Deathfyre wheeled to pursue the fleeing dragons, but he saw several silver shapes slashing toward him, and his instincts compelled him to protect himself. Though all of them were small, they flew with deadly purpose.
Twisting like a corkscrew in the air, Deathfyre whipped his neck toward the enemy attackers. Jaws gaping, he belched a cloud of roaring flame, a billowing fireball of death that wrapped two of the silver shapes in its killing embrace.
Pushing down with hard strokes of his wings, Deathfyre fought for altitude, trying to avoid the scorched bodies that would tumble out of the dissipating ball of fire-but there were no bodies! The remaining silver serpent curled around, and the red barely pulled his wing out of the way of a vicious blast of frost. He saw that this young silver was a cripple, that its rear legs were weak and shriveled, but that did nothing to tame the deadliness of its breath weapon. Deathfyre tumbled backward, out of control, with a burning pain of ice freezing his tail.
At the same time, he knew how the crippled silver had eluded him. It had been the simple spell of the mirror image, an enchantment Deathfyre himself had known since his first hundred winters. Yet when it was used against him, the simple trick had fooled him completely. There had been only one silver dragon, not three, and his lethal fire had been wasted against a pair of magical impostors!
Infuriated, he swept after the silver as that gleaming serpent flew close to the ground, carving a wide arc back toward the battle raging in the skies. Some of the wyrmlings had escaped, aided by magical speed, but most of the brood had remained to fight. This silver newt was small, little more than half of Deathfyre’s awesome length, but he proved to be a surprisingly fast flier. The withering of his body clearly did not extend to his wings. Straining to the limit, Deathfyre found that he could close the distance only gradually. Finally he breathed, spewing a hellish cloud of fire that surrounded the impudent silver for a searing, fatal instant. The red dragon was already wheeling away as the wrinkled, charred carcass tumbled from the sky.
Clouds of dragons whirled through the sky overhead. A young bronze tumbled, horribly slashed, while blues and blacks caught a pair of coppers in a deadly crossfire of acid and lightning. Fire and smoke drifted through the air, and flashes of flame and clouds of green and noxious gas added a surreal beauty to the scene.
And still more chromatic dragons winged toward the fight, with vengeful challenges ringing through the air before them. Several greens dived from the heights, sweeping toward the smoldering patch of sky, and a wedge of whites, laboring hard to gain altitude, winged speedily closer, their pale, serpentine forms standing out clearly against the mountainous landscape to the north.
Another metal dragon, this one a golden female, plunged downward, writhing and shrieking in pain. As the pathetic creature tumbled past, Deathfyre saw that her entire face had been burned away by a blast of black dragon acid. Another gold, this one a larger male, roared in and torched one of the blacks with a breath of fireball, but then the gilded wyrm was forced to flee for his life as the other blacks whirled about in furious pursuit.
Then suddenly the skies were empty of Paladine’s dragons. A few of the metal serpents had buzzed over the high ridges, scattering away from the mountain valley. They fled in full panic, knowing their clan had been decimated, and for now the chromatic dragons let them go.
Looking down, Deathfyre saw dragons of every color lying in the ghastly stillness of death. The battle had littered the valley floor with corpses, great shapes scattered like bright scars on the ground itself. Here a blue wing twitched, or there a copper tail lashed back and forth, but for the most part the serpents on the valley floor were utterly and irrevocably slain. Even from this height, the awful wounds inflicted by breath and fang and claw were clearly visible, leaving great rends in the scaly bodies.
And central to this killing ground was the mighty golden serpent, Aurican. It pleased Deathfyre to know that not only had the mighty patriarch perished, but also that fewer than a dozen of the metal dragons had escaped the carnage. The few that had fled were no threat for now. They would be hunted down and killed at his leisure.
His mother’s teachings, the words of Takhisis herself, came to Deathfyre in a clear flash: Find your strongest enemy and kill him…
Now, with the dragons of Paladine defeated, he knew where that enemy lay. The power of magic still screened Silvanost, and it was time to reduce that stronghold.
