Dragons of Autumn Twilight

by Margaret Weis

  “Maybe we can shut the mines down,” Caramon suggested.

  “That’s a thought,” Tanis mused. “How many draconians does Lord Verminaard have guarding the mines?”

  “Two!” Sestun said, holding up ten grubby fingers.

  Tanis sighed, remembering where they had heard that before.

  Sestun looked at him hopefully. “There be only two dragons, too.”

  “Two dragons!” Tanis said incredulously.

  “Not more than two.”

  Caramon groaned and settled back. The warrior had been giving dragon fighting serious thought ever since Xak Tsaroth. He and Sturm had reviewed every tale about Huma, the only known dragon fighter the knight could remember. Unfortunately, no one had ever taken the legends of Huma seriously before (except the Solamnic Knights, for which they were ridiculed), so much of Huma’s tale had been distorted by time or forgotten.

  “A knight of truth and power, who called down the gods themselves and forged the mighty Dragonlance,” Caramon murmured now, glancing at Sturm, who lay asleep on the straw-covered floor of their prison.

  “Dragonlance?” muttered Fizban, waking with a snort. “Dragonlance? Who said anything about the Dragonlance?”

  “My brother,” Raistlin whispered, smiling bitterly. “Quoting the Canticle. It seems he and the knight have taken a fancy to children’s stories that have come to haunt them.”

  “Good story, Huma and the Dragonlance,” said the old man, stroking his beard.

  “Story—that’s all it is.” Caramon yawned and scratched his chest. “Who knows if it’s real or if the Dragonlance was real or if even Huma was real?”

  “We know the dragons are real,” Raistlin murmured.

  “Huma was real,” Fizban said softly. “And so was the Dragonlance.” The old man’s face grew sad.

  “Was it?” Caramon sat up. “Can you describe it?”

  “Of course!” Fizban sniffed disdainfully.

  Everyone was listening now. Fizban was, in fact, a bit disconcerted by his audience for his stories.

  “It was a weapon similar to—no, it wasn’t. Actually it was—no, it wasn’t that either. It was closer to … almost a … rather it was, sort of a—lance, that’s it! A lance!” He nodded earnestly. “And it was quite good against dragons.”

  “I’m taking a nap,” Caramon grumbled.

  Tanis smiled and shook his head. Sitting back against the bars, he wearily closed his eyes. Soon everyone except Raistlin and Tasslehoff fell into a fitful sleep. The kender, wide awake and bored, looked at Raistlin hopefully. Sometimes, if Raistlin was in a good mood, he would tell stories about magic-users of old. But the mage, wrapped in his red robes, was staring curiously at Fizban. The old man sat on a bench, snoring gently, his head bobbing up and down as the cart jounced over the road. Raistlin’s golden eyes narrowed to gleaming slits as though he had been struck by a new and disturbing thought. After a moment, he pulled his hood up over his head and leaned back, his face lost in the shadows.

  Tasslehoff sighed. Then, glancing around, he saw Sestun walking near the cage. The kender brightened. Here, he knew, was an appreciative audience for his stories.

  Tasslehoff, calling him over, began to relate one of his own personal favorites. The two moons sank. The prisoners slept. The hobgoblins trailed along behind, half-asleep, talking about making camp soon. Fewmaster Toede rode up ahead, dreaming about promotion. Behind the Fewmaster, the draconians muttered among themselves in their harsh language, casting baleful glances at Toede when he wasn’t looking.

  Tasslehoff sat, swinging his legs over the side of the cage, talking to Sestun. The kender noticed without seeming to that Gilthanas was only pretending to sleep. Tas saw the elf’s eyes open and glance quickly around when he thought no one was watching. This intrigued Tas immensely. It seemed almost as if Gilthanas was watching or waiting for something. The kender lost the thread of his story.

  “And so I … uh … grabbed a rock from my pouch, threw it and—thunk—hit the wizard right on the head,” Tas finished hurriedly. “The demon grabbed the wizard by the foot and dragged him down into the depths of the Abyss.”

  “But first demon thank you,” prompted Sestun who had heard this story—with variations—twice before. “You forgot.”

