Dragons of a Lost Star

by Margaret Weis

  “No matter,” she said to herself. “He will know when it is time. They will all know.”

  She unbuckled the sword belt from around the Marshal’s waist. Trying to move hurriedly with fingers that were stiff and shaking, she fastened the belt with the heavy sword around her own waist and arranged the folds of her cloak over the sword. Her white cloak was stained red with the Marshal’s blood. Nothing she could do about that. She would have to find some way to explain it to the dragon, explain not only the blood but why she was here atop the tower, a hostage without a captor. Beryl would be suspicious. She would be a fool not to be, and the dragon was no fool.

  This is hopeless. There is no chance, Laurana told herself. She heard Beryl approaching, heard the creaking of enormous wings that obliterated the sun. Darkness descended. The air was tainted with the smell of the dragon’s poisonous breath.

  The dragonfear overwhelmed Laurana. She began to tremble, her hands were numb with cold. The Marshal was wrong. She couldn’t do this.…

  A ray of sunlight escaped from beneath the dragon’s wings and shone bright on the dragonlance. The lance blazed with silver flame.

  Moved by the beauty, Laurana remembered those who had wielded the lances so long ago. She remembered standing over Sturm’s body, the lance in hand, defiantly facing his killer. She had been afraid then, too.

  Laurana reached out her hand to touch the lance. She did not intend to take it with her. The lance was eight feet long. She could not hide it from the dragon. She wanted only to touch it, for memory’s sake and in memory of Sturm.

  Perhaps at this moment Sturm was with her. Perhaps the courage of those who wielded the lance was a part of the lance and now flowed through the metal and into her. Perhaps her own courage, the courage of the Golden General, the courage that had always been there, flowed from her into the dragonlance. All she knew was that when she touched the lance, her plan came to her. She knew what she would do.

  Resolute, Laurana took hold of the dragonlance and carried it with her into the sunlight.

  32

  Lost Star

  nce, she had thought dragons beautiful.

  The enemy dragons of Queen Takhisis. Beautiful they were, and deadly. The red dragons, whose scales flashed fire in the sunlight and whose breath was flame. The blue dragons with their swift and graceful flight, wheeling among the clouds, drifting with the thermals. White dragons, cold and glittering, and black dragons, shining, sinuous, and green dragons, emerald death. She feared them and hated them and loathed them, yet she never killed one but that she did not feel a flashing pang of remorse to see such a magnificent creature fall mortally wounded from the skies.

  This dragon was not beautiful. Beryl was ugly, fat, and bloated—hideous. Her wings could barely support her hulking body. Her head was misshapen, the forehead jutting out over the eyes that were flat and opaque. Her lower jaw was underslung, the teeth snaggled and rotting. Her scales were not the shining green of emeralds but the green of putrid flesh, of maggot-ridden meat. Her eyes did not gleam with intelligence but flickered with the feeble flame of greed and low cunning. It was then Laurana knew with certainty that this dragon was not of Krynn. Beryl was not a dragon who had been touched by the minds of the gods. She worshiped nothing except her own brutish desire, reverenced nothing but herself.

  The shadow of Beryl’s wings slid over Qualinost, covering the city in darkness. Laurana stood proudly on the balcony, looked out over the city, and saw that the darkness could not wither the aspen trees or cause the roses to wilt. That might come later, but for now the elven people and the elven homeland stood defiant.

  “We will rid the world of one monster, at least,” Laurana said softly, as the first blast of wind from the dragon’s wings tore at her hair. “You were wrong, Kelevandros. This hour is not our doom. This hour is our glory.”

  Beryl flew ponderously toward her, jaws gaping in a slavering grin of triumph. The dragonfear rolled off the dragon in waves but no longer affected Laurana. She had known the fear of a god. This mortal monster held no terror for her, no matter how hideous its visage.

  The balcony of the Tower of the Sun was rimmed by a wall of burnished gold that came to her waist. The wall was thick and solid, for it had been shaped by ancient elven wizards from the bones of the tower itself. Flowing out from the tower, the balcony wrapped protectively around the people standing behind it. The balcony was large enough to hold a delegation of elves. A single elf standing alone in the center looked very small—almost lost. There should have been two people on the balcony. That had been the plan. Beryl would expect two: Marshal Medan and his prisoner, the Queen Mother.

