Dragons of the Highlord Skies

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “Are you certain about this, my lord?” Sturm asked in a low undertone. He cast a sidelong, meaningful glance at Derek, whose face was dark, suffused with anger.

  “I am,” Brian said, and he reached out to clasp Sturm’s hand. “You realize what this does for you?”

  Sturm nodded and said brokenly, “I do, my lord. I cannot tell you how much this means …” He bowed deeply. “I am honored by your regard, my lord. I will not fail you.”

  Overcome with emotion, Sturm could say no more. Flint came over to congratulate him, as did Tasslehoff.

  Laurana leaned over to ask Brian, “I heard you say this will do something for him. What will it do? Isn’t Sturm too old to be a squire? I thought squires were young lads who acted as servants to a knight.”

  “Generally they are, though there are no age restrictions. Some men remain squires all their lives, content in that position. By making him my squire, Sturm may now apply to take his knightly trials, something he could not have done otherwise.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I have named Sturm my squire, the transgressions he committed which would have barred him from the knighthood are now expunged.”

  A small frown line creased Laurana’s smooth forehead. “What transgression could Sturm have possibly committed?”

  Brian hesitated, unwilling to say.

  “I know he lied about being a knight,” Laurana said. “Sturm told me. Is that what you mean?”

  Brian nodded, then looked up as a blast of frigid wind blew through the chieftent, causing the fires to waver. Derek had stalked out.

  Laurana’s troubled gaze followed him. “You mean Derek would have used that to block Sturm’s application?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Brian, nodding emphatically. “By making Sturm my squire, I’m telling the Council that I have decided his error in judgment should be forgiven and forgotten. Derek won’t even be able to bring up the fact that Sturm lied about being a knight.”

  Sturm was patiently answering Tasslehoff’s questions, promising him that if he ever rode in a tourney, Tas could be the one to carry his shield, an honor that left the kender aglow with pleasure.

  “I do not think Sturm lied,” said Laurana softly.

  “As it happens, neither do I,” said Brian.

  Aran walked over to shake Sturm’s hand and extend his congratulations, then went to Brian.

  “Derek wants to see you outside,” he said in Brian’s ear.

  “Is he very angry?” Brian asked.

  “I figure he’s out there gnawing the edge off his sword blade,” Aran said cheerfully. He clapped Brian on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. You did right. I’ll say as much over your grave.”

  “Thanks,” Brian muttered.

  The dancing started. The elders began beating out a lively rhythm on the drums and chanting. Young and old took the floor, forming a circle, joining arms, dipping and bobbing and weaving. They drew Laurana in, and even persuaded Flint, who kept falling over his own feet and tripping up the line, much to everyone’s mirth. Brian, sighing, headed for the tent opening.

  Sturm stopped him. “I fear this will cause trouble between you and Derek.”

  “I fear you’re right,” said Brian with a wry smile.

  “Then don’t go through with it,” said Sturm earnestly. “It is not worth it—”

  “I think it is. The knighthood needs men like you, Sturm,” Brian said. “Maybe more than it needs men like us.”

  Sturm started again to protest. Brian unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to him. “Here, Squire. Have that weapon cleaned and polished by morning when we ride to battle.”

  Sturm hesitated, then he accepted the sword with a grateful smile. “I will, my lord,” he said, bowing.

  Brian walked into the icy wind blowing off the glacier. He saw pale shapes slinking outside the ring of tents—wolves, watching them. He wondered if Raggart was right, if the wolves were spies. They certainly seemed intent upon them. He shivered in the cold, and found more cold awaiting him—cold fury.

  “You did that deliberately to discredit me!” Derek said accusingly. “You did it to destroy my credibility and make me look the fool!”

  Brian was astonished. Whatever else he had expected, it wasn’t this. “I don’t believe it! You think I made Sturm my squire just to get back at you?”

  “Of course,” Derek returned. “Why else would you do it? Brightblade is a liar, quite possibly a bastard. Ye gods, you might as well have made the kender your squire! Or perhaps you’re saving that for tomorrow night!” he snapped viciously.

