Dragons of Autumn Twilight

by Margaret Weis

  Fizban clapped his hands. “Well done, my boy!” said the old magician in excitement as part of the wall in the Mechanism Room swung open.

  “Thanks,” Tas replied modestly. “Actually, finding the secret door was more difficult than opening it. I don’t know how you managed. I thought I’d looked everywhere.”

  He started to crawl through the door, then stopped as a thought occurred to him. “Fizban, is there any way you can tell that light of yours to stay behind? At least until we see if anyone’s in here? Otherwise, I’m going to make an awfully good target and we’re not far from Verminaard’s chambers.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Fizban shook his head. “It doesn’t like to be left alone in dark places.”

  Tasslehoff nodded—he had expected the answer. Well, there was no use worrying about it. If the milk’s spilled, the cat will drink it, as his mother used to say. Fortunately, the narrow hallway he crawled into appeared empty. The flame hovered near his shoulder. He helped Fizban through, then explored his surroundings. They were in a small hallway that ended abruptly not forty feet away in a flight of stairs descending into darkness. Double bronze doors in the east wall provided the only other exit.

  “Now,” muttered Tas, “we’re above the throne room. Those stairs probably lead down to it. I suppose there’s a million draconians guarding it! So that’s out.” He put his ear to the door. “No sound. Let’s look around.” Pushing gently, he easily opened the double doors. Pausing to listen, Tas entered cautiously, followed closely by Fizban and the puffball flame.

  “Some sort of art gallery,” he said, glancing around a giant room where paintings, covered with dust and grime, hung on the walls. High slit windows in the walls gave Tas a glimpse of the stars and the tops of high mountains. With a good idea of where he was now, he drew a crude map in his head.

  “If my calculations are correct, the throne room is to the west and the dragon’s lair is to the west of that. At least that’s where he went when Verminaard left this afternoon. The dragon must have some way to fly out of this building, so the lair should open up into the sky, which means a shaft of some sort, and maybe another crack where we can see what’s going on.”

  So involved was Tas with his plans that he was not paying any attention to Fizban. The old magician was moving purposefully around the room, studying each painting as if searching for one in particular.

  “Ah, here it is,” Fizban murmured, then turned and whispered, “Tasslehoff!”

  The kender lifted his head and saw the painting suddenly begin to glow with a soft light. “Look at that!” Tasslehoff said, entranced. “Why, it’s a painting of dragons—red dragons like Ember, attacking Pax Tharkas and …”

  The kender’s voice died. Men—Knights of Solamnia—mounted on other dragons were fighting back! The dragons the Knights rode were beautiful dragons—gold and silver dragons—and the men carried bright weapons that gleamed with a shining radiance. Suddenly Tasslehoff understood! There were good dragons in the world, if they could be found, who would help fight the evil dragons, and there was—

  “The Dragonlance!” he murmured.

  The old magician nodded to himself. “Yes, little one,” he whispered. “You understand. You see the answer. And you will remember. But not now. Not now.” Reaching out, he ruffled the kender’s hair with his gnarled hand.

  “Dragons. What was I saying?” Tas couldn’t remember. And what was he doing here anyhow, staring at a painting so covered with dust he couldn’t make it out. The kender shook his head. Fizban must be rubbing off on him. “Oh, yes. The dragon’s lair. If my calculations are correct, it’s over here.” He walked away.

  The old magician shuffled along behind, smiling.

  The companions’ journey to the mines proved uneventful. They saw only a few draconian guards, and they appeared half-asleep with boredom. No one paid any attention to the women going by. They passed the glowing forge, continually fed by a scrambling mass of exhausted gully dwarves.

  Hurrying past that dismal sight quickly, the companions entered the mines where draconian guards locked the men in huge cave rooms at night, then returned to keep an eye on the gully dwarves. Guard duty over the men was a waste of time, anyway, Verminaard figured—the humans weren’t going anyplace.

