Dragons of the Highlord Skies

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Then Aran, riding ahead of him, said softly in Solamnic, “Not trolls. Lizards.”

  Brian shifted his hand beneath his cloak to grasp the hilt of his sword.

  Derek eyed the strangers warily, then said, “Since we are on the road to Tarsis and that city lies directly ahead of us, it would seem safe to say that Tarsis is where we are bound.”

  “Mind if we ask you a few questions?” the draconian inquired, still friendly.

  “Yes, we do,” said Derek. “Now stand aside and let us cross.”

  “We’re looking for some people,” the draconian continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “We have a message for them from our master.”

  Brian caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A fourth draconian was off to the side of the road, half-hidden behind a signpost. Hooded and cloaked like the others, the draconian was far shorter than his three companions. He was moving about inside his cloak, and Brian thought perhaps the creature was about to draw a weapon. Instead, the draconian brought forth a document of some sort. The creature consulted the document, then called out something to his comrades and shook his head.

  The leader glanced over at the draconian with the paper and then, shrugging, said affably, “My mistake. A good journey to you gentlemen,” and turned to walk off.

  The knights stared at each other. “Keep riding,” Derek ordered.

  The knights rode on. Derek’s horse made it across the bridge, and Aran’s was close behind when a gust of wind swirled down the gully, seized the corner of Derek’s cape and blew it back over his shoulder. The rose of his Order, embroidered on his tabard, flared bright red, the only color in the white, snow-covered landscape.

  “Solamnics!” The word hissed from the short, squat draconian by the sign post. “Kill them!”

  The draconians whipped around. They flung back their cloaks, revealing themselves as baaz draconians, the footsoldiers of the dragonarmies. Snatching off their gloves, they drew long, curve-bladed swords. Their bodies might be covered in scales and they held their weapons in clawed hands, but they were fierce and intelligent fighters, as the three knights had reason to know, for they had fought against them in Vingaard and at Castle Crownguard.

  Sword in hand, Derek spurred his horse directly at the lead draconian, trusting that the beast’s stamping hooves would force the attacking draconian to retreat or be trampled. Unfortunately, Derek’s horse was a hired nag, not a trained war horse. The horse was terrified by the strange-smelling lizard-man and it reared back on its hind legs, whinnying frantically and nearly dumping Derek out of the saddle.

  Derek struggled to calm the horse and keep his seat, and for the moment he could pay attention to little else. Seeing one knight in trouble, a draconian came at him, sword raised. Aran rode his horse between Derek’s plunging steed and his attacker. Slashing at the draconian with his sword, Aran cut the monster across the face.

  Blood sprayed. A large chunk of bloody flesh sagged loose from the creature’s jaw. The draconian hissed in pain, but he kept coming and tried to jab the curve-bladed sword into Aran’s thigh. Aran kicked at the blade with his booted foot and knocked it from the draconian’s hand.

  Brian spurred his horse off the bridge, heading to block off the third draconian, who was running to join the others. As he rode, he kept an eye on the short, squat draconian near the signpost and saw in amazement that the creature appeared to be growing! Then Brian realized the draconian was not growing; he was merely standing upright. A bozak draconian, he had been squatting comfortably on his haunches. Now he rose up to his full seven-foot height.

  The bozak did not reach for a weapon. He lifted his voice in a chant and raised his hands, fingers extended toward Aran.

  Brian bellowed, “Aran! Duck!”

  Aran did not waste time asking why but flung himself forward, pressing against his horse’s neck. An eerie pinkish light flared through the falling snow. Balls of fire shot from the draconian’s fingers. The missiles whistled harmlessly over Aran’s back, showering sparks as they passed.

  Shouting challenges, Brian drew his sword and galloped his horse toward the bozak, hoping to stop the creature from casting another spell. He heard, behind him, the clash of steel and Derek yelling something, but Brian did not dare lose sight of his enemy long enough to see what was happening.

