Dragons of Autumn Twilight

by Margaret Weis

  Tasslehoff stood in the middle of what he had named the Mechanism Room, staring around the tunnel lighted dimly by the puffball. The kender was beginning to feel discouraged. It was a feeling he didn’t get often and likened to the time he’d eaten an entire green tomato pie acquired from a neighbor. To this day, discouragement and green tomato pie both made him want to throw up.

  “There’s got to be some way out of here,” said the kender. “Surely they inspect the mechanism occasionally, or come up to admire it, or give tours, or something!”

  He and Fizban had spent an hour walking up and down the tunnel, crawling in and out among the myriad chains. They found nothing. It was cold and barren and covered with dust.

  “Speaking of light,” said the old magician suddenly, though they hadn’t been. “Look there.”

  Tasslehoff looked. A thin sliver of light was visible through a crack in the bottom of the wall, near the entrance to the narrow tunnel. They could hear voices, and the light grew brighter as if torches were being lit in a room below them.

  “Maybe that’s a way out,” the old man said.

  Running lightly down the tunnel, Tas knelt down and peered through the crack. “Come here!”

  The two looked down into a large room, furnished with every possible luxury. All that was beautiful, graceful, delicate, or valuable in the lands under Verminaard’s control had been brought to decorate the private chambers of the Dragon Highlord. An ornate throne stood at one end of the room. Rare and priceless silver mirrors hung on the walls, arranged so cunningly that no matter where a trembling captive turned, the only image he saw was the grotesque, horned helm of the Dragon Highlord glowering at him.

  “That must be him!” Tas whispered to Fizban. “That must be Lord Verminaard!” The kender sucked in his breath in awe. “That must be his dragon—Ember. The one Gilthanas told us about, that killed all the elves in Solace.”

  Ember, or Pyros (his true name being a secret known only to draconians, or to other dragons—never to common mortals) was an ancient and enormous red dragon. Pyros had been given to Lord Verminaard ostensibly as a reward from the Queen of Darkness to her cleric. In reality, Pyros was sent to keep a watchful eye on Verminaard, who had developed a strange, paranoid fear regarding discovery of the true gods. All the Dragon Highlords on Krynn possessed dragons, however, though perhaps not as strong and intelligent. For Pyros had another, more important mission that was secret even to the Dragon Highlord himself, a mission assigned to him by the Queen of Darkness and known only to her and her evil dragons.

  Pyros’s mission was to search this part of Ansalon for one man, a man of many names. The Queen of Darkness called him Everman. The dragons called him Green Gemstone Man. His human name was Berem. And it was because of this unceasing search for the human, Berem, that Pyros was present in Verminaard’s chamber this afternoon when he would have much preferred to be napping in his lair.

  Pyros had received word that Fewmaster Toede was bringing in two prisoners for interrogation. There was always the possibility this Berem might be one of them. Therefore, the dragon was always present during interrogations, though he often appeared vastly bored. The only time interrogations became interesting—as far as Pyros was concerned—was when Verminaard ordered a prisoner to “feed the dragon.”

  Pyros was stretched out along one side of the enormous throne room, completely filling it. His huge wings were folded at his sides, his flanks heaved with every breath he took like some great gnomish engine. Dozing, he snorted and shifted slightly. A rare vase toppled to the floor with a crash. Verminaard looked up from his desk where he was studying a map of Qualinesti.

  “Transform yourself before you wreck the place,” he snarled.

  Pyros opened one eye, regarded Verminaard coldly for a moment, then grudgingly rumbled a brief word of magic.

  The gigantic red dragon began to shimmer like a mirage, the monstrous dragon shape condensing into the shape of a human male, slight of build with dark black hair, a thin face, and slanting red eyes. Dressed in crimson robes, Pyros the man walked to a desk near Verminaard’s throne. Sitting down, he folded his hands and stared at Verminaard’s broad, muscled back with undisguised loathing.

  There was a scratch at the door.

  “Enter,” Verminaard commanded absently.