  And, for a while, it looked to Tanis as if this might prove horribly true. The men weren’t going anyplace. They stared at Goldmoon, unconvinced, as she spoke. After all, she was a barbarian, her accent was strange, her dress even stranger. She told what seemed a children’s tale of a dragon dying in a blue flame she herself survived. And all she had to show for it was a collection of shining platinum disks.

  Hederick, the Solace Theocrat, was loud in his denunciation of the Que-shu woman as a witch and a charlatan and a blasphemer. He reminded them of the scene in the Inn, exhibiting his scarred hand as evidence. Not that the men paid a great deal of attention to Hederick. The Seeker gods, after all, had not kept the dragons from Solace.

  Many of them, in fact, were interested in the prospect of escape. Nearly all bore some mark of ill-treatment—whip lashes, bruised faces. They were poorly fed, forced to live in conditions of filth and squalor, and everyone knew that when the iron beneath the hills was gone, their usefulness to Lord Verminaard would end. But the Highseekers—still the governing body, even in prison—opposed such a reckless plan.

  Arguments started. The men shouted back and forth. Tanis hastily posted Caramon, Flint, Eben, Sturm, and Gilthanas at the doors, fearing the guards would hear the disturbance and return. The half-elf hadn’t expected this—the arguing might last for days! Goldmoon sat despondently before the men, looking as though she might cry. She had been so imbued with her newfound convictions, and so eager to bring her knowledge to the world, that she was cast into despair when her beliefs were doubted.

  “These humans are fools!” Laurana said softly, coming up to stand beside Tanis.

  “No,” replied Tanis, sighing. “If they were fools, it would be easier. We promise them nothing tangible and ask them to risk the only thing they have left—their lives. And for what? To flee into the hills, fighting a running battle all the way. At least here they are alive—for the time being.”

  “But how can life be worth anything, living like this?” Laurana asked.

  “That’s a very good question, young woman,” said a feeble voice. They turned to see Maritta kneeling beside a man lying on a crude cot in a corner of the cell. Wasted with illness and deprivation, his age was indeterminable. He struggled to sit up, stretching out a thin, pale hand to Tanis and Laurana. His breath rattled in his chest. Maritta tried to hush him, but he stared at her irritably. “I know I’m dying, woman! It doesn’t mean I have to be bored to death first. Bring that barbarian woman over to me.”

  Tanis looked at Maritta questioningly. She rose and came over, drawing him to one side. “He is Elistan,” she said as if Tanis should know the name. When Tanis didn’t respond, she clarified. “Elistan—one of the Highseekers from Haven. He was much loved and respected by the people, the only one who spoke out against this Lord Verminaard. But no one listened—not wanting to hear, of course.”

  “You speak of him in the past tense,” Tanis said. “He isn’t dead yet.”

  “No, but it won’t be long.” Maritta wiped away a tear. “I’ve seen the wasting sickness before. My own father died of it. There’s something inside of him, eating him alive. These last few days he has been half mad with the pain, but that’s gone now. The end is very near.”

  “Maybe not.” Tanis smiled. “Goldmoon is a cleric. She can heal him.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” Maritta said skeptically. “I wouldn’t want to chance it. We shouldn’t excite Elistan with false hope. Let him die in peace.”

  “Goldmoon,” Tanis said as the Chieftain’s Daughter came near. “This man wants to meet you.” Ignoring Maritta, the half-elf led Goldmoon over to Elistan. Goldmoon’s face, hard and cold with disappointment and frustration, softened as she saw the man
’s pitiful condition.

  Elistan looked up at her. “Young woman,” he said sternly, though his voice was weak, “you claim to bring word from ancient gods. If it truly was we humans who turned from them, not the gods who turned from us as we’ve always thought, then why have they waited so long to make their presence known?”

  Goldmoon knelt down beside the dying man in silence, thinking how to phrase her answer. Finally, she said, “Imagine you are walking through a wood, carrying your most precious possession—a rare and beautiful gem. Suddenly you are attacked by a vicious beast. You drop the gem and run away. When you realize the gem is lost, you are afraid to go back into the woods and search for it. Then someone comes along with another gem. Deep in your heart, you know it is not as valuable as the one you lost, but you are still too frightened to go back to look for the other. Now, does this mean the gem has left the forest, or is it still lying there, shining brightly beneath the leaves, waiting for you to return?”