There would be time for the metal wyrmlings later.
Chapter 26
Exiled
2693 PC
The surviving nestmates gathered in a dark, marble-walled gorge in the tangle of the Kharolis foothills. There were but ten of them, young dragons of metal who had departed the grotto in desperate, magically enhanced haste, with memories of violence and death licking at their heels.
Callak and Auricus were the last to land, after insuring that the evil dragons made no pursuit. The pair had circled for a long time over the Kharolis Mountains while the others tucked their wings and dived to the shelter of the secluded gorge. They all understood that there would be no returning to their ancient lair. Once on the ground, the remaining dragons of the Platinum Father could only huddle miserably together for warmth and comfort.
“Aurican is dead,” Auric whispered, his voice numb with disbelief. “He died so that we could live.”
“He was so wise, so mighty,” wailed Blythe, the golden female who now coiled dejectedly beside Auricus. “How will we survive without him?”
“And so many of our nestmates…” Dazzall said numbly. “I saw Flash perish after he tore the wings from a blue.”
“And Agon,” Daria said, her voice catching. “He led that mighty red away from me… from all of us.”
“Ten dragons of metal… we are all that remain.” It was Callak who called for the attention of the others. He nodded his silver head sadly, reflecting on the brothers and sisters they all had lost.
“Are we safe here?” asked Daria, the only other silver to remain alive.
“We cannot know for sure,” replied Auricus, in tones so deep that he sounded startlingly like his sire. “It may be that Deathfyre or another has tracked our flight, knowing we came here to hide and lick our wounds.”
“At least they felt the sting of our claws, the bite of our fangs!” asserted Tharn with a menacing growl. “I saw Arjen kill two blues… before he perished.”
He sighed, lowering his sharp, angular head to the ground in acknowledgment of the truth they all understood: In a few short minutes over the Valley of Paladine, the good dragons had been dealt a devastating defeat. It had been a tragedy of unprecedented and far-reaching proportions, culling most of their number, slaying their patriarch, reducing these nestlings to a band of pathetic survivors.
True, they had killed some of the Dark Queen’s wyrms, perhaps as many as they themselves had lost. But that, in the balance, still left scores of chromatic dragons, many of them fully mature, arrayed against these five pairs of young serpents.
The dragons of Paladine finally slept, abandoning themselves to torpor. A sunrise and sunset passed, but the nestmates didn’t stir. Instead, they rested, allowing their wounds to heal… but even the passage of time couldn’t quell the rising of despair.
Daria awakened them all with a braying cry of alarm. The silver female regarded her nine nestmates seriously.
“I have had a dream,” she said, her tone low, awestricken. She looked at Callak, then at the others, shaking her head in wonder. “I saw a great Spear of Paladine. Someday there will come to us a weapon that will allow us to battle the dragons of evil.”
“Where do we find this weapon?” growled Callak.
“It will find us, but not for many hundreds of winters. Until then, we must leave this place.” Daria looked at each of the wyrmlings, and the finality of her tone was enough to quell most objections.
“Leave the High Kharolis?” Auricus was the one who voiced the disbelief felt by all of the young dragons.
&n
bsp; “New people will claim the grotto-not our enemies, but not our neighbors, either. They will mine these mountains and build great cities on the lake. And we must be gone.”
Callak thought for a moment about debating this point, but in the end, he deferred to his kin-dragon, knowing that the grotto held nothing for them now. And he understood instinctively that the power of her dream was not a trifling thing.
“We must separate, as Aurican said,” the silver male declared. “But we cannot forget each other. Remember, in our differences are we strong.”
“I will keep the fires of vengeance burning,” growled Tharn. “That we, or our children, shall know the price our nestmates have paid… and shall one day exact an accounting.”
“And I shall record the history of our grotto, and our leaving, so that none of our wyrmlings may ever forget.” Auricus made the statement, and they all knew that it was a solemn oath.
