Dragons of Autumn Twilight

by Margaret Weis

  This statement reached Caramon’s mind. He ran to the pile of weapons and grabbed the blue crystal staff and Raistlin’s Staff of Magius, while the draconians yelled. Sturm and Riverwind armed themselves, Sturm bringing Tanis his sword.

  “And now, prepare to die, humans!” the dragon screamed. Its wings gave a great lurch and suddenly the creature was flying, hovering in midair. The draconians croaked and cried out in alarm, some breaking for the woods, others hurling themselves flat on the ground.

  “Now!” yelled Tanis. “Run, Caramon!”

  The big warrior broke for the woods, running swiftly toward where he could see Goldmoon and Flint waiting for him. A draconian appeared in front of him, but Caramon hurled it out of his way with a thrust of his great arm. He could hear a wild commotion behind him, Sturm chanting a Solamnic war cry, draconians yelling. Other draconians leaped at Caramon. He used the blue crystal staff as he had seen Goldmoon use it, swinging it in a wide arc with his huge right hand. It flashed blue flame and the draconians fell back.

  Caramon reached the woods and found Raistlin lying at Goldmoon’s feet, barely breathing. Goldmoon grabbed the staff from Caramon and laid it on the mage’s inert body. Flint watched, shaking his head. “It won’t work,” muttered the dwarf. “It’s used up.”

  “It has to work,” Goldmoon said firmly. “Please,” she murmured, “whoever is master of this staff, heal this man. Please.” Unknowing, she repeated it over and over. Caramon watched for a moment, blinking his eyes. Then the woods around him were lit by a gigantic burst of flame.

  “Name of the Abyss!” Flint breathed. “Look at that!”

  Caramon turned just in time to see the great black wicker dragon crash headlong into the blazing bonfire. Flaming logs flew into the air, showering sparks over the camp. The draconians’ bamboo huts, some already ablaze, began burning fiercely. The wicker dragon gave a final, horrifying shriek and then it, too, caught fire.

  “Tasslehoff!” Flint swore. “That blasted kender—he’s inside there!” Before Caramon could stop him, the dwarf ran out into the blazing draconian camp.

  “Caramon …” Raistlin murmured. The big warrior knelt beside his brother. Raistlin was still pale, but his eyes were open and clear. He sat up, weakly, leaning against his brother, and stared out at the raging fire. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure,” Caramon said. “Tasslehoff turned into a dragon and after that things get real confused. You just rest.” The warrior stared into the smoke, his sword drawn and ready in case any draconians came for them.

  But the draconians now had little interest in the prisoners. The smaller breed, panic stricken, were fleeing into the forest as their great god-dragon went up in flames. A few of the robed draconians, bigger and apparently more intelligent than the other species, were trying desperately to bring order to the fearful chaos raging around them.

  Sturm fought and slashed his way through the draconians without encountering any organized resistance. He had just reached the edge of the clearing, near the bamboo cage, when Flint passed him, running back toward the camp!

  “Hey! Where—” Sturm yelled at the dwarf.

  “Tas, in the dragon!” The dwarf didn’t stop.

  Sturm turned and saw the black wicker dragon burning with flames that shot high into the air. Thick smoke boiled up, blanketing the camp, the dank heavy swamp air preventing it from rising and drifting away. Sparks showered down as part of the blazing dragon exploded into the camp. Sturm ducked and batted out sparks that landed on his cape, then ran after the dwarf, catching up with the short-legged Flint easily.

  “Flint,” he panted, grasping the dwarf’s arm. “It’s no use. Nothing could live in that furnace! We’ve got to get back to the others—”

  “Let go of me!” Flint roared so furiously that Sturm let go in amazement. The dwarf ran for the burning dragon again. Sturm heaved a sigh and ran after him, his eyes beginning to water in the smoke.

  “Tasslehoff Burrfoot!” Flint called. “You idiotic kender! Where are you?”

  There was no answer.

  “Tasslehoff!” Flint screamed. “If you wreck this escape, I’ll murder you. So help me—” Tears of frustration and grief and anger and smoke coursed down the dwarf’s cheeks.

  The heat was overwhelming. It seared Sturm’s lungs, and the knight knew they couldn’t breathe much more of this or they would perish themselves. He took hold of the dwarf firmly, intending to knock him out if necessary, when suddenly he saw movement near the edge of the blaze. He rubbed his eyes and looked closer.