  “Did I?” Tas asked, keeping an eye on Gilthanas. “Well, yes, the demon thanked me and took away the magic ring he’d given me. If it wasn’t dark, you could see the outline the ring burned on my finger.”

  “Sun uping. Morning soon. I see then,” the gully dwarf said eagerly.

  It was still dark, but a faint light in the east hinted that soon the sun would be rising on the fourth day of their journey.

  Suddenly Tas heard a bird call in the woods. Several answered it. What odd-sounding birds, Tas thought. Never heard their like before. But then he’d never been this far south before. He knew where they were from one of his many maps. They had passed over the only bridge across the White-rage River and were heading south toward Pax Tharkas, which was marked on the kender’s map as the site of the famed Thadarkan iron mines. The land began to rise, and thick forests of aspens appeared to the west. The draconians and hobgoblins kept eyeing the forests, and their pace picked up. Concealed within these woods was Qualinesti, the ancient elvenhome.

  Another bird called, much nearer now. Then the hair rose on Tasslehoff’s neck as the same bird call sounded from right behind him. The kender turned to see Gilthanas on his feet, his fingers to his lips, an eerie whistle splitting the air.

  “Tanis!” Tas yelled, but the half-elf was already awake. So was everyone in the cart.

  Fizban sat up, yawned, and glanced around. “Oh, good,” he said mildly, “the elves are here.”

  “What elves, where?” Tanis sat up.

  There was a sudden whirring sound like a covey of quail taking flight. A cry rang out from the supply wagon in front of them, then there was a splintering sound as the wagon, now driverless, lurched into a rut and tipped over. The driver of their cage wagon pulled sharply on the reins, stopping the elk before they ran into the wrecked supply wagon. The cage tipped precariously, sending the prisoners sprawling. The driver got the elk going again and guided them around the wreckage.

  Suddenly the driver of the cage screamed and clutched at his neck where the companions saw the feathered shaft of an arrow silhouetted against the dimly lit morning sky. The driver’s body tumbled from the seat. The other guard stood up, sword raised, then he, too, toppled forward with an arrow in his chest. The elk, feeling the reins go slack, slowed until the cage rolled to a halt. Cries and screams echoed up and down the caravan as arrows whizzed through the air.

  The companions fell for cover face first on the floor of the cage.

  “What is it? What’s going on?” Tanis asked Gilthanas.

  But the elf, ignoring him, peered through the dawn gloom into the forest. “Porthios!” he called.

  “Tanis, what’s happening?” Sturm sat up, speaking his first words in four days.

  “Porthios is Gilthanas’s brother. I take it this is a rescue,” Tanis said. An arrow zipped past and lodged in the wooden side of the cart, narrowly missing the knight.

  “It won’t be much of a rescue if we end up dead!” Sturm dropped to the floor. “I thought elves were expert marksmen!”

  “Keep low.” Gilthanas ordered. “The arrows are only to cover our escape. This is a strike-and-run raid. My people are not capable of attacking a large body directly. We must be ready to run for the woods.”

  “And how do we get out of these cages?” Sturm demanded.

  “We cannot do everything for you!” Gilthanas replied coldly. “There are magic-users—”

  “I cannot work without my spell components!” Raistlin hissed from beneath a bench. “Keep down, Old One,” he said to Fizban who, head raised, was looking around with interest.

  “Perhaps I can help,” the old magician said, his eyes brightening. “Now, let me think—”

  “What in the
name of the Abyss is going on?” roared a voice out of the darkness. Fewmaster Toede appeared, galloping on his pony. “Why have we stopped?”

  “We under attack!” Sestun cried, crawling out from under the cage where he’d taken cover.

  “Attack? Blyxtshok! Get this cart moving!” Toede shouted. An arrow thunked into the Fewmaster’s saddle. Toede’s red eyes flew open and he stared fearfully into the woods. “We’re under attack! Elves! Trying to free the prisoners!”

  “Driver and guard dead!” Sestun shouted, flattening himself against the cage as another arrow just missed him. “What me do?”

  An arrow zipped over Toede’s head. Ducking, he had to clutch his pony’s neck to keep himself from falling off. “I’ll get another driver,” he said hastily. “You stay here. Guard these prisoners with your life! I’ll hold you responsible if they escape.”

