Dragons of the Highlord Skies
Page 47
Candlelight streamed out from behind her. She had reached the gate. Wooden doors banded with iron stood open. Above her gleamed the wicked teeth of a portcullis.
Kit drew in a breath and gave a strangled shout of fury and defiance and launched a last, frenzied attack. Slashing and hacking at them with her sword, she drove back the warriors, sent them tumbling and falling over one another, then she turned tail and ran with her last remaining strength through the gate.
A thick rope attached to a mechanism held the portcullis in place. Hoping time and fire had weakened the stout rope, Kit swung her sword, tried to sever it. The rope parted, but did not break. She gritted her teeth. The sweat rolled down her face, half blinding her. She drew in a breath. Pain lacerated her. The warriors were coming after her. She could feel the heat of the flesh-consuming flames wash over her. She took another swing. The rope snapped. The portcullis came thundering down, smashing some of the warriors beneath its sharp points.
The warriors vanished. Disappeared. The fight was over for them. They returned to their bitter darkness to keep endless watch, mount eternal guard.
The clamor of battle ceased and all was, for the moment, silent; blessedly silent.
Kitiara groaned. The pain was like a red-hot knife inside her. She doubled over, pressing her hand against her side. Tears wrung from agony stung her eyes. She whimpered, then clamped her teeth on her cries. Biting her lips until the blood ran, she waited for the pain to wash over her and ease.
Someone started to sing. The voice was a whisper at first, but it raised the hair on her head and sent a shudder through her. Kitiara opened her eyes and looked wildly about.
Three elf women came floating toward her, moving as if on hot air currents rising from unseen flames. Their mouths were open, their hands outstretched, and Kitiara realized in despair that she had escaped one enemy only to be trapped by another. She had already experienced the debilitating effects of a single note of their lethal song.
That song would strengthen, grow more powerful. The hideous notes would swell around her in shattering anguish, lamentation, and grief so poignant and piercing it could literally stop the heart.
The elf women came nearer, their long hair floating around them in tendrils, their white robes burned and blackened, their bodies trembling with the wailing song.
Blonde hair, blue eyes, pale complexion, slanted eyes, pointed ears … elves … elf maidens …
Laurana …
“Elf bitch!” Kitiara cried savagely. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll kill you!”
Heedless of the pain, screaming curses, she swung her sword at the elf maid in great, huge, furious, slashing arcs, back and forth, slicing and stabbing.
Laurana disappeared. Kit sliced at nothing but air.
She lowered her sword and stood panting and sweating, hurting and bleeding in the entry hall. Raising her blood-dimmed gaze, she saw at her feet an enormous, wrought-iron chandelier. Though it had fallen down centuries ago, the candles in it still burned. A pool of blood, still fresh—always horribly fresh, fresh as memory—lay beneath the twisted metal.
Beyond the chandelier was a throne. The death knight, Lord Soth, sat there watching her. He had been watching her the entire time. The eyes in the slits of the helm burned steadily, reflecting the flames that had died three hundred years ago. He did not move. He waited to see what she would do next.
Kitiara’s left arm was drenched in blood that still oozed from the wound. The fingers of that hand had gone numb. Her breath came in wrenching, painful gasps. The slightest movement sent pain lancing through her. She had wrenched her knee; she only noticed that now. Her head ached and throbbed. Her vision was blurred. She felt sick to her stomach.
Kitiara drew herself up as best she could, considering that she limped on her left leg and could not put her full weight on her right. She blinked back her tears and shook back her black curls.
Her arms shaking with fatigue, she managed through sheer effort of will to raise her sword and move awkwardly into a fighting stance. She tried to talk, but no voice came out. She coughed, tasting blood, and tried again.
“Lord Soth,” said Kitiara, “I challenge you to battle.”
The fire in the eyes flared in astonishment, then flickered. Soth shifted upon his throne, the black cape, its hem drenched in the blood of his wife and child, stirring about him.
“I could kill you without ever leaving my seat,” he said.