  The dragon lay on the ground, the head still connected to the blazing body by a long wicker neck. The head had not caught fire yet, but flames were starting to eat into the wicker neck. The head would soon be ablaze, too. Sturm saw the movement again.

  “Flint! Look!” Sturm ran toward the head, the dwarf pounding along behind. Two small legs encased in bright blue pants were sticking out of the dragon’s mouth, kicking feebly.

  “Tas!” Sturm yelled. “Get out! The head’s going to burn!”

  “I can’t! I’m stuck!” came a muffled voice.

  Sturm stared at the head, frantically trying to figure out how to free the kender, while Flint just grabbed hold of Tas’s legs and pulled.

  “Ouch! Stop!” yelled Tas.

  “No good,” the dwarf puffed. “He’s stuck fast.”

  The inferno crept up the dragon’s neck.

  Sturm drew his sword. “I may cut off his head,” he muttered to Flint, “but it’s his only chance.” Estimating the size of the kender, guessing where his head would be, and hoping his hands weren’t stretched out over his head, Sturm lifted his sword above the dragon’s neck.

  Flint closed his eyes.

  The knight took a deep breath and brought his blade crashing down on the dragon, severing the head from the neck. There was a cry from the kender inside but whether from pain or astonishment, Sturm couldn’t tell.

  “Pull!” he yelled at the dwarf.

  Flint grabbed hold of the wicker head and pulled it away from the blazing neck. Suddenly a tall, dark shape loomed out of the smoke. Sturm whipped around, sword ready, then saw it was Riverwind.

  “What are you—” The Plainsman stared at the dragon’s head. Perhaps Flint and Sturm had gone mad.

  “The kender’s stuck in there!” Sturm yelled. “We can’t take the head apart out here, surrounded by draconians! We’ve got to—”

  His words were lost in a roar of flame, but Riverwind finally saw the blue legs sticking out of the dragon’s mouth. He grabbed hold of one side of the dragon’s head, thrusting his hands in one of the eyesockets. Sturm got hold of the other, and together they lifted the head—kender inside—and began running through the camp. Those few draconians they encountered took one look at the terrifying apparition and fled.

  “C’mon, Raist,” Caramon said solicitously, his arm around his brother’s shoulder. “You’ve got to try and stand. We have to be ready to move out of here. How do you feel?”

  “How do I ever feel?” whispered Raistlin bitterly. “Help me up. There! Now leave me in peace for a moment.” He leaned against a tree, shivering but standing.

  “Sure, Raist,” Caramon said, hurt, backing off. Goldmoon glanced at Raistlin in disgust, remembering Caramon’s grief when he thought his brother was dying. She turned away to watch for the others, staring through the gathering smoke.

  Tanis appeared first, running so fast he crashed into Caramon. The big warrior caught him in his huge arms, breaking the half-elf’s forward momentum and keeping him on his feet.

  “Thanks!” Tanis gasped. He leaned over, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. “Where are the others?”

  “Weren’t they with you?” Caramon frowned.

  “We got separated.” Tanis drew in huge gulps of air, then coughed as the smoke flew down his lungs.

  “SuTorakh!” interrupted Goldmoon in an awed voice. Tanis and Caramon both spun around in alarm, staring out into the smoke-filled
camp to see a grotesque sight emerging from the swirling smoke. A dragon’s head with a forked blue tongue was lunging at them. Tanis blinked in disbelief, then he heard a sound behind him that nearly made him leap into a tree in panic. He whirled around, heart in his throat, sword in his hand.

  Raistlin was laughing.

  Tanis had never heard the mage laugh before, even when Raistlin was a child, and he hoped he would never hear it again. It was weird, shrill, mocking laughter. Caramon stared at his brother in amazement, Goldmoon in horror. Finally the sound of Raistlin’s laughter died until the mage was laughing silently, his golden eyes reflecting the glow of the draconian camp going up in flames.

  Tanis shuddered and turned back around to see that in fact the dragon’s head was carried by Sturm and Riverwind. Flint raced along in front, a draconian helm on his head. Tanis ran forward to meet them.