“The humans must learn what has happened,” Dazzall announced. “And I shall tell them to insure that they remember us.”
“Be strong, my nestmates,” Brunt declared, his thick, wedged head dipped into a bow. “For in strength, we will survive.”
“But for now, we must fly,” concluded Callak.
The mountain range was abandoned under the clear skies and bright full moon of the spring equinox. As Callak took to the air, with Daria by his side, he saw that the landscape of the High Kharolis was still a blanket of uniform white, sparkling glaciers and pristine snowfields reflecting the dazzling brightness of the midnight sky. Even the lake where his mother was buried had vanished beneath the layer of whiteness.
The wyrms of metal flew for a long time under the full moons, circling the high ridges in their matched pairs. Fate had seen that the ten who survived could still plant the seeds of future generations, for their numbers included five males and five females, a single pair of each precious metal color.
Finally they winged upward and away, soaring over the ridges of mountains that encircled their sacred realm. To an observer, it might have seemed that each pair of dragons chose a different point of the compass for its destination. Yet there was no such calculated plan to the dispersal. The divergent courses were merely the result of the good dragons seeking refuge in far quarters of Ansalon, places where the vengeance of the evil wyrms could never reach them.
Many years remained to pass before these young serpents would breed, produce eggs, and eventually restore the numbers of their kind. They would need to make new lairs, to hide themselves in such wilderness as remained in the world, seeking to live that their descendants might someday have a chance to be born.
Yet in their survival, they knew hope, and in their memories were the tales that would fashion their history and their destiny.
And perhaps, in the unknown future, that destiny might lead them to revenge.
Chapter 27
Wild Magic
2688 PC
Three robed figures gathered in the highest chamber of the Tower of Stars, Silvanost’s loftiest promontory. Aside from the colors of their robes, which were black, white, and red, respectively, the trio of figures might have been stamped from a single mold. Each was hunched low, grimly taut in posture, with the cowl of his robe pulled forward to hide face and features.
Although the clear skies allowed the light of a million stars to illuminate the room, the three remained fixed upon the floor, almost as if they were unwilling to regard the heavenly brightness. A pattern of arcane symbols was barely visible on the tiled surface, glowing slowly brighter until a pattern of illumination passed like a web though the room.
“Do we dare?” asked Parys Dayl, he of the white robe. “We have no way of knowing what effect the spell of wild magic will have, beyond that of capturing the wyrms of the Dark Queen.”
“What else matters? If the chromatic dragons are allowed to come on unchecked, everything is lost,” declared red-robed Fayal Padran.
“Yes.” Kayn Wytsnal’s voice was a hiss. “And since the dragons of metal have failed, there is no other hope. Our power may wrack the world, but if the serpents of the Dark Queen are defeated, we shall be well rewarded.”
Another figure came into view. His golden hair, gone slightly white with age, glowed softly in the starlight that filtered through the tall, crystal windows. The three wizards looked at him expectantly and with obvious respect.
“How fares your council?” asked Silvanos. Though the elven patriarch’s voice was as dry as parchment, the three listeners knew this was not because of age, but rather due to the profound nature of the proposal now being considered.
“Bah!” Kayn’s voice cracked like a brittle twig, snapping from beneath the black cowl of his robe. “They know what must be done, and yet they are afraid to do it.”
“And you are not afraid?” asked Silvanos, gently raising an eyebrow.
“Of course I am, but I am afraid of the results. They fear to take the chance, while I clearly recognize that we must cast the spell. We have no other choice.”
“And you?” Silvanos asked, turning to Fayal.
“I fear my colleague is right, though he cares little for the effects that may result. Magic could wrack much of Silvanesti, even the whole world.”
“And the dragons?” Silvanos inquired patiently.
It was Fayal who replied. “All the portents indicate that, whatever else its effects, the casting will seize the chromatic dragons and draw them into the fundament of Krynn. They will be entombed.”
