The History of Krynn: Vol I

by Dragon Lance

  Sthenn could not fly. Though only one wing was broken, the skin of the other was shredded. Quaking, he crawled slowly away to the west. He kept looking back over his tattered left wing, and when Duranix rose from the rubble of the broken wall, Sthenn fell on his belly.

  “Enough!” he quavered. “Let me be, you stupid hatchling!”

  Duranix shook off his hard landing, spread his wings, and made a gliding leap. He alighted in front of Sthenn. The green didn’t try to attack but coiled himself in the mud in a tight ball.

  “If you kill me, Duranix, what reason will you have to live?”

  Standing upright, the bronze dragon planted his right hind foot on the groveling Sthenn’s head.

  “I’ll find a reason,” he said coldly.

  All through his massive body, the bronze dragon’s muscles knotted. His clawed foot gripped the green dragon’s narrow skull, each bronze talon embedding itself. Sthenn let out a shrill scream. His tail whipped from side to side, striking blows against Duranix’s back that would have crippled a lesser creature. Duranix stiffened and tightened his grip. He leaned to one side, putting all his great weight onto his foe. Brittle bones as old as the towering mountains began to crack. The grind of splintered bone could be heard throughout the valley.

  “This is for my mother,” Duranix snarled, bearing down even harder. “For my clutchmates... for Blusidar... for all the innocent creatures you’ve tormented and murdered over the centuries.

  “And this is for me!”

  The great talons closed remorselessly. Filthy ichor gushed around them. The loudest crack of all reverberated off the cliffs, and Sthenn’s tail ceased thrashing.

  Duranix slowly opened his claw and backed away a short distance. He came to rest on all fours. His wings were folded tightly against his back. He stayed that way, not moving, not blinking. He might have been cast in cold bronze for all the outward signs of life he displayed.

  The last clouds flew away on the south wind, and the late afternoon sun filled the valley with bright warmth.

  From different parts of the valley, small parties of people converged on the crouching dragon. Beramun and Karada arrived together, riding double. From the village came Amero, Lyopi, and the surviving elders of Yala-tene. On Amero’s heels came Balif, alone. From the raiders’ riverbank camp streamed prisoners, freed by the five men Hoten had sent away from the battle. At their head was Jenla, the old gardener. When she and Tepa caught sight of each other, they rushed forward, weeping, to engulf each other in a fierce embrace.

  Karada and Beramun met Amero and his people well before they reached Duranix. The nomad chief dismounted and dropped to the ground. Without a word, she approached her weary brother and threw her arms around his neck.

  Amero pulled back. To his surprise, he saw his sister’s cheeks were streaked with tears.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “We’re alive. Don’t cry.”

  “I’m not crying,” she retorted. “It’s the rain.”

  Balif appeared beside Beramun.

  “Greetings! You’re well, I see,” he said in his usual courtly manner.

  “I feel like I’ve died many times today,” she replied.

  He looked past her to the sibling chiefs. “An amazing day!” said the elf. “I’ve seen dragons before, but never two at the same time, much less joined in mortal combat! I thought Karada was dead when the dragons fell out of the sky. From where I stood, it looked as though they landed directly on her.”

  “They did,” Beramun said, smiling wryly. “Don’t you know Karada can’t be killed?”

  The four of them rejoined the elders and freed captives. Jenla was regaling her friends with tales of her captivity. After greeting Jenla, Amero moved on, anxious to see Duranix. Karada followed him, but when Beramun tried to go too, she sternly ordered her back. Lyopi remained behind as well.

  Brother and sister closed on the motionless dragon.

  An awful stench, like a corpse too long unburied, filled the air around the green dragon. Thick, black ichor dripped from Sthenn’s wounds, staining the ground. Amero wondered if anything would ever grow in soil polluted by the green dragon’s blood.

  He gave the carcass wide berth, coming up on Duranix’s right rear flank. Karada, less intimidated, strolled within arm’s reach of Sthenn.

  “Duranix,” Amero said quietly. “Can you hear me?”

  “Of course I can.” Though he spoke, Duranix remained motionless, his uninjured right eye fixed on his ancient enemy.

  “What are you doing? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m keeping a vigil.”