  The Fewmaster stuck his spurs into his pony and the fear-crazed animal leaped forward. “My guard! Hobgoblins! To me!” the Fewmaster yelled as he galloped to the rear of the line. His shouts echoed back. “Hundreds of elves! We’re surrounded. Charge to the north! I must report this to Lord Verminaard.” Toede reined in at the sight of a draconian captain. “You draconians tend to the prisoners!” He spurred his horse on, still shouting, and one hundred hobgoblins charged after their valiant leader away from the battle. Soon, they were completely out of sight.

  “Well, that takes care of the hobgoblins,” Sturm said, his face relaxing in a smile. “Now all we have left to worry about is fifty or so draconians. I don’t suppose, by the way, that there are hundreds of elves out there?”

  Gilthanas shook his head. “More like twenty.”

  Tika, lying flat on the floor, cautiously raised her head and looked south. In the pale morning light, she could see the hulking forms of the draconians about a mile ahead, leaping into the cover on either side of the road as the elven archers moved down to fire into their ranks. She touched Tanis’s arm, pointing.

  “We’ve got to get out of this cage,” Tanis said, looking back. “The draconians won’t bother taking us to Pax Tharkas now that the Fewmaster’s gone. They’ll just butcher us in these cages. Caramon?”

  “I’ll try,” the fighter rumbled. He stood and gripped the bars of the cage in his huge hands. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and tried to force the bars apart. His face reddened, the muscles in his arms bunched, the knuckles on his big hands turned white. It was useless. Gasping for breath, Caramon flattened himself on the floor.

  “Sestun!” Tasslehoff cried. “Your axe! Break the lock!”

  The gully dwarf’s eyes opened wide. He stared at the companions, then he glanced down the trail the Fewmaster had taken. His face twisted in an agony of indecision.

  “Sestun—” Tasslehoff began. An arrow zinged past the kender. The draconians behind them were moving forward, firing into the cages. Tas flattened himself on the floor. “Sestun,” he began again, “help free us and you can come with us!”

  A look of firm resolve hardened Sestun’s features. He reached for his axe, which he wore strapped onto his back. The companions watched in nail-biting frustration as Sestun felt all around his shoulders for the axe, which was located squarely in the middle of his back. Finally, one hand discovered the handle and he pulled the axe out. The blade glinted in the gray light of dawn.

  Flint saw it and groaned. “That axe is older than I am! It must date back to the Cataclysm! He probably couldn’t cut through a kender’s brain, let alone that lock!”

  “Hush!” Tanis instructed, although his own hopes sank at the sight of the gully dwarf’s weapon. It wasn’t even a battle-axe, just a small, battered, rusty wood-cutting axe the gully dwarf had apparently picked up somewhere, thinking it was a weapon. Sestun tucked the axe between his knees and spat on his hands.

  Arrows thunked and clattered around the bars of the cage. One struck Caramon’s shield. Another pinned Tika’s blouse to the side of the cage, grazing her arm. Tika couldn’t remember being more terrified in her life—not even the night dragons struck Solace. She wanted to scream, she wanted Caramon to put his arm around her. But Caramon didn’t dare move.

  Tika caught sight of Goldmoon, shielding the injured Theros with her body, her face pale but calm. Tika pressed her lips together and drew a deep breath. Grimly she yanked the arrow out of the wood and tossed it to the floor, ignoring the stinging pain in her arm. Looking south, she saw that the draconians, momentarily confused by the sudden attack and the disappearance of Toede, were organized now, on their feet and running toward the cages. Their arrows filled the air. Their chest armor gleamed in the dim gray light of morning, so did the bright steel of their longswords, which they carried clamped in their jaws as they ran.

  “Draconians, closing in,” she reported to Tanis, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

  “Hurry, Sestun!” Tanis shouted.

  The gully dwarf gripped the axe, swung it with all his might, and missed the lock, striking the iron bars a blow that nearly jarred the axe from his hands. Shrugging apologetically, he swung again. This time he struck the lock.

  “He didn’t even dent it,” Sturm reported.

  “Tanis,” Tika quavered, pointing. Several draconians were within ten feet of them, pinned down for a few moments by the elven archers, but all hope of rescue seemed lost.

  Sestun struck the lock again.