  A draconian guard threw open the door, admitting Fewmaster Toede and his prisoners, then withdrew, swinging the great bronze and gold doors shut. Verminaard kept the Fewmaster waiting several long minutes while he continued to study his battle plan. Then, favoring Toede with a condescending gaze, he walked over and ascended the steps to his throne. It was elaborately carved to resemble the gaping jaws of a dragon.

  Verminaard was an imposing figure. Tall and powerfully built, he wore dark night-blue dragonscale armor trimmed in gold. The hideous mask of a Dragon Highlord concealed his face. Moving with a grace remarkable in such a large man, he leaned back comfortably, his leather-encased hand absently caressing a black, gold-trimmed mace by his side.

  Verminaard regarded Toede and his two captives irritably, knowing full well that Toede had dredged up these two in an effort to redeem himself from the disastrous loss of the cleric. When Verminaard discovered from his draconians that a woman matching the description of the cleric had been among those prisoners taken from Solace and that she had been allowed to escape, his fury was terrifying. Toede had nearly paid for his mistake with his life, but the hobgoblin was exceptionally skilled at whining and groveling. Knowing this, Verminaard had considered refusing to admit Toede at all today, but he had a strange, nagging sensation that all was not well in his realm.

  It’s that blasted cleric! Verminaard thought. He could sense her power coming nearer and nearer, making him nervous and uneasy. He intently studied the two prisoners Toede led into the room. Then, seeing that neither of them matched the descriptions of those who had raided Xak Tsaroth, Verminaard scowled behind the mask.

  Pyros reacted differently to the sight of the prisoners. The transformed dragon half-rose to his feet while his thin hands clenched the ebony desktop with such ferocity he left the impressions of his fingers in the wood. Shaking with excitement, it took a great effort of will to force himself to sit back down, outwardly calm. Only his eyes, burning with a devouring flame, gave a hint of his inner elation as he stared at the prisoners.

  One of the prisoners was a gully dwarf, Sestun, in fact. He was chained hand and foot (Toede was taking no chances) and could barely walk. Stumbling forward, he dropped to his knees before the Dragon Highlord, terror-stricken. The other prisoner—the one Pyros watched—was a human male, dressed in rags, who stood staring at the floor.

  “Why have you bothered me with these wretches, Fewmaster?” Verminaard snarled.

  Toede, reduced to a quivering mass, gulped and immediately launched into his speech. “This prisoner”—he hobgoblin kicked Sestun—“was the one who freed the slaves from Solace, and this prisoner”—he indicated the man, who lifted his head, a confused and puzzled expression on his face—“was found wandering around Gateway which, as you know, has been declared off limits to all nonmilitary personnel.”

  “So why bring them to me?” asked Lord Verminaard irritably. “Throw them into the mines with the rest of the rabble.”

  Toede stammered. “I thought the human m-m-might b-be a s-spy.…”

  The Dragon Highlord studied the human intently. He was tall, about fifty human years old. His hair was white and his clean-shaven face brown and weathered, streaked with lines of age. He was dressed like a beggar, which is probably what he was, Verminaard thought in disgust. There was certainly nothing unusual about him, except for his eyes which were bright and young. His hands, too, were those of a man in his prime. Probably elven blood.…

  “The man is feeble-minded,” Verminaard said finally. “Look at him—gaping like a landed fish.”

  “I b-b-believe he’s, uh, deaf and dumb, my lord,” Toede said, sweating.

  Verminaard wrinkled his nos
e. Not even the dragonhelm could keep away the foul odor of perspiring hobgoblin.

  “So you have captured a gully dwarf and a spy who can neither hear nor speak,” Verminaard said caustically. “Well done, Toede. Perhaps now you can go out and pick me a bouquet of flowers.”

  “If that is your lordship’s pleasure,” Toede replied solemnly, bowing.

  Verminaard began to laugh beneath his helm, amused in spite of himself. Toede was such an entertaining little creature, a pity he couldn’t be taught to bathe. Verminaard waved his hand. “Remove them—and yourself.”

  “What shall I do with the prisoners, my lord?”

  “Have the gully dwarf feed Ember tonight. And take your spy to the mines. Keep a watch on him though—he looks deadly!” The Dragon Highlord laughed.

