The Dragons

by Doug Niles

  Settling to the ground on one of the few patches of grass broad enough to accommodate his arching wings, Darlantan lifted his head above the surrounding greenery.

  “Hello, my silver friend. The elves wish to thank you for sparing their flowers.”

  The figure of a tall, golden-haired elven patriarch emerged from a nearby bower, striding toward Darlantan with long, graceful steps. In his hands, the elf held a large emerald, passing the stone back and forth with smooth, well-practiced gestures. Though his eyebrows were the snowy white of an elder’s, his face scored by the lines of many centuries of life, Dar knew this was not an aged elf—indeed, it was not an elf at all.

  “Greetings, Aurican. It is not hard to find the tribe now that they have smashed such a spread of forest.”

  “It is already a wonder, is it not?” asked Auri, gesturing with both hands to the gardens, the vista of lakes and swans and fountains. “Perhaps you would find a smaller form more comfortable while you have a look around.”

  Darlantan agreed his real body would be a liability here, and so he smoothly shifted into his favored alternate guise, the bearded elder he had selected for his first shapeshifting.

  Aurican led his kinsman through a bower of roses, where another elf, tall and elegantly clad in golden robes, rose to meet them.

  “Welcome, Darlantan,” declared the serene patriarch, with a dignified bow.

  “I thank you, Silvanos.”

  “He is the architect of this great project,” Aurican said. “The elf who has brought his people together under one clan … and now would create a city as a proper holding for that clan.”

  “You do me great honor, Auri,” declared the handsome elf, startling the silver dragon with the familiar nickname. “As you do, Darlantan. It is a rare privilege to entertain you as our guest.”

  “Thank you,” replied Dar, nodding with the bearded sage’s head. “Your transformation is extensive and … remarkable.” Patersmith had trained him well. He wouldn’t allow himself to be rude. Still, he found himself wondering at the vast scope of the construction. Why did these elves find it necessary, and why did Aurican seem to like it so much?

  The silver dragon in the guise of the sage allowed himself to be shown the network of gardens. He accepted an invitation to dinner and enjoyed the finest feast of his life in a grand outdoor pavilion. Succulent roasts of meat were accompanied by breads and cheese, fruits and wines and puddings, until even the hungriest of the guests, which arguably was Darlantan, had been fully sated.

  “Have you been to see the grotto recently?” asked Aurican, leaning back easily as the guests relaxed after the meal.

  “It has been many winters,” admitted the silver dragon through the sage’s whiskers.

  “For me as well,” Auri said dreamily. “But I will go to see Patersmith … soon.”

  “That is a good idea,” declared Darlantan, touched by a surprising wave of melancholy. “He has the females to keep him company, but I suspect he misses us.”

  “Yes … and there are changes, things occurring in Krynn, that I must bring to his attention.”

  Darlantan was about to ask what his Kin-dragon meant when a trill of flute music wafted through the pavilion. Aurican’s elven eyelids closed, and the music so clearly pleased him that Dar found it impossible to interrupt his nestmate’s contentment. Later, elven dancers enacted a graceful epic beneath a canopy of stars, and finally, around midnight, the balladeers began their interminable labors. Strings were tuned, and flutes chirped their light and airy notes in a growing melody of joyous music.

  Aurican had already risen, his eyes fixed upon a chorus of male elves. The emerald he had been holding floated in the air, trailing after him as the gold dragon stepped precisely toward the gathered musicians. “I … I must join them,” he declared absently as Darlantan stood at his side.

  “I understand,” the silver serpent replied to his ancient nestmate. “But you will understand, too, that it is time for me to depart.”

  The lyrics of the song had barely passed into their second verse by the time the body of the elder sage had carried Darlantan to the edge of the grove. Stepping into the middle of a large, grassy swath, he suddenly shimmered as starlight reflected in dazzling array from his silver wings, his cold and gleaming scales. And then he was in the air, leaving the swath of the city behind, a wound that was at last masked by a bandage of distance.