  Brian stared at Derek in amazement too great for words.

  “I want both you and Aran in our tent before moon rise,” Derek continued. “You will need your rest for the morrow. And tell Brightblade he is to report to me then as well. As a squire, he now falls under my jurisdiction. He will obey my orders. No more siding with the elves against me. Mark my words—the first time Brightblade disobeys me will be the last.”

  Derek turned and walked off toward the tent the knights shared, his boots crunching on the ice, his sword clanking at his side.

  Brian, sighing deeply, went back to the warmth and merriment of the chieftent. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the wolves slinking and sidling about the outskirts of the camp.

  12

  Feal-Thas sets a trap.

  Derek dreams of dragons.

  pon his return to Ice Wall Castle from Neraka, Feal-Thas sent for the leader of the draconians to ask if any strangers had been seen in the vicinity. The draconians reported that a group of outsiders, including three Solamnic knights, had attacked two draconian guards. The knights and the rest of their companions were skulking about the camp of the Ice Folk. Feal-Thas had no doubt these were the knights sent by Kitiara, part of Ariakas’s scheme to plant the dragon orb among the Solamnics.

  Ariakas had explained his plan to Feal-Thas when he’d been in Neraka. The emperor had used the analogy of besieging armies throwing the carcasses of plague-ridden animals over the walls into the enemy city so the disease could infect the defenders. Ariakas was applying the same principle here, except that the dragon orb would take the place of a plague-ridden cow. The knights would carry the dragon orb into Solamnia and there fall under its sway, as had the wretched King Lorac of Silvanesti.

  Feal-Thas had agreed to go along with the scheme. He could do nothing else. Ariakas wore the Crown of Power. Takhisis loved him, while the Queen and Feal-Thas were barely on speaking terms. Feal-Thas took comfort in the fact that accidents happened, especially to glory-seeking knights. Ariakas could hardly fault Feal-Thas if this Solamnic ended up in the dragon’s belly.

  There was another problem that Ariakas had not considered, because Feal-Thas had not told him. The dragon orb had its own plots and schemes.

  For hundreds of years, ever since the dragons had gone to sleep following the Dark Queen’s defeat at the hands of Huma Dragonbane, the dragon orbs, made of the essence of dragons, had waited for their Queen’s return. Finally they heard Takhisis’s voice call out to them, as it had called out to her other dragons. Now this orb yearned to be free of its prison and back in the world. Feal-Thas heard its whispered temptations, but he was wise enough to shut his ears to them. Others—those who wanted to hear it, wanted to believe it—would listen.

  Having heard the draconian report, Feal-Thas hastened to Sleet’s lair to make certain the dragon orb was safe. The white dragon had been ordered to guard the orb, and she would obey that order to the best of her abilities. Unfortunately, Sleet’s abilities did not fill the wizard with confidence. The white dragon was not particularly intelligent, nor was she clever, subtle, or cunning, whereas the dragon orb was all these and more.

  Feal-Thas walked the frozen tunnels beneath the castle. He carried no light. At his coming, an icy enchantment caused the tunnels to shimmer with blue-white radiance. He passed the chamber that had once housed the orb and glanced inside. The traces left by the Guardian’s victims was sti
ll visible—blood covered the floor, spattered the walls. He paused to regard the gruesome scene. Some of that blood was Kitiara’s. Feal-Thas had been informed, just as he was leaving Neraka, that Kitiara had escaped her execution. Feal-Thas was disappointed, but hardly surprised. She was lucky, that one, lucky and fearless and smart—a dangerous combination. Ariakas should have never allowed her to live this long. Feal-Thas would be doing everyone a favor by getting rid of her.

  He just had to find the way to get around that luck of hers.

  Feal-Thas entered the white dragon’s lair. A magical snow, created by the dragon, drifted down around her. The snow kept her cool, kept her food—two dead thanoi and a human—from spoiling until she was at leisure to eat it. Sleet was dozing, but she woke up fast enough when she smelled elf. Her nostrils twitched. One eye was a red glittering slit. Her claws dug into the ice floor and her white lips curled back over her yellow fangs. She did not like Feal-Thas, and the feeling was mutual.