  Pyros ground his teeth and cursed Verminaard for a fool.

  Toede bowed again. “Come on, you,” he snarled, yanking on the manacles, and the man stumbled after him. “You, too!” He prodded Sestun with his foot. It was useless. The gully dwarf, hearing he was to feed the dragon, had fainted. A draconian was called to remove him.

  Verminaard left his throne and walked over to his desk. He gathered up his maps in a great roll. “Send the wyvern with dispatches,” he ordered Pyros. “We fly tomorrow morning to destroy Qualinesti. Be ready when I call.”

  When the bronze and golden doors had closed behind the Dragon Highlord, Pyros, still in human form, rose from the desk and began to pace feverishly back and forth across the room. There came a scratching at the door.

  “Lord Verminaard has gone to his chambers!” Pyros called out, irritated at the interruption.

  The door opened a crack.

  “It is you I wish to see, royal one,” whispered a draconian.

  “Enter,” Pyros said. “But be swift.”

  “The traitor has been successful, royal one,” the draconian said softly. “He was able to slip away only for a moment, lest they suspect. But he has brought the cleric—”

  “To the Abyss with the cleric!” Pyros snarled. “This news is of interest only to Verminaard. Take it to him. No, wait.” The dragon paused.

  “As you instructed, I came to you first,” the draconian said apologetically, preparing to make a hasty departure.

  “Don’t go,” the dragon ordered, raising a hand. “This news is of value to me after all. Not the cleric. There is much more at stake.… I must meet with our treacherous friend. Bring him to me tonight, in my lair. Do not inform Lord Verminaard—not yet. He might meddle.” Pyros was thinking rapidly now, his plans coming together. “Verminaard has Qualinesti to keep him occupied.”

  As the draconian bowed and left the throne room, Pyros began pacing once again, back and forth, back and forth, rubbing his hands together, smiling.

  12

  The parable of the gem.

  Traitor revealed. Tas’s dilemma.

  Stop that, you bold man!” Caramon simpered, slapping Eben’s hand as the fighter slyly slid his hand up Caramon’s skirt.

  The women in the room laughed so heartily at the antics of the two warriors that Tanis glanced nervously at the cell door, afraid of arousing the suspicion of the guards.

  Maritta saw his worried gaze. “Don’t worry about the guards!” she said with a shrug. “There are only two down here on this level and they’re drunk half the time, especially now that the army’s moved out.” She looked up from her sewing at the women and shook her head. “It does my heart good to hear them laugh, poor things,” she said softly. “They’ve had little enough to laugh about these past days.”

  Thirty-four women were crowded into one cell—Maritta said there were sixty women living in another nearby—under conditions so shocking that even the hardened campaigners were appalled. Rude straw mats covered the floor. The women had no possessions beyond a few clothes. They were allowed outdoors for a brief exercise period each morning. The rest of the time they were forced to sew draconian uniforms. Though they had been imprisoned only a few weeks, their faces were pale and wan, their bodies thin and gaunt from the lack of nourishing food.

  Tanis relaxed. Though he had known Maritta only a few hours, he already relied on her judgment. She was the one who had calmed the terrified women when the companions burst into their cell. She was the one who listened to their plan and agreed that it had possibilities.

  “Our menfolk will go along with you,” she told Tanis. “It’s the Highseekers who’ll give you trouble.”

  “The Council of Highseekers?” Tanis asked in astonishment. “They’re here? Prisoners?”

  Maritta nodded, frowning. “That was their payment for believing in that black cleric. But they won’t want to leave, and why should they? They’re not forced to work in the mines—the Dragon Highlord sees to that! But we’re with you.” She glanced around at the others, who nodded firmly. “On one condition—that you’ll not put the children in danger.”

  “I can’t guarantee that,” Tanis said. “I don’t mean to sound harsh, but we may have to fight a dragon to reach them and—”

  “Fight a dragon? Flamestrike?” Maritta looked at him in amazement. “Pah! There’s no need to fight the pitiful critter. In fact, were you to hurt her, you’d have half the children ready to tear you apart, they’re that fond of her.”