  “What in the name of—”

  “The kender’s stuck in here!” Sturm said. He and Riverwind dropped the head to the ground, both of them breathing heavily. “We’ve got to get him out.” Sturm eyed the laughing Raistlin warily. “What’s the matter with him? Still poisoned?”

  “No, he’s better,” Tanis said, examining the dragon’s head.

  “A pity,” Sturm muttered as he knelt beside the half-elf.

  “Tas, are you all right?” Tanis called out, lifting the huge mouth to see inside.

  “I think Sturm chopped off my hair!” the kender wailed.

  “Lucky it wasn’t your head!” Flint snorted.

  “What’s holding him?” Riverwind leaned down to peer inside the dragon’s mouth.

  “I’m not sure,” Tanis said, swearing softly. “I can’t see in all this blasted smoke.” He stood up, sighing in frustration. “And we’ve got to get out of here! The draconians will get organized soon. Caramon, come here. See if you can rip off the top.”

  The big warrior came over to stand in front of the wicker dragon’s head. Bracing himself, he got hold of the two eyesockets, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then grunted and heaved. For a minute nothing happened. Tanis watched the muscles bulge on the big man’s arms, saw his thigh muscles absorb the strain. Blood rushed to Caramon’s face. Then there was the ripping and snapping sound of wood splintering. The top of the dragon’s head gave way with a sharp crack. Caramon staggered backward as the top half of the head suddenly came off in his hands.

  Tanis reached in, grabbed Tas’s hand, and jerked him free. “Are you all right?” he asked. The kender seemed wobbly on his feet, but his grin was wide as ever.

  “I’m fine,” Tas said brightly. “Just a little singed.” Then his face darkened. “Tanis,” he said, his face crinkling with unusual worry. He felt at his long topknot. “My hair?”

  “All there,” Tanis said, smiling.

  Tas breathed a sigh of relief. Then he began to talk. “Tanis, it was the most wonderful thing—flying like that. And the look on Caramon’s face—”

  “The story will have to wait,” Tanis said firmly. “We’ve got to get out of here. Caramon? Can you and your brother make it all right?”

  “Yeah, go on,” Caramon said.

  Raistlin stumbled forward, accepting the support of his brother’s strong arm. The mage glanced behind at the sundered dragon’s head and he wheezed, his shoulders shaking in silent, grim amusement.

  15

  Escape. The well.

  Death on black wings.

  Smoke from the burning draconian camp hung over the black swamplands, shielding the companions from the eyes of the strange, evil creatures. The smoke floated wraithlike through the swamps, drifting across the silver moon and obscuring the stars. The companions dared not risk a light—even the light from Raistlin’s staff—for they could hear horns blowing all around them as the draconian leaders tried to reestablish order.

  Riverwind led them. Although Tanis had always prided himself on his own woodland skills, he completely lost all sense of direction in the black misty mire. An occasional fleeting glimpse of the stars, whenever the smoke lifted, showed him that they were bearing north.

  They hadn’t gone far when Riverwind missed a step and plunged knee-deep into muck. After Tanis and Caramon dragged the Plainsman out of the water, Tasslehoff crept ahead, testing the ground with his hoopak staff. It sank every time.

  “We have no choice but to wade,” Riverwind said grimly.

  Choosing a path where the water seemed shallower, the company left firm ground and splashed into the muck. At first it was only ankle deep, then they sank to their knees. Soon they sank deeper still; Tanis was forced to carry Tasslehoff, the giggling kender grasping him around the neck. Flint steadfastly refused all offers of help, even when the tip of his beard got wet. Then he vanished. Caramon, following him, fished the dwarf out of the water and slung him over his shoulder like a wet sack, the dwarf too tired and frightened to grumble. Raistlin staggered, coughing, through the water, his robes dragging him down. Weary and still sick from the poison, the mage finally collapsed. Sturm grabbed hold of him and half-dragged, half-carried the mage through the swamp.

  After an hour of floundering in the icy water, they finally reached firm ground and sank down to rest, shivering with the cold.

  The trees began to creak and groan, their branches bending as a sharp wind sprang up from the north. The wind blew the mists into wispy rags. Raistlin, lying on the ground, looked up. The mage caught his breath. He sat up, alarmed.