  The whites are the smallest of the Dark Queen’s dragons and the least intelligent. They are good at killing and not much else. They obey instructions, but only if they are kept simple.

  “What do you want?” Sleet muttered.

  Her white scales glittered blue in the wizard-light. Her wings were folded over her back, her long tail curled around her massive, snow-covered body. Though small compared to a red dragon, she nearly filled the vast cavern she had inherited from some other white who had built it long, long ago, perhaps around Huma’s time. Pallid sunlight gleamed through the lair’s entrance at the far end, sparkling on walls coated with snow and hoarfrost from the dragon’s breath.

  “I am here to ascertain that you are comfortable and have all you require,” said Feal-Thas smoothly.

  The dragon snorted, blasting frost from her nose. “You came to check on your precious dragon orb because you don’t trust me. It’s safe. See for yourself. Then go bury your head in a glacier.”

  The white dragon rested her head in the snow. Her red eyes watched Feal-Thas.

  The orb stood upon an icy pedestal. Its colors static, suspended, the orb looked dead. As Feal-Thas approached the orb and his thoughts focused on it, it came to life. The colors began to swirl around the globe’s interior, making it look like a rainbow-glistening soap bubble—blue, green, black, red, white—changing and shifting, merging and separating.

  Feal-Thas drew near. As always, his hands itched to touch it. He longed to try to exert his power over it, take command of it, become the orb’s master. He knew he could. It would be easy. He was powerful, the most powerful elf archmage who had ever lived. Once he had the orb, he would wrest the crown from Ariakas, challenge Queen Takhisis herself …

  “Ha, ha.” Feal-Thas laughed gently. He came to stand before the dragon orb, his hands clasped tightly in his sleeves. “Nice try. You might as well give up,” he advised the orb. “I will not relinquish you. I know the danger you pose. You must try your blandishments on someone else, such as this Solamnic knight who has come to free you.”

  The colors flashed briefly, swirled furiously, then settled back into a slow, drifting, seemingly-aimless motion.

  “I thought that might interest you. I am certain if you apply yourself, you can snag him. You are the object of his desire. You should find it easy to seize hold of him, lure him to you, as your sister orb did Lorac.” Feal-Thas paused, then said quietly, grimly, “As you did me.”

  The orb darkened, its colors blending, black with hatred.

  “With me you failed,” Feal-Thas continued, shrugging. “You might well succeed with the knight. You could summon him here, then send the dragon away on some trumped-up errand. But you don’t need me to tell you that.” Feal-Thas wagged a finger at the orb. “You are toying with me, hoping to ensnare me.”

  He again clasped his hands and said scornfully, “Spare yourself the trouble. Your tempting promises haven’t worked in three hundred years; they won’t work now.”

  The colors swirled again, and this time green was uppermost.

  “You are suspicious of my motives, as you should be. Of course it’s a trap. You bring the knight; I will slay him.” Feal-Thas gave another shrug. “Still, you might succeed. I might fail. Take the gamble.” He paused, then said quietly, “What choice do you have?”

  Feal-Thas turned and walked away. He could see the light of the orb reflected on the ice walls flashing red, then purple, then going sullen, greenish black. He did not see, as he left, all the colors merging together in a riotous display of triumph.

  Derek woke again from a dream of dragons. He gasped, breathing hard, not from fear, but with exultation. He lay awake, staring into the darkness, reliving the dream, which had been vividly real.

  Usually his dreams were gray and black and nonsensical. He dismissed dreams, considering them wild forays of the slumbering, undisciplined mind. Derek never thought about his dreams or bothered to remember them, and he viewed with impatience those who yammered on about them.