  At that moment Sthenn shuddered and expelled stinking yellow bile from his nostrils. Amero recoiled, prepared to flee, and Karada stepped quickly away.

  “It’s still alive!” she declared.

  “Ssstill,” Sthenn hissed.

  “Why don’t you finish him off?” Karada asked sharply.

  Duranix said, “He doesn’t deserve it. Centuries before you were born, he sat on top of my mother’s body and enjoyed her death. How many days did it take, Sthenn?”

  Breath rattled through the dying beast’s rotten lungs.

  “Ten? Eleven? How long was it before she finally died?” To the humans he said, “I’ll stay here until he’s dead.”

  There was no reasoning with him, and Amero was too spent to try. Brother and sister turned to go. Before they did, Sthenn roused himself to speak.

  “I have a gift for you,” he wheezed. He was so feeble the simple sentence took him a while to voice, but Amero stood by, waiting for him to finish.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Duranix said. “He lies.”

  “He’s right,” agreed Karada. “Leave him, Amero.”

  Amero could not leave. There was a tingling pressure inside his head, like a headache yet unborn. He realized it was Sthenn, trying to touch his mind the way Duranix did.

  “Say what you want to say,” Amero told him. Though disgusted, Karada remained with her brother.

  “My yevi hunted you,” Sthenn said. “D’ranix saved you. Girl saved herself. I saved the other.”

  “What ‘other?’” Amero whispered.

  “Boy. Smallest one.”

  Karada clamped her hand on Amero’s arm. She pulled him strongly. “Come away!” she said with unusual anxiety. “Don’t listen to that monster. You heard Duranix – it lies!”

  Sthenn’s voice rasped on, feeble, weak, yet unstoppable. “I spared him. Never seen a human close up. I kept him. My pet.”

  Amero resisted his sister’s urging. “Go on,” he said to Sthenn.

  “Raised him... gave him a mother.” Wet, rattling sounds emanated from deep within the green dragon’s chest. Sthenn, dying by moments, was laughing. “Loving mother Nacris.”

  Furious, Amero shouted, “What do you mean? What happened to Menni?”

  “It’s Zannian. Zannian is our brother,” Karada said, and nodded when Amero’s face reflected his disbelief. “It’s true. Nacris hinted as much, but I didn’t believe her. I have her prisoner, back in camp.”

  Sthenn’s leathery eyelids fluttered. “Black-hearted woman. Never thought she’d outlive me.”

  “She won’t by much,” Karada vowed.

  Amero yanked the sword from his scabbard. It was ruined as a weapon – deeply notched, cracked through to the fuller – but he ran forward and stabbed it deep into Sthenn’s neck.

  “Why!?” Amero stormed. “Why do that to Menni, and why tell us about it now?”

  Sthenn laughed until more feculent fluids rose in his throat and choked him. Amero drew back, afraid to let the poisonous slime touch him.

  “To see the look on your face,” Sthenn said when he could speak again. “To smell your heated blood go cold. To... to bring you pain on the day of your triumph —”

  The ravaged head lolled to one side.

  “What about Beramun?” Amero said quickly. “Release whatever hold you have on her!”

  Sthenn could not or would not say more. His lef
t eye, half-shut, took on a dull and lifeless stare.

  Karada took hold of Amero’s arm, and he let her lead him away. As they passed Duranix, Amero said, “I’ll come back in the morning. Shall I bring food?”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll find you when this is done.”

  Brother and sister walked away. Karada pondered Amero’s last words to Sthenn, wondering what hold the green dragon had on Beramun and what hold Beramun had on her brother. The two reached their waiting friends before she could ask him anything, and she remained silent.

  Amero led them all back to Yala-tene. On the way they were joined by Karada’s comrades, Pakito, Samtu, and Bahco. Beneath the crumbling north baffle, Amero halted next to the unconscious young man lying on the ground, his head swathed in bandages. His fearsome skull-mask and weapons stripped away, Zannian now looked no different than scores of others in the valley, wounded or dying.

  Should the blame be put on Zannian or on Nacris? Amero wondered. Or was Sthenn the instigator of all this misery?