“You could,” Kitiara agreed, her words coming in whispering gasps, “but you won’t. For that would be cowardly. Not worthy of a Solamnic knight.”
The eyes of fire regarded her intently; then Lord Soth rose from his throne.
“You are right,” he said. “Therefore, I accept your challenge.”
Sweeping aside his cape, he drew from a blackened scabbard an immense, two-handed great sword, and circling around the fallen chandelier, he strode forward to meet her. Limping painfully, Kitiara pivoted to keep him in clear sight, holding her sword at the ready.
He was taller than she was, stronger than she was, to say nothing of the fact that he was deader than she was—though not by much. He felt no physical pain, though the gods alone knew the spiritual torment he suffered. He would never grow tried. He could fight for a hundred years, and she had maybe a couple of moments left in her. His reach was longer. She would never even get close to him, but this was what Kitiara had vowed to do, and by the Dark Queen, she was going to do it, though it would be the last thing she ever did.
Soth feinted left. Kit did not fall for it, for she saw the real attack coming. She blocked the blow, her sword clashing against his.
The chill of death and worse than death, the bitter cold of unending life, struck through her flesh to the bone. She shuddered in agony and gagged and sobbed for breath and held her ground, unmoving, blocking his blade with hers, holding him at bay with the last vestiges of her courage, for her strength had long since drained away.
Her sword shattered. The blade burst into slivers of steel. Splinters and shards of metal flared in the firelight. Kitiara staggered, almost falling.
Menacingly, Soth advanced on her. Kit reached into the dragon armor, snatched out the hidden dagger, and, shivering, trembling, she flung herself at him.
Soth caught hold of the hand holding the dagger and gave it a wrench. Kitiara’s flesh froze at his touch. She gave a soft, involuntary moan, then her teeth clamped down on her lips. She would not give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream. She waited, in silence, to die.
Lord Soth released her hand.
Kitiara clasped the wrist and gazed at him dully, so far gone she didn’t much care what happened, only that it should happen quickly.
He raised his sword, and Kitiara braced herself.
Lord Soth shifted the blade in his gloved hands. He held it out to her, hilt-first, and knelt down on one knee before her.
“My lady,” he said. “Accept my service.”
Kitiara stared at the sword. She stared at him. She smiled her crooked smile, then she collapsed in a heap on the floor, one hand crumpled under her, the other outstretched, fingertips touching the pool of blood beneath the chandelier.
Soth drew off the black cape and laid it over Kitiara, covering her to keep off the chill of night. In the morning, he would summon her dragon and see her safely on her way to her destiny. In the meantime, he would guard her sleep.
That night, for the first night since his downfall, Lord Soth forbade the elf women to sing to him the song of his crimes, lest they wake Kitiara.
4
Finis
hat ends our tale for today,” said Lillith Hallmark.
She had held her audience spellbound as she related the story of the momentous events that had taken place during the winter of 351 AC. She had spoken very calmly and quietly of the death of the two knights, Brian Donner and Aran Tallbow, and she had reminded her listeners that they could see the monument erected in their memories in the Hall of the Knights on Sa
ncrist Isle. The Aesthetics who had gathered to listen to her had exchanged sorrowful glances. Lillith had never married, and all knew that her heart was buried in the tomb with Brian Donner.
The people were reluctant to leave, however, and many wanted to know what happened next. “I’ll tell just a little more,” said Lillith, smiling. “After leaving the chamber where the two knights had died, the Heroes of the Lance—Laurana, Sturm, Flint, Tasslehoff, Gilthanas, Elistan—joined with Sir Derek Crownguard and fought alongside the warriors of the Ice Folk to defeat the armies of Feal-Thas and drive them from Ice Wall Castle,” Lillith told them. “Their mission accomplished, they left Icereach, taking with them the dragon orb and another artifact they found in the castle, one that turned out to be of far greater value. They also took with them the bodies of Aran Tallbow and Brian Donner to be buried as heroes in their homeland. What happened to the Heroes there is chronicled in the book Dragons of Winter Night.