  “Of a dragon?” Goldmoon asked. “What’s she done, cast a spell on them?”

  “No. I doubt Flamestrike could cast a spell on anything anymore.” Maritta smiled sadly. “The poor critter’s more than half-mad. Her own children were killed in some great war or other and now she’s got it in her head that our children are her children. I don’t know where his lordship dug her up, but it was a sorry thing to do and I hope he pays for it someday!” She snapped a thread viciously.

  “T’won’t be difficult to free the children,” she added, seeing Tanis’s worried look. “Flamestrike always sleeps late of a morning. We feed the children their breakfast, take them out for their exercise, and she never stirs. She’ll never know they’re gone till she wakes, poor thing.”

  The women, filled with hope for the first time, began modifying old clothes to fit the men. Things went smoothly until it came time to fit them.

  “Shave!” Sturm roared in such fury that the women scurried away from the knight in alarm. Sturm had taken a dim view of the disguise idea, anyway, but had agreed to go along with it. It seemed the best way to cross the wide-open courtyard between the fortress and the mines. But, he announced, he would rather die a hundred deaths at the hands of the Dragon Highlord than shave his moustaches. He only calmed down when Tanis suggested covering his face with a scarf.

  Just when that was settled, another crisis arose. Riverwind stated flatly that he would not dress up as a woman and no amount of arguing could convince him otherwise. Goldmoon finally took Tanis aside to explain that, in their tribe, any warrior who committed a cowardly act in battle was forced to wear women’s clothes until he redeemed himself. Tanis was baffled by this one. But Maritta had wondered how they would manage to outfit the tall man anyway.

  After much discussion, it was decided Riverwind would bundle up in a long cloak and walk hunched over, leaning on a staff like an old woman. Things went smoothly after this, for a time at least.

  Laurana walked over to a corner of the room where Tanis was wrapping a scarf around his own face.

  “Why don’t you shave?” Laurana asked, staring at Tanis’s beard. “Or do you truly enjoy flaunting your human side as Gilthanas says?”

  “I don’t flaunt it,” Tanis replied evenly. “I just got tired of trying to deny it, that’s all.” He drew a deep breath. “Laurana, I’m sorry I spoke to you as I did back in the Sla-Mori. I had no right—”

  “You had every right,” Laurana interrupted. “What I did was the act of a lovesick little girl. I foolishly endangered your lives.” Her voice faltered, then she regained control. “It will not happen again. I will prove I can be of value to the group.”

  Exactly how she meant to do this, she wasn
’t certain. Although she talked glibly about being skilled in fighting, she had never killed so much as a rabbit. She was so frightened now that she was forced to clasp her hands behind her back to keep Tanis from seeing how she trembled. She was afraid that if she let herself, she would give way to her weakness and seek comfort in his arms, so she left him and went over to help Gilthanas with his disguise.

  Tanis told himself he was glad Laurana was showing some signs of maturity at last. He steadfastly refused to admit that his soul stood breathless whenever he looked into her large, luminous eyes.

  The afternoon passed swiftly and soon it was evening and time for the women to take dinner to the mines. The companions waited for the guards in tense silence, laughter forgotten. There had, after all, been one last crisis. Raistlin, coughing until he was exhausted, said he was too weak to accompany them. When his brother offered to stay behind with him, Raistlin glared at him irritably and told him not to be a fool.

  “You do not need me this night,” the mage whispered. “Leave me alone. I must sleep.”

  “I don’t like leaving him here—” Gilthanas began, but before he could continue, they heard the sound of clawed feet outside the cell, and another sound of pots rattling. The cell door swung open and two draconian guards, both smelling strongly of stale wine, stepped inside. One of them reeled a bit as it peered, bleary-eyed, at the women.

  “Get moving,” it said harshly.

  As the “women” filed out, they saw six gully dwarves standing in the corridor, lugging large pots of some sort of nameless stew. Caramon sniffed hungrily, then wrinkled his nose in disgust. The draconians slammed the cell door shut behind them. Glancing back, Caramon saw his twin, shrouded in blankets, lying in a dark, shadowy corner.