  But these dreams were different. These dreams were splashed with color: reds and blues, greens, blacks and shades of white. These dreams were filled with dragons, enemy dragons, clouding the skies. The sun shining on their scales made a hideous rainbow. People fled from them in open-mouthed, screaming terror. Blood, smoke, and fire spilled and billowed and crackled around him. He did not run. He stood firm, gazing up at the beating wings, the open mouths, the dripping fangs. He should have been holding his sword, but in its place he held a crystal orb. He raised up the orb to the heavens and he cried out a stern command and the dragons, shrieking in rage, fell from the skies, dying like shooting stars, trailing flame.

  Derek was bathed in sweat and he threw off the fur blankets. The bitter cold felt good to him, slapped him out of the dream, brought him to conscious awareness.

  “The orb,” he said softly, exultantly.

  13

  The assault on Ice Wall Castle.

  ake up, you two,” Derek ordered sharply.

  “Huh? What?” Aran sat up, still half-asleep, muddled and alarmed. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

  Brian reached for his sword, feeling about for it, since he couldn’t see in the darkness. Then he remembered—he’d given his weapon to Sturm. Brian groaned inwardly. A knight without his sword. Derek would view that as a most serious transgression.

  “Be quiet,” said Derek in a low voice. “I’ve been thinking things over. We’re going to go along with this insane plan of the elf woman to attack the castle—”

  “Derek, it’s the middle of the night,” Aran protested, “and cold as a goblin’s backside! Tell me in the morning.” He flung himself down and pulled the furs over his head.

  “It is morning, or near enough,” said Derek. “Now pay attention.”

  Brian sat up, shivering in the chill. Aran peered at him over the edge of the blanket.

  “So we go along with the plan to attack the castle,” Aran said, scratching his stubble-covered chin. “Why do we need to talk about it?”

  “Because I know where to find the dragon orb,” said Derek. “I know where it is.”

  “How do you know?” Brian asked astonished.

  “Since you appear to be so enamored of these newfound gods, let us say they told me,” Derek returned. “How I know is not important. This is my plan. When the attack starts, we will leave the main body, sneak into the castle, recover the orb, and—” He halted, half-turned to stare outside. “Did you hear that?”

  “No,” said Brian.

  Derek, muttering something about spies, ducked out of the tent.

  “The gods told him about the orb!” Aran shook his head in disbelief and reached for his flask.

  “I think he was being sarcastic. This isn’t like Derek,” Brian added, troubled.

  “You’re right. Derek may be a stiff-necked, sword-up-the-butt, arrogant lunkhead, but at least he’s been an honorable, stiff-necked, sword-up-the-butt, arrogant lunkhead. Now he’s lost even that endearing quality.”


  Brian pulled on his thick boots, figuring he might as well get up. The gray light of dawn was seeping into the tent. “Maybe he’s right. If we sneak into the castle—”

  “That’s my point,” interrupted Aran, gesturing with the flask. “Since when does Derek sneak anywhere? This is the same Derek who had to turn the Measure upside down to find a way for us to enter Tarsis without proclaiming ourselves as knights to all and sundry. Now he’s sneaking into castles and stealing dragon orbs.”

  “The castle of the enemy,” Brian pointed out.

  Aran shook his head, unconvinced. “The Derek we once knew would have walked up to the front of that castle, banged on the door, and challenged the wizard to come out to do battle. Not very sensible, admittedly, but that Derek would have never considered turning sneak thief.”

  Before Brian could respond, Derek crawled back inside the tent. “I’m certain the elf was eavesdropping, though I couldn’t catch him. It doesn’t matter now. The camp is starting to stir. Brian, go wake Brightblade. Tell him what we’re doing, and order him to keep this to himself. He’s not to tell the others, especially the elf. I’m going to talk to the chief.”

  Derek left again.

  “Are you going to go along with this crazy scheme of his?” Aran asked.

  “Derek gave us an order,” Brian replied, “and … he’s our friend.”

  “A friend who’s going to get us all killed,” Aran muttered. Buckling on his sword belt and taking a final pull on the flask, he stuffed it into his coat and stomped out of the tent.

  Brian went to wake Sturm and found the knight already awake. A thin sliver of light spilled out from underneath the tent.

  “Sturm?” he called softly, pushing open the flap.