  Elistan closed his eyes, sighing, his face filled with anguish. “Of course, the gem waits for our return. What fools we have been! I wish I had time to learn of your gods,” he said, reaching out his hand.

  Goldmoon caught her breath, her face drained until she was nearly as pale as the dying man on the cot. “You will be given time,” she said softly, taking his hand in hers.

  Tanis, absorbed in the drama before him, started in alarm when he felt a touch on his arm. He turned around, his hand on his sword, to find Sturm and Caramon standing behind him.

  “What is it?” he asked swiftly. “The guards?”

  “Not yet,” Sturm said harshly. “But we can expect them any minute. Both Eben and Gilthanas are gone.”

  Night deepened over Pax Tharkas.

  Back in his lair, the red dragon, Pyros, had no room to pace, a habit he had fallen into in his human form. He barely had room to spread his wings in this chamber, though it was the largest in the fortress and had even been expanded to accommodate him. But the ground-floor chamber was so narrow, all the dragon could do was turn his great body around.

  Forcing himself to relax, the dragon laid down upon the floor and waited, his eyes on the door. He didn’t notice two heads peeking over the railing of a balcony on the third level far above him.

  There was a scratch on the door. Pyros raised his head in eager anticipation, then dropped it again with a snarl as two goblins appeared, dragging between them a wretched specimen.

  “Gully dwarf!” Pyros sneered, speaking Common to underlings. “Verminaard’s taken leave of his senses if he thinks I’d eat gully dwarf. Toss him in a corner and get out!” he snarled at the goblins who hastened to do as instructed. Sestun cowered in the corner, whimpering.

  “Shut up!” Pyros ordered irritably. “Perhaps I should just flame you and stop that blubbering—”

  There came another sound at the door, a soft knocking the dragon recognized. His eyes burned red. “Enter!”

  A figure came into the lair of the dragon. Dressed in a long cloak, a hood covered its face.

  “I have come as you commanded, Ember,” the figure said softly.

  “Yes,” Pyros replied, his talons scratching the floor. “Remove the hood. I would see the faces of those I deal with.”

  The man cast his hood back. Up above the dragon, on the third level, came a strangled, choking gasp. Pyros stared up at the darkened balcony. He considered flying up to investigate, but the figure interrupted his thought.

  “I have only limited time, royal one. I must return before they suspect. And I should report to Lord Verminaard—”

  “In due course,” Pyros snapped irritably. “What are these fools that you accompany plotting?”

  “They plan to free the slaves and lead them in revolt, forcing Verminaard to recall the army marching on Qualinesti.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes, royal one. Now I must warn the Dragon Highlord.”

  “Bah! What does that matter? It will be I who deal with the slaves if they revolt. Unless they have plans for me?”

  “No, royal one. They fear you a great deal, as all must,” the figure added. “They will wait until you and Lord Verminaard have flown to Qualinesti. Then they will free the children and escape into the mountains before you return.”

  “That seems to be a plan equal to their intelligence. Do not worry about Verminaard. I will see he learns of this when I am ready for him to learn of it. Much greater matters are brewing. Much greater. Now listen closely. A prisoner was brought in today by that imbecile Toede—” Pyros paused, his eyes glowing. His voice dropped to a hissing whisper. “It is he! The one we seek!”

  The figure stared in astonishment. “Are you certain?”

  “Of course!” Pyros snarled viciously. “I see this man in my dreams! He is here, within my grasp! When all of Krynn is searching for him, I have found him!”

  “You will inform Her Dark Majesty?”

  “No. I dare not trust a messenger. I must deliver this man in person, but I cannot leave now. Verminaard cannot deal with Qualinesti alone. Even if the war is just a ruse, we must keep up appearances, and the world will be better for the absence of elves anyway. I will take the Everman to the Queen when time permits.”

  “So why tell me?” the figure asked, an edge in his voice.