  “He chipped it,” Sturm said in exasperation. “At this rate we’ll be out in about three days! What are those elves doing, anyway? Why don’t they quit skulking about and attack!”

  “We don’t have enough men to attack a force this size!” Gilthanas returned angrily, crouching next to the knight. “They’ll get to us when they can! We are at the front of the line. See, others are escaping.”

  The elf pointed to the two wagons behind them. The elves had broken the locks and the prisoners were dashing madly for the woods as the elves covered them, darting out from the trees to let fly their deadly barrage of arrows. But once the prisoners were safe, the elves retreated into the trees.

  The draconians had no intention of going into the elven woods after them. Their eyes were on the last prison cage and the wagon containing the prisoners’ possessions. The companions could hear the shouts of the draconian captains. The meaning was clear: “Kill the prisoners. Divide the spoils.”

  Everyone could see that the draconians would reach them long before the elves did. Tanis swore in frustration. Everything seemed futile. He felt a stirring at his side. The old magician, Fizban, was getting to his feet.

  “No, Old One!” Raistlin grasped at Fizban’s robes. “Keep under cover!”

  An arrow zipped through the air and stuck in the old man’s bent and battered hat. Fizban, muttering to himself, did not seem to notice. He presented a wonderful target in the gray light. Draconian arrows flew around him like wasps, and seemed to have as little effect, although he did appear mildly annoyed when one stuck into a pouch he happened to have his hand in at the moment.

  “Get down!” Caramon roared. “You’re drawing their fire!”

  Fizban did kneel down for a moment, but it was only to talk to Raistlin. “Say there, my boy,” he said as an arrow flew past right where he’d been standing. “Have you got a bit of bat guano on you? I’m out.”

  “No, Old One,” Raistlin whispered frantically. “Get down!”

  “No? Pity. Well, I guess I’ll have to wing it.” The old magician stood up, planted his feet firmly on the floor, and rolled up the sleeves of his robes. He shut his eyes, pointed at the cage door, and began to mumble strange words.

  “What spell is he casting?” Tanis asked Raistlin. “Can you understand?”

  The young mage listened intently, his brow furrowed. Suddenly Raistlin’s eyes opened wide. “NO!” he shrieked, trying to pull on the old magician’s robe to break his concentration. But it was too late. Fizban said the final word and pointed his finger at the lock on the back door of the cage.

  “Take cover!” Raistli
n threw himself beneath a bench. Sestun, seeing the old magician point at the cage door—and at him on the other side of it—fell flat on his face. Three draconians, reaching the cage door, their weapons dripping with their saliva, skidded to a halt, staring up in alarm.

  “What is it?” Tanis yelled.

  “Fireball!” Raistlin gasped, and at that moment a gigantic ball of yellow-orange fire shot from the old magician’s fingertips and struck the cage door with an explosive boom. Tanis buried his face in his hands as flames billowed and crackled around him. A wave of heat washed over him, searing his lungs. He heard the draconians scream in pain and smelled burning reptile flesh. Then smoke flew down his throat.

  “The floor’s on fire!” Caramon yelled.

  Tanis opened his eyes and staggered to his feet. He expected to see the old magician nothing but a mound of black ash like the bodies of the draconians lying behind the wagon. But Fizban stood staring at the iron door, stroking his singed beard in dismay. The door was still shut.

  “That really should have worked,” he said.

  “What about the lock?” Tanis yelled, trying to see through the smoke. The iron bars of the cell door already glowed red hot.

  “It didn’t budge!” Sturm shouted. He tried to approach the cage door to kick it open, but the heat radiating from the bars made it impossible. “The lock may be hot enough to break!” He choked in the smoke.

  “Sestun!” Tasslehoff’s shrill voice rose above the crackling flames. “Try again! Hurry!”

  The gully dwarf staggered to his feet, swung the axe, missed, swung again, and hit the lock. The superheated metal shattered, the lock gave way, and the cage door swung open.

  “Tanis, help us!” Goldmoon cried as she and Riverwind struggled to pull the injured Theros from his smoking pallet.

  “Sturm, the others!” Tanis yelled, then coughed in the smoke. He staggered to the front of the wagon, as the rest jumped out, Sturm grabbing hold of Fizban, who was still staring sadly at the door.