  Nothing Laurana could say or do, no lie she could tell, would alleviate Beryl’s suspicions. Talk would only give the dragon time to think and to react.

  Beryl’s red gleaming eyes swept over the balcony. She was close enough now that she could see, and what she saw was apparently not sitting well with her, for the eyes swept back and forth several times. The lumpish forehead wrinkled, the wicked red eyes narrowed. The fanged mouth widened in a knowing sneer, as if she had foreseen something like this would happen.

  That didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered now except that this day the elves of Qualinesti and those who were their friends and allies would expend their last breaths to destroy this loathsome beast.

  Laurana reached to the clasp of the white cloak and unfastened it. The cloak came off in her hands and fell to the balcony floor. Laurana’s armor, the armor of the Golden General, shone in the sunlight. The wind of the dragon’s wings blew back her hair that streamed out behind her, a gilded banner.

  Beryl was perilously close to the tower now. A few more ungainly flaps of her wings would bring her hulking head so close to Laurana that she might have reached out to touch it. Laurana gagged on the fumes of the dragon’s deadly, noxious gaseous breath. She choked, feared she must lose consciousness. The wind—a chill wind with a tinge of thunder in it—shifted directions to blow from the north, blow away the fumes.

  Laurana grasped the hilt of the sword, Lost Star, clasped her hand around it. She drew the sword. The blade flashed in the sunlight, the jewel sparkled.

  Beryl saw the sword in the hands of the lone elf woman and found the sight diverting. The dragon’s jaws creaked apart in what might have been a horrible laugh, but then she sensed the magic. The red eyes flared, and a drool of saliva dribbled from between the fangs. The cruel eyes shifted to the dragonlance, a flame of argent in the sunlight. Beryl’s eyes widened. She sucked in a breath of awe and desire.

  The fabled dragonlance—bane of dragons. Forged by Theros Ironfeld of the Silver Arm, using the blessed Hammar of Kharas, the lances had the power to pierce a dragon’s scales, penetrate through sinew, tissue, flesh, and bone. Dragons native to this wretched world spoke of the lance with fear and awe. Beryl had laughed in disdain. But she had been curious, eager to see one and, because the lances were magic, eager to possess one.

  A magic sword, a magic lance, an elf queen, an elf city—rich reward for this day’s work.

  Clasping the sword beneath the hilt, Laurana walked to the very edge of the balcony and held the Lost Star high. She raised her voice and sang out in a rousing paean of defiance and pride.

  Soliasi Arath!

  Far below the balcony of the Tower of the Sun, Dumat crouched in the shadows of the rooftop of an elven house. Concealed by the camouflaging branches of the aspen trees, twenty elves watched him, awaiting the signal. At Dumat’s side was his elven wife, Ailea, ready to translate should he need to give orders. Dumat spoke some Elvish, but when he did, Ailea always laughed at his accent. She had told him once it was like hearing a horse speak Elvish. He smiled at her, and she smiled at him, both confident, both ready. They had said their good-byes last night.

  From his vantage point, Dumat could see the balcony of the tower. He could not gaze at the sunlit building too long, The light gleaming off the sides, made his eyes water. He looked, then, blinking, looked away, th
en looked again, waiting for Marshal Medan and Laurana to appear. The advent of the flight of minion dragons overhead had shaken Dumat, caused him momentarily to lose sight of the tower as the dragonfear cast a dimness over his eyesight and sent tremors through his body.

  The elves on the roof were affected as well, but they, like Dumat, clenched their teeth on the fear. No one cried out, no one panicked. When Dumat was able to see again, he could see the tower clearly now. The shadow of the dragons’ wings blotted out the sunlight.

  The balcony was empty. No sign of Laurana or the Marshal.

  Dumat began to worry. He did not know why, could not explain it. The instinct of a veteran soldier, perhaps. Something had gone wrong. Dumat considered for a brief moment making a dash for the tower, to see if there was anything he could do, but rejected the idea almost immediately. His orders were to remain here and wait for the signal. He would obey those orders.

