The Dragons

by Doug Niles

  “Invisibility magic!” hissed the silver dragon, feeling another surge of outrage.

  “We will deal with them,” said Aurican. “Of that you may be sure. And thank you for the warning.”

  “Be careful!” urged the griffon, banking into a gentle dive. Soon he was a speck fading into the distance.

  They approached the craggy knoll of granite, the barren summit perhaps twice as high as the loftiest of the pines. The dragons of Paladine scrutinized the place, seeking some sign of the invisible dragons.

  “There, to the left,” murmured Darlantan, indicating a clearing where several saplings had been flattened.

  “Right—and there, on the rocks, is the second,” Auri said.

  “Where the bushes are crushed,” Darlantan agreed, feeling the killing frost swell in his belly.

  Side by side, the two metal dragons winged toward the bluff. Darlantan lowered himself into a gentle glide, as if looking for a good place to land. He marked both dragons, not because he could see them but because their massive bodies had inevitably disturbed the crowded terrain. Nearing the flattened patch of grove, Dar abruptly lashed his head downward, exploding with a blast of surging, churning frost.

  The enemy dragon shrilled its pain and fury, and Dar veered away as a fountain of acid exploded from frost-coated jaws. The black dragon, clearly outlined in rime, twisted upward, but the vengeful silver was too fast. Darlantan settled onto the snakelike serpent, crushing with his silver claws, squeezing his powerful jaws over the squirming throat. With a shudder, the black dragon grew still.

  Aurican, Darlantan saw, had dispatched his foe with similar quickness. The pair of metal dragons tossed the limp corpses into the forest below and finally settled to rest on the rocky crest, tucking their wings and squatting between rough outcrops. With a shrug, Aurican shifted into his more compact two-legged form, and Darlantan quickly followed.

  He found it a relief to tend to some mundane affairs, gathering some brush for a fire while Auri cleared the stones from the area where they had chosen to sleep. Finally they settled before a small blaze, both of them reflecting on the many centuries of their brothers’ lives … and their violent ends. They talked of Burll’s strength, of Smelt’s lightning quickness. Together they imagined the deadly menace that hot-tempered Blayze would have become, should he have survived the first ambush long enough to embark on a quest for vengeance.

  “That revenge shall be our task now,” Aurican murmured, still speaking with the serene detachment that, under the circumstances, Darlantan found profoundly disturbing.

  “Sssst!” The body of the bearded sage hissed the warning as the silver dragon heard an almost silent footfall from the thicket near the precipitous edge of the knoll.

  Darlantan rose to his feet, unafraid. In fact, he almost hoped to see an ogre, or even a dragon, of the Dark Queen burst into view and give him a vent for his fury. He felt a swelling in his human chest, but he resisted the impulse to expand to his full size.

  Instead of ogres, a pair of lithe figures emerged from the shadows, moving toward the welcoming warmth of the fire. Only elves could have approached so quietly, and the dragons recognized both of the sylvan visitors. One had hair of harvest-straw gold and was dressed in silken leggings and tunic, while the other was dark-haired, nearly naked, his body covered in swirls of dark war paint. At his side, he bore the horn of a mighty ram. Silvanos and Kagonos advanced and squatted beside the small fire, soaking up the welcome radiance, saying nothing as their ancient friends settled back beside them.

  “We grieve for your splendid city,” Aurican said, solemnly addressing the proud Silvanos.

  “One of a hundred, a thousand tragedies of a scope too grand to comprehend,” declared the revered leader of the elves. “And in truth, the destruction of buildings and lands and constructs is as nothing compared to the losses of fathers and mothers, sons and sisters, that have ravaged our people since the coming of the dragons.”

  Silvanos looked squarely across the fire, meeting the eyes of Auri and Dar as he struggled to blink back tears. His voice, when he spoke, was strangled by a very unelven passion.

  “The coming of the ogres was a thing we could fight, and we did—but dragons! By all the gods, when they swept from the sky, breathing lightning and ice, burning acid and deadly poisonous gas, we could only flee to the woods.”