“Many years have passed since that fateful day, and the song of their adventures in Icereach is still sung on a long winter’s night by Raggart the Younger. One of the tribe’s most honored possessions is Laurana’s frostreaver, which she gave to Harald before she left, fearing it would melt if she took it with her. The frostreaver stands always in a place of honor in the chieftent.
“Following the departure of the Companions, Harald pursued the war against the dragonarmies. He brought together the other tribes of the Ice Folk, and they attacked Sleet with such ferocity they drove her from her lair. The Ice Folk occupied Ice Wall Castle and held it. Harald’s task was made somewhat easier by the fact that Ariakas could not find anyone willing to take the place of Feal-Thas. Ariakas decided he did not care much about this unprofitable region of Ansalon anyway, so after a half-hearted attempt to retake Ice Wall Castle that ended in disaster, Ariakas pulled his forces out of Icereach, leaving it to the white bears and the nomads and the wolves.
“As for Kitiara, her continuing adventures can also be found in Dragons of Winter Night. Suffice it to say here, she and Tanis would meet again. Their liaison would have unforeseen consequences for both of them, for their companions, and for final victory in the War of the Lance.”
Her story for the day finished, Lillith rose to her feet. “Thank you, friends, for coming today and learning a portion of the history of Ansalon. In our next session, we will pick up the story of Kitiara’s half-brother, Raistlin Majere, who made a momentous decision right here in the Great Library. His tale is called Dragons of the Hourglass Mage. We, the Aesthetics of Gilean, hope you will return to share this with us.”
Author’s Notes
Feal-Thas
The full story of the wizard Feal-Thas can be found in the Dragonlance® game accessory Dragons of Winter , published by Margaret Weis Productions, Ltd. It is interesting to note that Feal-Thas was in fact innocent of the crime of which he was accused. He was, in his youth, a brilliant and promising mage. But for this terrible tragedy and subsequent injustice, Feal-Thas might well have used his magical powers in the battle to save his homeland of Silvanesti, instead of betraying Lorac and trying to destroy it.
The Siege of Castle Crownguard
Details of the attack on Castle Crownguard and the death of Derek’s brother, Edwin, can be found in the short story, “Glory Descending” by Chris Pierson, in the Dragonlance anthology, Dragons at War .
Rabbitslayer
Many readers noticed in Dragons of the Dwarven Depths the odd fact that Tasslehoff gives his beloved knife, Rabbitslayer, to Tika only to have Rabbitslayer once more in hand when he needs it in the dwarven kingdom. This was not a mistake, as many of you thoughtfully pointed out, or rather, it was a mistake in that we meant to insert a little explanatory note in the back of that book, but that never happened.
Some have speculated that Tasslehoff called any old knife that came to hand by the name Rabbitslayer—a good theory and a logical one, considering a kender’s short attention span. However, as those of you who have read other Dragonlance books know, Rabbitslayer is a magical blade that always returns to an owner it likes. Tasslehoff proudly carries the one and only Rabbitslayer throughout his long and illustrious career as a Hero of the Lance.
Dragons of the Hourglass Mage
The next and final book in the Lost Chronicles series , Dragons of the Hourglass Mage , will complete the tales we have left to tell. We will follow Raistlin Majere from the library of Palanthas, where he takes the black robes, to the Dark Queen’s city of Neraka. His journey is fraught with peril, for Raistlin decides to play a dangerous game, one in which he is prepared to gamble his very life for a chance at even greater power .
About the Authors
Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman have been writing best-selling D RAGONLANCE ® novels for over twenty years. As partners, they have written over thirty novels. Together, alone, and with different writing partners, they have written close to a hundred books, including novels, role-playing games, collections of stories, and game products.
Their first collaboration, Dragons of Autumn Twilight , was published in 1984, and the continuing series, set in the fantasy world of Krynn, has sold over twenty million copies worldwide, and has been translated and published in twenty foreign languages.
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION
BOOK I
PROLOGUE
BOOK II
BOOK III
The Fall of Ice-Reach Castle
BOOK IV
Author’s Notes
About the Authors