  The bozak coolly ignored Brian. The draconian did not believe he was in any danger, and Brian realized there must be a good reason for this. Brian looked about. A draconian was running alongside his horse, ready to spring at him and try to drag him to the ground.

  Brian made an awkward, back-handed slash with his sword, and he must have hit the draconian, for blood spurted and the creature dropped out of sight. Brian tried to stop his horse’s forward motion, but the beast was terrified by the smell of blood and the shouts and the fighting and was completely out of control. Wild-eyed, spittle flying, the horse carried Brian closer to the bozak. The draconian raised his clawed hands, fingers splayed, pointing at Brian.

  Brian flung his sword into the snow and leaped off the maddened horse, hurling himself at the bozak. Brian slammed into the draconian, taking the bozak completely by surprise. The fiery missiles shot off in all directions. The bozak, arms flailing wildly, toppled over backward with Brian on top of him.

  Brian scrambled to his feet. The bozak, jarred by the fall, was fumbling for his sword. Brian snatched the knife at his belt and stabbed it with all his strength into the bozak’s throat. The draconian gurgled and choked as blood welled around the knife, and the creature glared at him in fury that rapidly dimmed as death took him.

  Remembering just in time that bozaks were as dangerous dead as they were alive, Brian shouted a warning to his friends, then turned and hurled himself as far from the creature as he could manage. He landed belly-first on the snow-covered ground, bruising his ribs on a rock, just as an explosion sent a wave of heat washing over him. He lay still a moment, half-stunned by the blast, then looked back.

  The bozak was charred bone, smoldering flesh, and fragments of armor. Aran, swearing loudly, stood over his dead foe, trying to wrench free his sword encased in the stony statue that had been a baaz. Aran gave his sword a mighty yank. The stone crumbled to ash and he nearly went over backward. He caught his balance, and, still swearing, wiped blood from a cut on his chin.

  “Anyone hurt?” Derek called out. He stood beside his shivering horse. His sword was wet with blood. A pile of ashes lay at his feet.

  Aran grunted in response.

  Brian was looking about for his horse, only to see it galloping madly across the plains, heading for home. He whistled and shouted, all in vain. The horse paid no heed, kept running.

  “There goes my gear!” Brian exclaimed in dismay. “The rest of my armor, food, my clothes …”

  He’d been wearing his breastplate and helm, but he was sorry to lose the remainder: grieves and bracers, gloves …

  Shaking his head, Brian bent to retrieve his sword and saw the document the bozak had been consulting lying in the snow. The draconian must have tossed it down in order to concentrate on his spellcasting. Curious, Brian picked it up.

  “What in the Abyss are draconians doing camped out by a bridge in the snow? “Aran demanded. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Ambushing travelers makes sense for them,” said Derek.

  “They weren’t going to ambush us. They were going to let us go until they saw that bright red rose of yours and realized we were Solamnic knights,” Aran returned.

  “Bah! They would have jumped us from behind no matter what,” said Derek.

  “I’m not so sure,” said Brian, rising to his feet, the document in his hand. “I think they’re bounty hunters. I saw the bozak consulting this as we rode up. He saw that we didn’t match the descriptions, and he ordered the baaz to let us go.”

  The document contained a list of names, accompanied by descriptions, and amounts to be paid in reward for their capture. Tanis Half-elven was the first name on the list,
Flint Fireforge was another with the word “dwarf” written alongside. There was a kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, two elves, a wizard, Raistlin Majere, and a man listed as a cleric of Paladine.

  “And look at this.” Brian indicated a name. “An old friend of ours.”

  Sturm Brightblade. Beside his name was written, Solamnic knight.

  “Huh! Brightblade is not a knight,” said Derek, frowning.

  Aran looked at him in astonishment. “Who cares if he’s a knight or not?” He jabbed at the document. “This is why the draconians were keeping a watch on this bridge. They were looking for these people, one of whom happens to be a friend of ours and a Solamnic.”

  “A friend of yours, perhaps,” said Derek. “Brightblade is no friend of mine.”