“And that is the only effect that matters!” Kayn declared. “Anything else can be survived! For if we do not cast this spell, our barriers will inevitably collapse-perhaps within the next winter or two. Then Silvanost, and everything else, will be lost.”
“And the spell will work?”
“That is a good question,” Parys admitted. “We have aligned the poles of wild magic so that they have a powerful attraction for the wyrms of Takhisis. We think it will work. But in truth, all we can do is hope the summons will be enough to drag them down, to trap them.”
“But the defensive barriers will otherwise fall… this is a certainty?” inquired the elven patriarch.
“Aye,” said Fayal, with the other two mages nodding in agreement.
“Then it seems that we have no choice,” declared Silvanos with a finality that the others could only respect.
Deathfyre had wasted no time in renewing his onslaught against the elven realm, for he knew that the Silvanesti would be able to recover and rearm far more quickly than the dragons of Paladine could possibly hope to restore their depleted numbers.
So it was that the evil army returned its attentions against the south. Relentless hordes of ogres and bakali marched, led by ruthless minotaur raiders. Dragons of blue and black, of crimson, green, and white dotted the skies, answering to the mighty Deathfyre’s commands.
Coss, a great, acid-spewing black serpent, and Spuryten, an ancient blue, were Deathfyre’s chief lieutenants. The trio of dragons led three great spearheads converging onto the elven capital of Silvanost. And all the wyrms of Takhisis took wing against elvenkind, drawing in an ever-tightening noose about the besieged city on its once-pastoral island. Still, the barriers of the brother mages held them off, foiling every attempt to complete the conquest, to carry the destruction into the crystal city itself.
And the campaign progressed with relentless savagery and irresistible might. Bakali swarmed through the marshes of Silvanesti, driving the elves from the well-watered lands that provided so much of their food. Ogres bashed at the walls of every fortified strong point, often aided by the crushing power of dragonbreath. Gradually the doomed outposts were destroyed one by one, leaving increasingly large stretches of the forested elvenhome a bleak wasteland.
Only the magic of the three brother mages prevented the ultimate triumph of the evil armies. The wizards used their mighty sorcery to maintain the enchanted barriers that held the serpents and their land-bound allies away from the city of the elves. These poten
t blockades of stone and flame and magic and ice resisted all efforts of the advancing tide, though the rest of the realm was, little by little, overrun.
At last all the outposts had been overrun or destroyed, and only the stubborn island city remained. Three great armies, commanded by Coss, Spuryten, and Deathfyre himself, surrounded Silvanost, ready for the final onslaught. It remained only to plan the culminating attack.
“What news of the siege?” demanded Deathfyre when Coss reported to him on the progress of the campaign. “Has the city’s defense been breached yet?”
“It proves stubbornly defiant,” the black wyrm replied grimly. “The elves have gathered those three powerful wizards in a high tower. They have used sorcery to hold us at bay, but they must fall when all our power is concentrated against them.”
“All the dragons are ready to attack?”
“Aye, lord, though you should know that the numbers of our ogres and bakali have been depleted by the long campaigns.”
“I will find us more troops, and soon… soon we shall prevail,” the great red pledged. His thoughts turned to the past, remembering the golden killer who had brought about his mother’s death. Yet he remained aware that the metal dragons who had escaped remained too few, too young, to cause him any worries. Only when the war was won would he turn his attention to vengeance.
“Be ready for the final onslaught. I shall return soon with fresh armies.”
Deathfyre flew rapidly to the north, where, in the smoking Khalkists, evil men had built a teeming city in the place where Darklady Mountain had stood. This was a place called Sanction, a city of fire and smoke, a nest of thieves and murderers, where the worship of the Dark Queen was a thing highly regarded. Deathfyre was lord here, and the men had built great monuments to his name. Many of these wicked humans willingly joined the legions of his army, ready to butcher as cruelly as any bakali or ogre when they marched to war.
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