  For many seasons, he flew aimlessly, following the great woodlands toward the foothills of the Khalkists. Where the plains began, he saw the distant blot on the horizon of a great, sprawling city, a place far larger than Silvanos’s gathering of his clans. He had heard Smelt speak of this place, calling it Xak Tsaroth, and he had no desire to fly closer to it. Let the brass dragon serve as ambassador to man.

  He skirted to the east, flying above the snow-frosted foothills of the Khalkists. Finally he came to one of his favorite places, a high mountain far to the south of the smoking heartland of the range. Upon this peak, Darlantan came to rest. He crouched on the shoulder of the lofty summit, eyes staring across the realms to the south. Soon he saw that which he sought: the wild elf Kagonos, alone, away from his people, running on one of his pathfinding treks, which often lasted for many days.

  The warrior was painted with swirls of dark ink. His black hair trailed in a long braid, and he was naked and unarmed. Yet there was a lethal capability in his gait, in the calm assurance with which he crossed precipitous heights and trotted down loose, slippery, shale that belied his apparent helplessness. At his side, he bore the ram’s horn, twin to the instrument hanging on Darlantan’s silver chain.

  Atop a nearby lower summit, the brave halted. The wind whipped his hair to the side as he stared at the mighty dragon, locking eyes with Darlantan for many long heartbeats. And then the Elderwild elf was gone, trotting around the shoulder of the mountain, following his private path as he worked his way through these lofty reaches.

  Farther down, at the foot of the massif, Darlantan could see the clans of the wild elves in their great Gathering. The tribe’s encampment filled the sheltered swale of a small, well-watered valley. Just beyond were the pristine forests of the great wilderness.

  Darlantan was already restless. He trotted around the slopes of the great mountain, easily picking his way over steep cliffs and loose rock piles. Soon he came into view of the northern Khalkists, a reach of looming peaks and deep, shadowy valleys. The horizon there seemed always masked by a haze of smoke, which originated from fires within some of the mountains themselves. It was a place that had always intrigued the mighty silver dragon, but he had never explored it.

  Nor did he feel that inclination now. Still not sure where he would fly, he eased forward and jumped from the ridge. As his wings spread, scooping into the air, he noticed movement close beside the foot of this mountain.

  Gliding downward, he discerned a file of monstrous warriors skulking through a shadowy defile. The dragon quickly came to rest behind a ridge, cautiously raising his head for a look. He saw the hulking physiques, the hunched posture of these warriors, and though he had never seen their like before, he knew they could be only one thing.

  Ogres.

  In the next instant, he studied the direction followed by the monstrous band and realized that if they continued to circle around the base of the mountain, the ogres would be able to fall upon the Gathering of the Elderwild from above.

  Now the silver dragon took to the air and spread his shimmering wings, great leathery sails so broad that they cast the gorge occupied by the ogre raiding party into shadows. One of the brutes, a great, tusked bull at the head of the file, pointed upward and bellowed, waving a large feather-draped staff. Others threw stones that sailed past the gliding dragon or bounced harmlessly off his silver scales. Darlantan looped back, seeing that the ogres were all within the deep ravine. The walls might have kept them safe from observation, he reflected grimly, but now the confining barrier would prove to be the ogres’ undoing.

 
Darlantan’s breath exploded as a blast of deadly frost, an eruption of ice that billowed through the gorge, rebounding from the enclosing walls to fill the entire length of the ravine. Icicles formed instantly on the stone walls, and the roaring of dragonbreath was matched by a chorus of wails, shouts, and howls—the cries of the dying ogres ringing upward from the rock-lined channel.

  He swept past again, once more spewing his deadly frost against the ogre column, this time concentrating the attack against the front of the band, where he had spotted several stragglers trying to crawl away. The explosive chill once more filled the trough of the ravine, penetrating into the cracks and crannies where desperate ogres had sought shelter.

  Quickly the mountain winds blew the frost away, revealing a pathway littered with dead, frozen ogres. The entire column was slain, the brutish warriors cast about on the ground, some stiffened as they tried to climb to safety, others huddled in bundles of miserable terror. All of the corpses were draped by the heavy cake of frost, leaving a landscape of lifelike creatures that were all clearly dead.