  “I don’t think we should stand here arguing,” Brian pointed out. “There could be more draconians around. Tarsis might have fallen into enemy hands for all we know.” Folding the paper carefully, he thrust it into his belt.

  “Not likely,” said Derek. “We would have heard news of that in Rigitt, and these draconians were in disguise. If they were in control of Tarsis, they would be swaggering about letting everyone know they were in charge. They were here in secret, acting on their own.”

  “Or on orders from their master,” Aran commented. “Did you notice—they were wearing blue insignia like the draconians that attacked us in Solamnia.”

  “That is odd, come to think of it,” Brian said. “According to reports, the red wing of the dragonarmy is nearer to Tarsis than the blue.”

  “Blue or red, they are all our foes, and Brian is right,” said Derek. “We have already been here too long. Brian, you ride with Aran. His horse is the largest and strongest. We’ll transfer his gear to my horse.”

  They shifted the saddlebags from Aran’s horse to Derek’s, then Aran mounted and pulled Brian up behind him. Brian’s horse had long since disappeared.

  Aran and Brian started to canter off down the road.

  “Where are you going?” Derek demanded.

  “Tarsis,” said Aran, halting. “Where else?”

  “I don’t think we should enter Tarsis openly,” said Derek. “Not until we know more about what is going on.”

  “You mean, not announce our noble presence?” Aran exclaimed in mock horror. “I’m shocked, Derek, shocked that you would even suggest such a thing! I may never recover.” He drew out his flask and took a consoling drink.

  Derek gave him an angry look and did not answer. Brian glanced at the sky. The clouds were swirling, gray over white. A pale light gleamed from beneath them. If the clouds cleared, the night would be frigid.

  “Where do we go?” he asked.

  “According to the map, there is wooded hill country west of Tarsis. We will camp there for the night, keep watch on the city, and decide what to do in the morning.” Derek turned his horse’s head, striking off across the plains.

  Aran, chuckling to himself, followed along behind him.

  “Interesting to see Brightblade’s name on a bounty list,” Aran said to Brian. “And keeping strange company from the looks of it—elves, dwarves and the like. I suppose that’s what comes of living in a crossroads town like Solace. I’ve heard it’s a wild place. Did he ever say anything to you about his life there?”

  “No, he never discussed it. But then, Sturm was always a very private man. He rarely spoke about himself at all. He was more concerned about his father.”

  “Too bad about that.” Aran sighed. “I wonder what sort of trouble Sturm’s in now?”

  “Whatever it is, he’s in this part of Ansalon—either that, or someone thinks he is,” said Brian.

  “I’d like to see Brightblade again. He’s a good man, despite what some think.” Aran cast a dour glance at Derek. “I don’t suppose it’s likely, though.”

  “You never know who’ll you’ll meet on the road these days,” said Brian.

  “That’s true enough,” Aran stated, laughing, and he dabbed at his chin to see if it was still bleeding.

  The three knights spent a cold and cheerless evening huddled around a fire in a shallow cave in the hills above Tarsis. The snowstorm had blown itself out and the night was clear, with both Solinari and Lunitari shedding silver and red light.

  From their camp, the knights could see one of the main gates, closed and barred until morning. Guards manned the walls, pacing off the watch in slow, measured tread. The city was dark; most people were in their beds.

  “The city seems quiet enough,” said Brian, when Aran came to relieve him, taking his turn at watch.

  “Yeah, and draconians not ten miles from here,” said Aran, shaking his head.

  The knights were up early to see the gates open. No one was waiting to enter and only a few people departed (mostly kender being escorted out of town). Those who left took the road to Rigitt. The gate guards remained in their towers, venturing out into the cold only when forced to do so by someone wanting admittance. The guards walking the battlements did so in bored fashion, pausing often to warm themselves at fires burning in large iron braziers and to chat companionably. Tarsis was the picture of a city at peace with itself and all the world.

  “If draconians were watching for these people on a bridge leading to Tarsis, you can bet they’re also keeping an eye out for them in Tarsis itself,” said Brian. “They’ll have someone lurking about near the gates.”