  “We are all elves of the forest now,” said Kagonos, furrowing his dark eyebrows. His face and body were painted in the whorls and lines of the inky dye favored by his tribe, and his gray eyes were serious as they regarded the flesh cloaking the two dragons. “We would have warned you of the danger had we received word of your return in time. As it was, by the time the news arrived from the south, you had already been lured into Crematia’s ambush.”

  “Ah … a good name for that fiery killer,” Aurican observed, still speaking in the same infuriating tone of detachment. “What about the spell magic that she used? Did this Crematia creature bring it from the Abyss?”

  “Aye, my friend,” Silvanos agreed, his golden eyes keen as they studied Aurican. “What does that mean to you?”

  “Simply that spell magic resides in the realms of the gods … that if we want to fight the power of sorcery, we shall have to seek powers of our own—powers that come from the gods.”

  “But not from the Abyss …” The golden-haired elf spoke with certainty.

  “No … no, of course not.” Auri’s manner was breezy.

  Silvanos held up a hand. “There are others, perhaps, who can help. Do not be alarmed by their appearance, for they travel under our protection.”

  Three elves, a trio of lithe but apparently elderly males, advanced into the clearing. Except for the colors of their robes, which were red, black, and white, respectively, the three might have been mirror images of each other. Each had long hair of iron gray, and they regarded the quartet with dark eyes that flashed with curiosity and something else.

  The black-robed elf hung back, his gaze glaring with almost physical brightness, while the two in white and red took hesitant steps forward, bowing, regarding the transformed dragons with inscrutable expressions.

  “I present Fayal Padran and Parys Dayl,” murmured Silvanos, indicating the elves in red and white, respectively. The dark-garbed figure in the back stared silently. “And Kayn Wytsnall as well.”

  “Welcome to our humble fire,” Dar offered.

  “These are elves who would be mages. They have studied the ways of the gods.” Silvanos stood and gestured the trio forward to the fire.

  “We have already lived longer than most of our kind,” cautioned red-robed Fayal Padran, raising a hand that was tipped with unusually long, slender fingers.

  “How have you done this?” asked Aurican in honest curiosity.

  “More pointedly, why are you here?” Darlantan interjected, fearing that his cousin might be about to embark on a long and pointless conversation.

  It was Kayn Wytsnall, the elf in black, who replied.

  “We are here because we have devoted our lives to the quest for magic—to bring the power of sorcery and spellcasting back to Krynn. Now it would seem that there is magic to be gained, and we have an idea where to look.”

  “And where is that?” pressed Aurican excitedly. He felt a strong affinity for these elves who would be wizards, Dar could tell.

  “We have assembled the wisest men and elves to help us answer that question.” Parys Dayl took over the explanation. His manner was easy, and the white robe swirled like smoke from his arms as he gestured expansively. “For years, priests have meditated, sages researched.…”

  “And you have learned the answer?” Auri probed gently.

  “We have learned that we shall have to seek from the gods themselves. But here we are limited, for we cannot look to the Platinum Father, nor the Queen of Darkness. They are the mighty gods who have chosen to withhold magic from the world, and they would be hostile to our pleas.”

  “Where, then?” demanded Darl
antan.

  The white robe replied, directing his dark and intense gaze exclusively at Aurican. “We believe the gods who might be more sympathetic to our … request can be reached, but to do so will require a long flight—a journey into realms beyond our world. That is why Silvanos suggested we speak to you.”

  “Yes … perhaps I could carry you. This is a quest I have always longed to undertake.”

  “It was our hope that you would feel this way,” Parys Dayl said.

  When his cousin turned to regard him, Darlantan had the distinct feeling he was looking into the face of the massive golden serpent, though Auri was still in the form of the elven sage. He knew, too, that Aurican had made up his mind with certain finality.

  “We may be gone for a long time. Until we return, the cause of our vengeance will fall to you. Are you prepared?”

  For a long time, Darlantan was silent. He wondered, hoped, thought about the future and the past. The silver dragon was ready to carry the war against the serpents of the Dark Queen, and he knew that he could exact revenge.