  This was different killing, Darlantan realized as he flew across the plains toward the Kharolis Mountains. The slaying of the ogres was very unlike the taking of an elk or a deer; it was even a distinct change from the violence he had directed against an occasional rogue griffon who didn’t show proper respect for a dragon’s prey. This was very serious business, he realized, as it dawned on him that he was battling creatures who were fully capable of killing him in return.

  The sensation was not unpleasant. In fact, the silver dragon knew he had done the right thing. It gladdened his heart that his might could be used for such a cause. Mercy, after all, must be tempered by strength.

  Gliding onward, he toyed with the idea of looking for more ogres, of perhaps striking dead another war party of these brutish creatures. Certainly he knew they were the enemies of the elves, and it pleased him to do things that were of service—at least, to the Elderwild.

  Ultimately he decided against that course. His wings tilted, carrying him back to the wide plain. For a while, he drifted dreamily, riding updrafts like a lazy condor, working his wings only when the air grew still.

  But a focus quickly took shape in his mind, and he realized it was time to go to see Patersmith.

  Chapter 7

  A Farewell

  3532 PC

  The high Kharolis was in the full vibrancy of late spring. Streams gushed through valleys and canyons, and swaths of green extended upward, encroaching on terrain revealed by melting snowfields. As always, the heights dazzled and inspired Darlantan as he winged his way toward the grotto.

  A flash of metallic scales, gleaming brown, attracted the silver dragon’s attention to a deep gorge. Tucking his wings, he dived and swiftly banked around a cliff to see a slender copper shape winging rapidly away. Blayze flew low, following the course of the canyon. The copper dragon cast a quick glance behind him, saw Darlantan, and swept into an immediate dive.

  The silver came after him, driving his wings hard, anxious to talk to his nestmate. Many hundreds of winters had passed since last these two ancient beings had exchanged a word, and Darlantan felt a strong urge to bring that stretch to an end.

  “Blayze—wait!” he called when another bend in the canyon brought his cousin into view.

  With a slashing turn, far tighter than Darlantan could have made, the supple copper dragon banked around and came to rest on a ledge of the canyon wall. Spitting in frustration, Darlantan settled on a nearby knob, a perch much too small for his giant body. Wings flapping, foreclaws clutching at rocks as they crumbled under his grip, Darlantan confronted Blayze.

  The copper stared back, wings spread wide, neck outstretched. He hissed loudly, but Dar was relieved that his nestmate at least held his corrosive acid breath in check.

  “I mean you no harm. I want to talk to you … to ask if you’re going to see Patersmith,” the silver dragon grunted, still trying to hold his balance. With a mutter of frustration, he changed shape, sitting easily in the body of the ancient sage.

  “I see your big body has grown too clumsy for you!” sneered Blayze, flexing his wings arrogantly. “Now I could knock you off there with one claw!”

  “But why?” Darlantan countered. He was tempted to point out that this frail-looking body was every bit as strong as his dragon form. Instead, he held his tongue, knowing his purpose was not to argue.

  “I would kill you to spare my treasures, to keep your plundering claws from my lair!”

  “I care nothing for your treasure! And I don’t know where your lair is!”

  “For hundreds of winters, I have gathered wealth there—baubles and metals and trinkets I have taken from ogres, from the lizard people, even from rich humans, the fools who prey on their own kind. Now the treasures are mine!”

  “And yours they shall remain,” Darlantan said gently. “But I’m going to see our old teacher, and Aurican is, too. All I wanted to do was talk, to invite you to come with us.”

  The stiff copper wings relaxed slightly. “It … it has been a very long time … since I have visited the grotto and our tutor.”

  “Then come with me!”

  For a moment, Darlantan thought Blayze would fly away. The copper lifted his serpentine neck, looking into the distance. Then he sighed and lowered his head.

  “Very well. It’s true that I miss our teacher’s company … and yours as well, my kin-dragon,” he admitted.