  The Arkuden shook his head, banishing those thoughts for now. To those around him, he said, “This is Zannian. He is my brother, mine and my sister Nianki’s.”

  Chapter 14

  The days that followed were hard. Peace was restored, but it was a peace of exhaustion and pain. Much of the valley was wrecked or ruined, and many people were dead or severely injured.

  Duranix stayed in the west end of the valley, keeping his somber vigil. Though he’d told Amero not to bother, the headman of Yala-tene sent several oxen to his great friend, who had to be famished after his long journey.

  The raider band was utterly destroyed. When Zannian was finally taken, most of his remaining men rode out of the valley, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the vengeance they imagined awaited them now that the bronze dragon was back. A few others lingered in the mountains, curious to see how matters were resolved. Karada sent patrols to flush them out of the passes. Once they had been dealt with, all that remained were the raiders who had surrendered and those, like Zannian, who were sorely hurt.

  Amero adamantly refused his sister’s suggestion that all captured raiders be put to death. He was heartily sick of bloodshed and wanted no more of it in the Valley of the Falls. Instead, he put the healthiest of the former raiders to work repairing the damage they’d done. Able-bodied men were set filling in the pits and ditches, rebuilding houses in the village, and restoring the despoiled orchards.

  On a bright, sultry afternoon, four days after the dragons returned and ended the battle, a crew of ex-raiders filling the huge crater where the dragons had fallen found the answer to a great puzzle.

  Word of their strange find spread quickly, and Amero, Karada, Balif, and Beramun hurried to the yawning pit. Karada was once more astride her favorite wheat-colored horse.

  The pit was more than thirty paces wide and at least eight deep. A gang of ex-raiders, stripped to the waist in the heat, were standing around the crater rim, gazing down in the hole. Beramun recognized one tall fellow with dark brown hair who leaned on his shovel at the edge of the pit. It was Harak, to whom she had given her leggings.

  Near the bottom of the pit a gray, oblong object lay embedded in the black mud. It looked like a block of limestone, but Harak, who’d made the discovery, said the so-called stone was in fact the top of Ungrah-de’s head. The combined weight of two dragons had driven him into the ground like a tent peg. Six other ogres had been found crushed in the pit, but their chief wasn’t discovered until the level of rainwater filling the hole had lowered.

  Though the rest were content to take Harak’s word that this was in fact Ungrah-de, Karada wanted proof. She unbuckled her sword and handed it to Balif.

  “Is this a formal surrender?” asked the elf.

  Amero chuckled, but his sister did not. She descended into the pit. Her feet sank into the soft sides of the crater, and by the time she reached the bottom, she was muddy to her knees. Unperturbed, Karada bent down and probed the mud around Ungrah’s head.

  She found the proof she sought in the form of a great stone axe. It was buried alongside the ogre, and it took her some time to work it free. Wiping away the thick mud that coated it, the head was revealed to be a massive chunk of grayish agate shot through with veins of lapis lazuli.

  “It’s Ungrah’s all right.” Karada grunted, holding up the weighty weapon. “Send some men down to dig him out.”

  “Why bother?” Harak asked, shrugging. “Why not just fill in the hole?”

  Karada glared at the raider. “He was a mighty warrior. He deserves a warrior’s pyre.”

  Harak’s wasn’t the only skeptical expression. Amero seemed about to comment, but the sight of his sister’s tired, drawn face halted him.

  She climbed out, dragging the axe with her. When no one moved to carry out her wishes, she glowered at the idle prisoners.

  “Well, dig him out!” she barked. Jerking her head at Harak and another fellow, she added, “You two – go! Bring his body out.”

  With an impertinent shrug, Harak picked up his shovel and started down after the other fellow.

  Karada sighed deeply, and Amero said, “You’re worn out. Why don’t you go to the lake and wash up?”

  She nodded wordlessly. She asked Beramun to take her sword to her tent and to have someone carry the heavy, dirty axe there as well. Then, mounting her horse, she left.

  Despite Karada’s instructions to get help, Beramun decided to carry Ungrah’s axe back herself. She had dragged it only a few paces, however, before Amero picked up the blade end, knees buckling from the weight, and helped her carry it.