  He was less certain about Aurican’s quest. For all of his life, the gold dragon had spoken of gaining magic, of returning the power of sorcery to the peoples of Krynn. Yet now, when he considered the task, it seemed like an impossible deed. Still, there was the presence of magic in the evil dragons, and suddenly Darlantan could only hope that Aurican and the three brother mages were right: With the help of gods, spell magic could be brought to Krynn.

  “Aye, my cousin.”

  Darlantan felt a quickening of hope as Aurican once again shimmered and grew, uncoiling across the top of the little knoll. The golden neck lowered, and the three mages climbed aboard, resting securely in the hollow between the gold dragon’s shoulders. With a powerful, graceful leap, Aurican took to the air, and Silvanos, the wild elf, and the silver dragon watched until the fliers had vanished into the gathering dusk.

  Chapter 11

  Silver Death

  3488–3480 PC

  The ogre’s face was lined with sweat, and be wiped a burly paw across his forehead, casting a spray of salty drops into the dense bushes beside the winding pathway. Behind him, a file of similar brutes, panting and dust-covered warriors clearly weary from a long march, plodded listlessly along the trail. Frustration and fatigue pervaded the air, rising like a stench from the mute, shuffling ogres.

  This was the spearhead of a vast army, but for many weeks, the weary brutes had been embarked on a fruitless campaign against an invisible woodland foe. They had found one elven camp, long abandoned, but had encountered none of the sylvan warriors who were their quarry. Now, bored and apathetic, the brutish troops plodded listlessly through the summer heat.

  A braying cry rang through the woods, like the sudden call of some trumpet-billed bird. Then the sound was repeated, and again, with a force that made clear this was no winged creature of the forest. The ogre halted, growling suspiciously as his eyes peered into the shadows. Movement slashed across his vision, too quick for the brute to recognize, but then he looked down and grunted in surprise.

  A short arrow jutted from his chest. Another of the shafts struck him in the belly, and two more in the neck. With a gurgling, choking cry, the lead ogre fell face first onto the path.

  Other ogres charged past the corpse of their comrade, bronze swords upraised. Three of the monsters advanced abreast, growling and snapping at the dense foliage, until a hailstorm of arrows greeted them. Death showered silently from the woods, slaying the trio, more arrows striking the brutes that were farther back in the file.

  Then the wild elves were everywhere, attacking in answer to the sound of the ram’s horn. Axes chopped and spears jabbed as the painted braves swarmed from the woods on both sides of the trail, striking ogres in their sagging gullets or muscled backs, slashing necks and hamstrings with quick, deadly blows. Shouts and cries from ogre and elf mingled with the clatter of blows, the deadly din of battle.

  In seconds, the veteran ogre company dissolved into chaos. Those brutes still alive and unwounded turned toward the rear, stampeding down the path in a bellowing mass of terror. The wild elves killed those who fled too slowly, but showed little eagerness to press the pursuit. Soon the ogres who led the rout—those who had been at the rear of the marching column—slowed their pace to a shambling trot. The immediate threat was past, they sensed.

  Until they came around a bend and found a massive, silver serpent coiled in their path. The lumbering ogres came to an abrupt halt, but before they could reverse their course, a blast of frost swirled from the gaping jaws. Icy air wilted the trees and slew the monstrous troops in a gusty wave of frigid death.

  When the last of the ogres had been slain, the silver form shifted as Darlantan assumed the white-bearded body of the sage. Wild elves emerged from the brush and gathered around, looking at the frozen corpses littering the forest floor.

  “It was a good trap,” Kagonos announced approvingly as the wild elves gathered around the dragon in the depths of the forest clearing. “My braves counted more than a hundred slain, versus none of our own warriors.”

  “That is indeed good news,” Darlantan said, momentarily wearied by the weight of wartime memories.