  The minion dragons departed and, like Laurana, Dumat realized that this was not a good sign. Beryl would be on her way. He tensed, staring at the tower that once again gleamed blindingly in the sunlight. He dared not look away for fear he might miss the signal, and he was forced to blink almost constantly to clear the tears from his eyes. When he saw Laurana, he let out a grateful whistle and watched for the Marshal.

  Medan did not come.

  Dumat gave the Marshal a count of ten, then a count of ten again, then gave up. He had known the truth before he started counting. Laurana would have never appeared on that balcony alone if Medan had been alive and able to stand beside her. Dumat said farewell to the Marshal, a soldier’s farewell, brief and silent, but heartfelt. He crouched and waited, watching for the signal flare.

  Those were the orders. Dumat and the rest of the elves and the few Dark Knights and dwarves who made up Qualinost’s defense force were to watch for the flaming arrow and then launch the attack. Greatly daring, he lifted his head above the branches in order to gain a better view. Ailea pinched his leg to force him to duck back down, but he ignored her. He had to see.

  Beryl came in sight, flying toward the tower. Dragonfear washed off her in great, billowing waves, but the fact that she had sent her followers first worked to her disadvantage. Those who were going to succumb to dragonfear had already done so and were recovering. Those who had not were not going to start now. Beryl’s cunning eyes roved here and darted there, not trusting to Medan’s reports the city was abandoned.

  Search all you want, you great bitch, Dumat told her silently. You are here, you are right above us. There’s no escape now.

  Dumat ducked back down moments before the dragon’s eyes might have seen him. Ailea gave him a look he knew well. It meant he was in for a scolding. He hoped against hope he’d live to receive it, but he wasn’t counting on it. He stared back at the tower.

  His eyesight was good, and he could see Laurana approach the edge of the balcony. He could not see her face, not from this distance—she was a small smear of white against the gold—but he could guess from the fact that she went to meet the dragon that she was not afraid.

  “Good for you, Mum,” he said quietly. “Good for you.”

  Beryl was close to the tower now. Dumat could see her underbelly and the underside of the wings, the hulking legs dangling beneath and the twitching tail. Her scaly hide was an evil green, mud-covered from her wallows.

  When devising his plan, King Gilthas had first thought of trying to pierce her hide with arrows, but he had discarded the idea. Beryl’s hide was thick, the scales strong. Arrows might bring her down but only if fired in massive numbers, and the elves did not have those numbers. Besides, she would expect such an attack and be prepared for it. They hoped she would not expect what she was about to get.

  Dumat waited now only for the signal arrow that was to have been fired by the elf Kelevandros … Kelevandros … Dumat knew what had happened, knew it as well as if he had seen it himself. Kelevandros had avenged his brother. Medan was wounded … dead. Laurana was alone up there now. She had no one to fire the signal.

  He saw her lift her arms.

  The sun in this new sky might have seemed pale and strange to the people of Krynn, but perhaps they had managed to win its favor. As Dumat watched, the sun sent a ray of light, straight as an arrow to strike Laurana. In that moment, he thought she held a star.

  White flame flared, a flame so brilliant and dazzling that Dumat had to squint his eyes against it and avert his gaze, as he might have done looking into the sun itself. This was the signal, he knew it more in his heart than his head.

  With a wild shout, he reared up from among the tree branches and flung them aside. Around him, elves jumped to their feet, grabbed their slings and bows and took their places. Dumat looked to the other rooftops. He was not alone. He had no need to give another signal. Every one of the commanders had seen that flash of light and known it for what it was.

  Dumat did not hear Laurana’s shouted challenge because he was shouting a challenge of his own, as were the elves around him. Dumat gave the order, and the elves opened fire.

  Soliasi Arath! Laurana shouted as she had shouted so many years before, challenging the dragons attacking the High Clerist’s Tower to fly to their deaths. She held the sword with the Lost Star above her, held it with her left hand. If the jewel failed, if the legends were wrong, if the magic of the sword had dwindled as much of the magic in the world had dwindled during the Age of Mortals, their plans and hopes and dreams would end in death.