  “Storm clouds.” He choked, coughing, and fought to speak. “They come from the north. We have no time. No time! We must reach Xak Tsaroth. Hurry! Before the moon sets!”

  Everyone looked up. A gathering darkness was moving out of the north, swallowing up the stars. Tanis could feel the same sense of urgency that was driving the mage. Wearily, he rose to his feet. Without a word, the rest of the group rose and stumbled forward, Riverwind taking the lead. But dark swamp water blocked their path once more.

  “Not again!” Flint moaned.

  “No, we do not have to wade again. Come look,” Riverwind said. He led the way to the water’s edge. There, amid many other ruins protruding from the dank ground, lay an obelisk that had either fallen or been pushed over to form a bridge across to the other bank of the swamp.

  “I’ll go first,” Tas volunteered, hopping energetically onto the long stone. “Hey, there’s writing on this thing. Runes of some sort.”

  “I must see!” Raistlin whispered, hurrying over. He spoke his word of command, “Shirak,” and the crystal on the tip of his staff burst into light.

  “Hurry!” Sturm growled. “You’ve just told everything within a twenty-mile radius we’re here.”

  But Raistlin would not be rushed. He held the light over the spidery runes, studying them intently. Tanis and the others climbed onto the obelisk and joined the mage.

  The kender bent down, tracing the runes with his small hand. “What does it say, Raistlin? Can you read it? The language seems very old.”

  “It is old,” the mage whispered. “It dates from before the Cataclysm. The runes say, ‘The Great City of Xak Tsaroth, whose beauty surrounds you, speaks to the good of its people and their generous deeds. The gods reward us in the grace of our home’.”

  “How awful!” Goldmoon shuddered, looking at the ruin and desolation around her.

  “The gods rewarded them indeed,” Raistlin said, his lips parting in a cynical smile. No one spoke. Then Raistlin whispered, “Dulak,” and extinguished the light. Suddenly the night seemed much blacker. “We must keep going,” the mage said. “Surely there is more than a fallen monument to mark what this place once stood for.”

  They crossed the obelisk into thick jungle. At first there seemed to be no trail, then Riverwind, searching diligently, found a trail cut through the vines and the trees. He bent down to study it. His face was grim when he rose.

  “Draconians?” Tanis asked.

  “Yes,” he said heavily. “The tracks of many clawed feet. And they lead north, straight to the city.
”

  Tanis asked in an undertone, “Is this the broken city, where you were given the staff?”

  “And where death had black wings,” Riverwind added. He closed his eyes, wiping his hand over his face. Then he drew a deep, ragged breath. “I don’t know. I can’t remember—but I am afraid without knowing why.”

  Tanis put his hand on Riverwind’s arm. “The elves have a saying: ‘Only the dead are without fear.’ ”

  Riverwind startled him by suddenly clasping the half-elf’s hand with his. “I have never known an elf,” the Plainsman said. “My people distrust them, saying that the elves have no care for Krynn or for humans. I think my people may have been mistaken. I am glad I met you, Tanis of Qualinost. I count you as a friend.”

  Tanis knew enough of Plains lore to realize that, with this statement, Riverwind had declared himself willing to sacrifice everything for the half-elf—even his life. A vow of friendship was a solemn vow among the Plainsmen. “You are my friend, too, Riverwind,” Tanis said simply. “You and Goldmoon both are my friends.”

  Riverwind turned his eyes to Goldmoon who stood near them, leaning on her staff, her eyes closed, her face drawn with pain and exhaustion. Riverwind’s face softened with compassion as he looked at her. Then it hardened, pride drawing the stern mask over it again.

  “Xak Tsaroth is not far off,” he said coolly. “And these tracks are old.” He led the way into the jungle. After only a short walk, the northern trail suddenly changed to cobblestones.

  “A street!” exclaimed Tasslehoff.

  “The outskirts of Xak Tsaroth!” Raistlin breathed.

  “About time!” Flint stared all around in disgust. “What a mess! If the greatest gift ever given to man is here, it must be well hidden!”

  Tanis agreed. He had never seen a more dismal place. As they walked, the broad street took them into an open-paved courtyard. To the east stood four tall, free-standing columns that supported nothing; the building lay in ruins around them. A huge unbroken circular stone wall rose about four feet above the ground. Caramon, going over to inspect it, announced that it was a well.