind her enormous golden head. With a shrilling cry, the eagle climbed into the sky.

  In the Tower of the Sun, Amlaruil joined with the other High Magi in a spell of seeking. In the combined vision of the Circle, the elves reached out across the miles, out over the open sea, to the dragons that winged steadily toward Evermeet.

  There were perhaps seventy of them. Many of the dragons bore the scars of their long flight: scales dulled or molting, wings frayed by storms and sea winds, the leathery hide of the neck hanging in loose folds over depleted flesh. In response to the strange compulsion of dragonflight, the great creatures had flown far without rest or food.

  But the elves did not take too much heart from this evidence of the dragons’ weariness. By now, the creatures were desperate, and in their imperative need to reach Evermeet, they would certainly throw all their remaining strength against the defenders.

  Even as the elves struggled to absorb the horrendous mental image of the dragonflight, a new wonder edged its way into their vast magical canvas. Amlaruil caught her breath in awe at her first glimpse of the Starwing fleet.

  There were ten of them, all man-o-wars, and they swept toward the invading dragons like a flock of titanic butterflies. Their slender crystal hulls cut through the air as swiftly as did the dragons’ sleek forms, and their glistening, brightly colored pairs of double sails seized every breath of wind.

  As Amlaruil watched, the blood-red ship in the lead position fired her ballista. An enormous, iron-tipped bolt streaked toward the nearest black dragon.

  To the elf’s astonishment, the black wyrm deftly snatched the weapon from the air with one forepaw. Immediately it bought the spear up against its body, so that the force of the stopped bolt was not borne by that one limb. Then the dragon twirled the ballista bolt around, nimbly as an elven fighter might spin his staff. Its massive black tongue lolled out and licked at the wicked tip.

  A corrosive hiss and the stench of burning metal filled the air as the black dragon’s acid began to melt through the iron tip. Holding the weapon like a javelin, the creature reared back in the air and hurled the ballista bolt back toward the lead ship.

  The man-o-war pulled hard to one side, but the tainted weapon tore through the starboard wing. The tattered hole it left behind began to grow as the acid spread, eating its way through the crimson wing and sending melting drops falling like blood to the deck below. The cries of wounded elves echoed horribly. The
ship began to falter, sinking down toward the waiting sea.

  Swiftly the remaining ships fanned out to form a defensive line between the island and the approaching dragons. Thump after thump filled the air as their catapults loosed a steady barrage of scattershot at the approaching dragons.

  The deadly fire had effect. Four of the creatures spiraled down to the waters, their wings torn and useless. But the others, even those who had been wounded, came steadily on. In their lead was a young red dragon, a large male. The bands of armor encircling the dragon’s mighty chest swelled as the creature fueled itself for the killing blast.

  Fire shields, now!

  Jannalor Nierde’s voice, imperative and desperate, sounded in the minds of each elf in the Circle. As one, the High Magi chanted the words that would fashion the protective spell.

  Fire burst from the creature’s mouth, pouring out in a stream of flame that went on and on in a seemingly endless gout of heat and destruction. The immense, curved shield of magic that warded the ships turned back the flame, but within moments the once-invisible barrier was red-hot, the surface blistered and bubbling like melting glass.

  Most of the onrushing dragons ducked under the reflected waves of fire. They glided under the ships, letting the searing heat and flame waft upward harmlessly. Only two of the dragons were caught in the updraft and tossed high into the sky.

  Well enough, thought Amlaruil in relief. The ships had survived the dragons’ worst weapon, and they were above most of the wyrms, and thus in a far more defensible position.

  Immediately the man-o-wars began to maneuver into a new formation. The ships on the outer edges of the line swept around to the west, the others following until all nine had formed a circle. The dragons, however, knew no such organization. They swarmed toward the ships from all sides in sudden, terrible, relentless attack.