  “Because you must keep him safe!” Pyros shifted his great bulk into a more comfortable position. His plans were coming together rapidly now. “It is a measure of Her Dark Majesty’s power that the cleric of Mishakal and the man of the green gemstone arrive together within my reach! I will allow Verminaard the pleasure of dealing with the cleric and her friends tomorrow. In fact”—Pyros’s eyes gleamed—“this may work out quite well! We can remove the Green Gemstone Man in the confusion and Verminaard will know nothing! When the slaves attack, you must find the Green Gemstone Man. Bring him back here and hide him in the lower chambers. When the humans have all been destroyed, and the army has wiped out Qualinesti, I will deliver him to my Dark Queen.”

  “I understand.” The figure bowed again. “And my reward?”

  “Will be all you deserve. Now leave me.”

  The man cast the hood up over his head and withdrew. Pyros folded his wings and, curling his great body around with the huge tail up over his snout, he lay staring into the darkness. The only sound that could be heard was Sestun’s pitiful weeping.

  “Are you all right?” Fizban asked Tasslehoff gently as they sat crouched by the balcony, afraid to move. It was pitch dark, Fizban having overturned a vase on the highly indignant puffball flame.

  “Yes,” Tas said dully. “I’m sorry I choked like that. I couldn’t help myself. Even though I expected it—sort of—it’s still hard to realize someone you know could betray you. Do you think the dragon heard me?”

  “I couldn’t say.” Fizban sighed. “The question is, what do we do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Tas said miserably. “I’m not supposed to be the one that thinks. I just come along for the fun. We can’t warn Tanis and the others, because we don’t know where they are. And if we start wandering around looking for them, we might get caught and only make things worse!” He put his chin in his hand. “You know,” he said with unusual somberness, “I asked my father once why kenders were little, why we weren’t big like humans and elves. I really wanted to be big,” he said softly and for a moment he was quiet.

  “What did your father say?” asked Fizban gently.

  “He said kenders were small because we were meant to do small things. ‘If you look at all the big things in the world closely,’ he said, ‘you’ll see that they’re really made up of small things all joined together.’ That big dragon down there comes to nothing but tiny drops of blood, maybe. It’s the small things that make the difference.”

  “Very wise, your father.”

  “Yes.” Tas brushed his hand across his eyes. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.” The kender’s pointed chin jutted forward, his lips tightened. His father, if he had see
n him, would not have known this small, resolute person for his son.

  “We’ll leave the big things to the others,” Tas announced finally. “They’ve got Tanis and Sturm and Goldmoon. They’ll manage. We’ll do the small thing, even if it doesn’t seem very important. We’re going to rescue Sestun.”

  13

  Questions. No answers.

  Fizban’s hat.

  I heard something, Tanis, and I went to investigate,” Eben said, his mouth set in a firm line. “I looked outside the cell door I was guarding and I saw a draconian crouched there, listening. I crept out and got it in a choke hold, then a second one jumped me. I knifed it, then took off after the first. I caught it and knocked it out, then decided I’d better get back here.”

  The companions had returned to the cells to find both Gilthanas and Eben waiting for them. Tanis had Maritta keep the women busy in a far corner while he questioned the two about their absence. Eben’s story appeared true—Tanis had seen the bodies of the draconians as he returned to the prison—and Eben had certainly been in a fight. His clothes were torn, blood trickled from a cut on his cheek.

  Tika got a relatively clean cloth from one of the women and began washing the cut. “He saved our lives, Tanis,” she snapped. “I’d think you’d be grateful, instead of glaring at him as if he’d stabbed your best friend.”

  “No, Tika,” Eben said gently. “Tanis has a right to ask. It did look suspicious, I admit. But I have nothing to hide.” Catching hold of her hand, he kissed her fingertips. Tika flushed and dipped the cloth in water, raising it to his cheek again. Caramon, watching, scowled.

  “What about you, Gilthanas?” the warrior asked abruptly. “Why did you leave?”

  “Do not question me,” the elf said sullenly. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Know what?” Tanis said sternly. “Why did you leave?”

  “Leave him alone!” Laurana cried, going to her brother’s side.