  For the first time in centuries, the nestmates flew side by side, steady wing strokes bearing them to the Valley of Paladine and into the shadowy cavern. As Darlantan led Blayze through the long tunnel leading into the cavern of the lake and the sacred grotto, he sensed another serpentine form in the darkness before him. A sniff confirmed the acrid scent of well-burned soot, and he knew he followed in the wake of Burll. By the time the three metal dragons winged their way over the lake, they caught Aurican, also in flight, and moments later they met Smelt, the brass having just landed at the ledge leading to the grotto’s entryway.

  Upon entering, they found the females already gathered, the aged tutor standing dotingly over the huge basket of the nest. Though several of these dragons hadn’t been here for centuries, there was no great ceremony to mark their arrival.

  “These are your eggs,” Patersmith explained as Aurican, Darlantan, Smelt, and the other males gathered around the gem-studded nest in the grotto. The mighty wyrms of metal, long necks arched high, stared in awe at the glittering array of perfect baubles lining the sacred bowl.

  Darlantan saw numerous orbs of silver, and only then did his eyes go to Kenta, who, along with the other females, coiled regally across the mossy cushion of the grotto’s floor. She was uninterested in meeting his gaze, holding her attention instead upon the tutor and the nest that had somehow become full of eggs.

  Now Patersmith lectured in his most sonorous tones, and out of old habit, Darlantan paid full attention to his mentor.

  “You must guard them well. This is the sacred trust of every metal dragon. You are serpents of Paladine, and as such, these are your treasured artifacts. They represent your future and give proof to your past.”

  “There are so many of them,” Auri declared in awe. “Our numbers shall grow.”

  “It is the Platinum Father’s wish that your descendants should populate Krynn, should make this a world of halcyon peace, of celebrated beauty, goodness, and high learning beyond compare. No task is more important than that you guard them well and protect these eggs against any danger.”

  At Patersmith’s words, Darlantan suddenly remembered his frosty blast when he slayed the multitude of ogres.

  “Are they safe here?” he asked, raising his silver head to regard the tutor.

  “Their mothers will remain here until the eggs have hatched,” Patersmith explained. “They will be as well protected as anything on Krynn.”

  “And you … you will be here as well?” asked Aurican, his gilded brow furrowing with concern. “You wi
ll remain with our precious eggs?”

  “Alas, that is not to be,” declared the bewhiskered tutor. For the first time, Dar noticed that Patersmith had somehow grown very, very old. His whiskers were white as snow, his posture stooped and frail.

  “You are going away?” asked Darlantan, while the other males lifted their heads in mute question.

  “In a sense, yes … yes, I am. My journey will not be a physical one. To you, my sons and daughters, I will appear to sleep. And my sojourn shall indeed be restful, if good fortune will only follow me.”

  Darlantan was seized by a startlingly strong emotion, a tug of melancholy that seemed quite out of place in his massive, powerful self. He knew he would miss the aged tutor, and though his visits to the grotto had been rare in recent centuries, he found it difficult to imagine a life without the sage’s patient insight and wise counsel.

  “But what of us?” asked Aurican, his deep voice rising in a plaintive question. “While our sisters guard the eggs, what would you have us do?”

  “Ah, Auri,” chuckled Patersmith. “Here is where your brother Darlantan’s wisdom may even have exceeded your own, for he has always understood that you should not do the things that I would have you do, but that you would do for yourself.”

  The silver dragon tried to speak but found that his throat was thickened in an awkward fashion. He couldn’t shape the words, couldn’t even think of what to say.

  Patersmith came to stand before Smelt, reaching up to stroke the brass scales of his neck. “You always understood me,” the old tutor declared. “Of all your nestmates, you have best learned the value of mercy and of friendship. Go back to your humans, my chatty one, and lead them in the ways of wisdom and goodness.”

  Next he came to Blayze, whose copper head drooped sadly in the face of the smith’s departure. “Mind that temper, my quick one. But do not vanquish it entirely, for it is a force that lies at the heart of your clan’s might. All of you could learn something from Blayze, for there may come a time when you need to fight. Then you shall find that anger can be a useful force, a thing that can enhance your strength and even overawe your enemies.”