  The sun pierced the jewel and the jewel burst in white fire. Laurana whispered a blessing on the soul of Kalith Rian and on the soul of that unknown elven smith who had found the lost star glittering in the ashes of the forge fire.

  Beryl stared at the sword with intense longing, for its magic was powerful, and she wanted it desperately. The jewel in the hilt was the most fabulous she had ever seen. She could not take her eyes from it. She must have it. Malys had nothing this valuable in her treasure trove. Beryl could not take her eyes from it.…

  Beryl was caught.

  Laurana realized the spell had worked when she saw the glow of the jewel burn in the dragon’s eyes, burn deep into the beast’s brain. She held the sword steady, held it high.

  Enthralled, Beryl hung almost motionless in the air above Qualinost, her wings fanning gently to keep her aloft, her rapt gaze fixed upon the Lost Star.

  The sword was heavy, and Laurana held it in an awkward position in her left hand, but she dared not give way to weakness, dared not drop the sword. She feared even to move, afraid that she might break the spell. Once freed from the enchantment, Beryl would attack in a violent rage. Laurana knew a moment’s despair as she waited in vain to hear some sign that the elves had launched the attack. Her plan had failed. Dumat was waiting for the signal arrow that would never come.

  The cheering and shouted challenges rising up from the rooftops were sweeter than bards’ songs to her, gave her tired arm muscles renewed strength. Elves appeared on the bridges that spanned the borders of Qualinost. Elves and Knights could be seen bursting out from the tree-branch rooftops, a blossom of deadly flowers. Ballistae that had been covered with vines were wheeled into position. The sling-throwers moved to the attack. A single shouted command begat hundreds of others. The elves launched the assault.

  Spears fired from the ballistae streamed upward, flew in a graceful arc over Beryl’s body. Trailing behind the spears were long lengths of rope—rope that had been formed of wedding gowns and baby clothes, cooks’ aprons and senators’ ceremonial robes. The hundreds of spears carried the ropes up and over Beryl. When the spears plummeted back down to the ground, the ropes settled over the dragon, falling across her body and her wings and her tail.

  The sling-throwers launched their attack, sending lead missiles soaring into the air. Attached to the missiles were more ropes that sailed over the dragon. Reloaded, the ballistae fired again. The sling-throwers hurled their missiles again and yet again.

  Elf wizards cast spells, not on the dr
agon, but on the ropes. They cast their spells not knowing if the erratic, wayward magic would work or not. They cast the spells more out of hope and despair than out of certainty. In some instances, the wizards cast spells as they had known them in the Fourth Age. In other instances they cast the spells of the wild magic of this new age. In all instances, the spells worked perfectly. The elf wizards were amazed—thrilled, but amazed.

  Some spells strengthened the rope and made the cloth as strong as steel. Others caused the rope to burst into magical fire. The enchanted flames ran along the length of the cable, burning the dragon but not consuming the rope. Certain spells made the rope as sticky as cobweb. Adhering to the dragon’s scales, the rope stuck fast. Still other spells caused the rope to loop and spiral as if it were alive. The living rope wrapped around and around the dragon’s feet, trussed Beryl like a chicken going to market.

  Now some of the elves dropped their weapons and grabbed hold of the ends of the ropes, waiting for the final command. More and more rope filled the air until Beryl looked like an enormous moth caught in a web spun by many thousands of spiders.

  Beryl could do nothing. The dragon was aware of what was happening to her. Laurana looked directly into the reptilian eyes and saw first amusement at the feeble efforts of these puny beings to ensnare her, then annoyance, as Beryl realized her movements were becoming increasingly hampered by the ropes. The annoyance altered very rapidly to fury, when she realized she could do nothing to help herself. She could do nothing but stare at the jewel.

  The dragon’s body quivered in impotent rage. Saliva dripped from her jaws. Her neck muscles bulged and strained as she tried frantically to wrench her gaze from the jewel. Rope after rope fell over her body. Her wings were weighed down, her tail entangled. She could not move her hind feet. They were tied together. The horrid ropes were winding themselves around her forefeet. She could feel herself being hauled down out of the sky, and suddenly she was afraid. She was powerless to save herself.