  For many winters since the departure of Aurican, the elves had remained in the deepest woods, harassing the ogres who dared to penetrate into those forest homes, hiding from the chromatic dragons beneath the overwhelming canopy of trees. A long period of wet seasons prevented the drying that would have allowed the ogres to burn entire forests away, and the elves continued to take their toll among the enemy invaders. Kagonos himself led many sudden strikes, his painted Elderwild warriors appeared from the woods like apparitions, slaying ogres, pillaging treasure and supplies, then vanishing into the forest pathways.

  Sometimes Darlantan joined in these strikes in the guise of a lean elven warrior. He fought using his hands or elven weapons, killing ogres with the stab of a spear or the twist of his powerful fingers. Often he employed a great, jagged-edged longsword that he had claimed from a slain enemy. There was no counting the number of brutish ogres who had been fatally gashed by that implacable blade.

  During these years, Darlantan camped with Kagonos and his braves, stalking under the trees, using his sensitive nostrils and hearing to aid the wild elves in their seeking of prey and enemies. Of course, the keen senses of the elves were nearly as fine as his own, and Darlantan had grown used to young Elderwild braves calling his attention to a nearby doe or alerting him to the surreptitious movement of an enemy column.

  Still, the elves accepted this strange warrior, followed him as he killed on his relentless quest for vengeance. Darlantan devised intricate ambushes, attacks that inflicted great damage on the foe while protecting the braves of the tribe. Leading these assaults with reckless abandon, the silver dragon in elven guise would strike hard, kill many ogres, then vanish before the brutish warriors could organize a counterattack.

  At other times, Darlantan assumed his natural form and took his war to the dragons of the Dark Queen. He prepared ambushes of his own, and since Aurican’s departure he had killed serpents of blue and black, of green and white. He became a mighty dragonslayer, vengeful and swift, attacking with power, speed, and implacable determination to surprise and confound the enemy serpents. He remained always alert, ready to foil even a teleporting dragon from making a surprise attack, and word of his deadly presence spread rapidly through the ranks of the Dark Queen’s wyrms.

  Always he hoped to strike at red Crematia, but that wily and hateful serpent consistently avoided the silver dragon’s traps. Instead, she left for Darlantan many signs of her destruction, cities and villages and towns of elvenkind laid to waste. She delighted in the slaughter of whole herds of livestock. After selecting a few morsels for her own feast, she inevitably incinerated the rest of the hapless beasts with an expulsion of her hellish breath.

  Still, in return, Darlantan laid waste to many an ogre’s lair, becoming a scourge of the clans, viewed w
ith every bit as much abhorrence by his enemies as the elves regarded Crematia and her villainous kin-dragons. He blasted marching columns of the brutes with his frosty breath, collapsed the caves and dens of their lairs with his brute strength.

  Too, he aided the army of Silvanos—now under the command of the fierce and vengeful Quithas Griffontamer and the diminutive but resolute Balif—when it took to the field against the ogres. Though the elves fought under divided command, their tactics were effective. Quithas led his flying archers, mounted on fleet griffons, through a series of fast raids, while Balif led the troops on the ground, appearing when they were least expected, fighting solidly when the ogres expected them to run, and vanishing when the ogre chieftain Blacktusk, scion of Ironfist, drew up his legions for an offensive.

  After the successful ambush, the elves once again scattered to the deep forest, and Darlantan took flight over the Plain of Vingaard. On the third day after the battle, he came upon a skirmish raging around a small, isolated farmstead. Hundreds of ogres had the place surrounded, while a small band of defenders had raised wooden barricades and sealed themselves into a compound of stone-walled courtyards and wooden barns.

  The silver dragon flew low, blasting the attacking ogres with repeated explosions of lethal frost. The warriors within the makeshift fortress counterattacked, driving the rest of the brutes away as the silver serpent settled onto the muddy, trampled field.

  One of the defenders approached the silver dragon without visible fear. The warrior was not, as Dar had first suspected, an elf. Instead, this leader had a thick beard and was wearing a costume of crudely tanned furs. The silver dragon knew that this was a human.

  “I am called Tarn Iceblade,” said the warrior. “We thank you for killing the ogres.” He bowed quickly, then regarded Darlantan with sparkling, ice-blue eyes.