  Aran winked at Brian. “So, Derek, are we going to march into Tarsis wearing full knightly regalia and carrying banners with the kingfisher and the rose?”

  Derek looked very grim.

  “I have consulted the Measure,” he said, bringing out the well-worn volume. “It states that fulfillment of a quest of honor undertaken by a knight with sanction from the Council should be the knight’s first priority. If the fulfillment of the quest of honor requires that the knight conceal his true identity, succeeding at the quest takes precedence over the duty of the knight to proudly proclaim his allegiance.”

  “You lost me somewhere around precedence and fulfillment,” said Aran. “In words of one syllable, Derek, do we disguise ourselves or not?”

  “According to the Measure, we may disguise ourselves without sacrificing our honor.”

  Aran’s lips twitched. He caught Brian’s warning glance, however, and swallowed his glib comment along with a gulp from the flask.

  The knights spent the rest of the day removing all their badges and insignia. They cut the embroidered decorations from their clothes and stowed away their armor in the back of the cave. They would wear their swords, and Aran would keep his bow and quiver of arrows. Weapons were not likely to cause comment, for no one went forth unarmed these days.

  “All that’s left of our knighthood is our mustaches,” said Aran, tugging at his.

  “Well, we’re certainly not going to shave,” said Derek sternly.

  “Our mustaches will grow back, Derek,” Aran said.

  “No.” Derek was adamant. “We will pull our hoods low and wrap scarves around our heads. As cold as it is, no one will pay any attention.”

  Aran rolled his eyes, but he accepted the ruling meekly, much to Derek’s surprise.

  “You owe Derek,” said Brian, as he and Aran were arranging the screen of brush over the cave.

  Aran grinned sheepishly. The knight’s long, luxurious red mustache was his secret pride. “I guess I do. I would have shaved my mustache, mind you, but it would have been like cutting off my sword arm. Don’t tell Derek, though. I’d never hear the end of it.”

  Brian shrugged. “It seems strange to me that we risk imperiling our mission for the sake of some fuzz on our upper lips.”

  “This is not to be termed ‘fuzz’,” said Aran severely, fondly smoothing his mustache. “Besides, it might actually look worse if we shaved. Our faces are tan from the sea voyage, and the white skin on our lips would look very suspicious, whereas, if we don’t shave … well … I’m sure we won’t be the only men in Tarsis with mustaches.”

&
nbsp; They decided to enter the city separately, their reasoning being that three armed men entering alone would cause less stir than three trying to enter together. They would meet at the library of Khrystann.

  “Though we have no idea where this library is or how to find it,” Aran remarked lightly. “Nor do we know what it is we’re looking for once we get there. Nothing I like better than a well organized fiasco.”

  Bundled in their cloaks, their hoods pulled low and scarves wrapped around their faces from nose to neck, Aran and Brian watched Derek ride down out of the hills, heading for the main city gate.

  “I don’t see what we could do differently,” Brian said.

  Aran shifted restlessly in his saddle. His customary cheerfulness had left him suddenly, leaving him moody and edgy.

  “What’s wrong?” Brian asked. “Your flask empty?”

  “Yes, but that’s not it,” Aran returned gloomily. He shifted again on his saddle, glancing around behind him. “There’s a bad feel to the air. Don’t you notice it?”

  “The wind’s changed direction, if that’s what you mean,” said Brian.

  “Not that. More like a goose walking across my grave. Only in this case the goose has built a nest on it and hatched goslings. I felt the same way before the attack on Castle Crownguard. You’d better go, if you’re going,” Aran added abruptly.

  Brian hesitated. He regarded his friend with concern. He’d seen Aran in all sorts of moods from wild to reckless to merry. He’d never seen him in a black mood like this.

  “Go on.” Aran waved his hand as though he were shooing the aforementioned geese. “I’ll meet you in the library that was probably destroyed three hundred years ago.”

  “That isn’t funny,” Brian growled over his shoulder as he walked down the hill, heading for the gates of Tarsis.