  Balif stayed at the crater to examine the dead ogres. He’d never encountered the creatures before, and he was eager to study their weapons and physique.

  Amero and Beramun walked parallel, carrying Ungrah’s massive weapon between them. Normally hip-deep in grass and flowers by this time of year, the valley floor had been trampled flat by masses of horses and men. The customary smell of growing things was overpowered by the sweet-sour aroma of decay and death. Ahead, hundreds of round tents covered the center of the valley, sides tied up to admit cooling air. Though the nomads’ camp had been flattened by Sthenn during Es battle with Duranix, the hide tents were easy to repair and re-pitch.

  “I can’t believe it’s over,” Beramun said, sweat dripping from her brow. Though shared, their burden was considerable. “How long has it been?”

  “From the day you arrived in the valley to today,” Amero replied, “four turnings of the white moon – one hundred twelve days.” Shaking his head, he added, “Such a waste! Think of all the lives cut short! All the crops not planted, animals not tended, lost days of work in the foundry – and for what?”

  “So we could live free,” she said, a little surprised. “Wasn’t that why you were fighting?”

  “Sometimes I forget. By the end, we were fighting just to stay alive.”

  When they reached the outer tents in the nomad camp, their strange cargo attracted a limping, bandaged crowd. Injured nomads had remained in camp while others went to search for their children and old folks, hiding out in the eastern foothills. Others had been sent by Karada to scour the highlands south and east for the children of Yala-tene who had been sent out through the secret tunnel when it looked like the village would fall to Zannian.

  Beramun and Amero located Karada’s tent. They edged through the entry flaps and hauled the monstrous weapon into the dark enclosure.

  After they deposited the axe by the wall near the entrance, Beramun went into the shadowed depths of the tent to find water so they could wash up. Not only was Ungrah’s weapon muddy from being buried, it was smeared with gore from the furious battle.

  Amero waited by the entrance. It appeared the large tent served as a storehouse as well as his sister’s dwelling. He couldn’t see very far inside, and he didn’t want to stumble around the dark interior, tripping over casks, sacks, and fragile amphorae.

  Ghost-li
ke, Beramun appeared before him. She held an obviously weighty leather bucket in front of her.

  “Hold out your hands.”

  He did so, and she doused them. When his hands were clean, they switched places so she could wash her own.

  While she scrubbed and sluiced away the mud, Amero spoke, his voice low and serious. “Beramun, I want to tell you something.” She looked up quickly, eyes wide and worried. He shook his head, adding, “It’s not what you think. A lot’s happened since you left Yala-tene. I’ve learned many things since then. Important things. I learned... I belong with Lyopi.”

  Beramun’s smile was like the sun flashing through dark clouds. Her hand gripped his. “That’s good,” she said gently. “I’m glad you found out. I knew it all along.”

  When they were back outside, Amero asked, “Will you stay with us in the valley or join Karada’s band? I know she’ll take you in if you ask.”

  “I can’t stay here,” she said. “I’m a wanderer. Other places call to me. I could never be happy seeing the same land, the same faces, for the rest of my life.”

  Amero recalled how he’d once bemoaned that very fact of his own life in Yala-tene. Having nearly lost it all had made him realize just how precious those same faces and this place were to him.

  “As for joining Karada.. Beramun said, her voice trailing off.

  Amero saw her hand had come up to touch a spot high on her chest. “Beramun,” he said, gently pulling her hand away, “you saved us all by finding my sister. Whatever Duranix may think, you’re no tool of Sthenn.”

  He took his leave of her. The walk back to Yala-tene was pleasant, despite the heat. Though his heart had gone in a different direction for good, Amero was filled with admiration for Beramun. He was sure of one thing: whoever her future mate might be, he would be a very lucky man.

  *

  From the shore of the lake, Karada could see sunlight gleaming off the bronze head and arching back of Duranix, a league away. He was still keeping his death watch over the green dragon. She approved of what he was doing and understood it well. When she entered the valley, she had ordered the extermination of the Jade Men, thinking they had murdered her brother. It was the duty of blood kin to avenge wrongs against family, no matter how long it took. It was a law of nature, as irreversible as night being dark and day being bright.