Dragons of Autumn Twilight

by Margaret Weis

  Pyros spread his wings and launched himself into the air, using his powerful back legs to propel himself from the floor with tremendous speed.

  This is it! thought Tasslehoff. Now we’ve done it. There’s no escape this time.

  Just as he resigned himself to being cooked by a dragon, he heard the magician shout a single word of command and a thick, unnatural darkness almost knocked the kender over.

  “Run!” panted Fizban, grabbing the kender’s hand and dragging Tas to his feet.

  “Sestun—”

  “I’ve got him! Run!”

  Tasslehoff ran. They flew out the door and into the gallery, then he had no idea where he was going. He just kept hold of the old man and ran. Behind him he could hear the sound of the dragon whooshing up out of his lair and he heard the dragon’s voice.

  “So you are a magic-user, are you, spy?” Pyros shouted. “We can’t have you running around in the dark. You might get lost. Let me light your way!”

  Tasslehoff heard a great intake of breath into a giant body, then flames crackled and burned around him. The darkness vanished, driven away by the fire’s flaring light, but, to his amazement, Tas wasn’t touched by the flame. He looked at Fizban—hatless—running next to him. They were in the gallery still, heading for the double doors.

  The kender twisted his head. Behind him loomed the dragon, more horrible than anything he had imagined, more terrifying than the black dragon in Xak Tsaroth. The dragon breathed on them again and once more Tas was enveloped by flame. The paintings on the walls blazed, furniture burned, curtains flared like torches, smoke filled the room. But none of it touched him and Sestun and Fizban. Tasslehoff looked at the mage in admiration, truly impressed.

  “How long can you keep this up?” he shouted to Fizban as they wheeled around a corner, the double bronze doors in sight.

  The old man’s eyes were wide and staring. “I have no idea!” he gasped. “I didn’t know I could do it at all!”

  Another blast of flame exploded around them. This time, Tasslehoff felt the heat and glanced at Fizban in alarm. The mage nodded. “I’m losing it!” he cried.

  “Hang on,” Tasslehoff panted. “We’re almost to the door! He can’t get through it.”

  The three pushed through the bronze double doors that led from the gallery back into the hallway just as Fizban’s magic spell wore off. Before them was the secret door, still open, that led to the Mechanism Room. Tasslehoff flung the bronze doors shut and stopped a moment to catch his breath.

  But just as he was about to say, “We made it!” one of the dragon’s huge clawed feet broke through the stone wall, right above the kender’s head!

  Sestun, giving a shriek, headed for the stairs.

  “No!” Tasslehoff grabbed him. “That leads to Verminaard’s quarters!”

  “Back to the Mechanism Room!” Fizban cried. They dashed through the secret door just as the stone wall gave way with a tremendous crash. But they could not shut the door.

  “I have a lot to learn about dragons, apparently,” Tas muttered. “I wonder if there are any good books on the subject—”

  “So I have run you rats into your hole and now you are trapped,” boomed Pyros’s voice from outside. “You have nowhere to go and stone walls do not stop me.”

  There was a terrible grinding and grating sound. The walls of the Mechanism Room trembled, then began to crack.

  “It was a nice try,” Tas said ruefully. “That last spell was a doozy. Almost worth getting killed by a dragon to see.”

  “Killed!” Fizban seemed to wake up. “By a dragon? I should say not! I’ve never been so insulted. There must be a way out—” His eyes began to gleam. “Down the chain!”

  “The chain?” repeated Tas, thinking he must have misunderstood, what with the walls cracking around him and the dragon roaring and all.

  “We’ll crawl down the chain! Come on!” Cackling with delight, the old mage turned and ran down the tunnel.

  Sestun looked dubiously at Tasslehoff, but just then the dragon’s huge claw appeared through the wall. The kender and the gully dwarf turned and ran after the old magician.

  By the time they reached the great wheel, Fizban had already crawled along the chain leading from the tunnel and reached the first tree-trunk tooth of the wheel itself. Tucking his robes up around his thighs, he dropped down from the tooth onto the first rung of the huge chain. The kender and gully dwarf swung onto the chain after him. Tas was just beginning to think they might get out of this alive after all, especially if the dark elf at the bottom of the chain had taken the day off, when Pyros burst suddenly into the shaft where the great chain hung.

  Sections of the stone tunnel caved in around them, falling to the ground with a hollow booming thud. The walls shuddered, and the chain started to tremble. Above them hovered the dragon. He did not speak but simply stared at them with his red eyes. Then he drew in a huge breath that seemed to suck in the air of the whole valley. Tas started instinctively to close his eyes, then opened them wide. He’d never seen a dragon breathe fire and he wasn’t going to miss seeing it now—especially as it would probably be his last chance.

  Flames billowed out from the dragon’s nose and mouth. The blast from the heat alone nearly knocked Tasslehoff off the chain. But, once again, the fire burned all around him and did not touch him. Fizban cackled with delight.

  “Quite clever, old man,” said the dragon angrily. “But I, too, am a magic-user and I feel you weakening. I hope your cleverness amuses you—all the way down!”

  Flames flared out again, but this time the dragon’s fire was not aimed at the trembling figures clinging to the chain. The flames struck the chain itself and the iron links began to glow red hot at the first touch of the dragonfire. Pyros breathed again and the links burned white hot. The dragon breathed a third time. The links melted. The massive chain gave a great shudder and broke, plunging into the darkness below.

  Pyros watched it as it plummeted down. Then, satisfied that the spies would not live to tell their tale, he flew back to his lair where he could hear Verminaard shouting for him.

  In the darkness left behind by the dragon, the great cogwheel—free of the chain that had held it in place for centuries—gave a groan and began to turn.

  14

  Matafleur. The magic sword.

  White feathers.

  Light from Maritta’s torch illuminated a large, barren windowless room. There was no furniture. The only objects in the chill, stone chamber were a huge basin of water, a bucket filled with what smelled like rotted meat, and a dragon.

  Tanis caught his breath. He had thought the black dragon in Xak Tsaroth formidable. He was truly awed at the massive size of this red dragon. Her lair was enormous, probably over one hundred feet in diameter, and the dragon stretched the length of it, the tip of her long tail lying against the far wall. For a moment the companions stood stunned, with ghastly visions of the giant head rising up and searing them with the burning flame breathed by the red dragons, the flames that had destroyed Solace.

  Maritta did not appear worried, however. She advanced steadily into the room and, after a moment’s hesitation, the companions hurried after her. As they drew closer to the creature, they could see that Maritta had been right—the dragon was clearly in pitiful condition. The great head that lay on the cold stone floor was lined and wrinkled with age, the brilliant red skin grayish and mottled. She breathed noisily through her mouth, her jaws parted to reveal the once sword-sharp teeth, now yellowed and broken. Long scars ran along her sides; her leathery wings were dry and cracked.

  Now Tanis could understand Maritta’s attitude. Clearly, the dragon had been ill-used, and he caught himself feeling pity, relaxing his guard. He realized how dangerous this was when the dragon—awakened by the torchlight—stirred in her sleep. Her talons were as sharp and her fire as destructive as any other red dragon in Krynn, Tanis reminded himself sharply.

  The dragon’s eyes opened, slits of glistening red in the torchl
ight. The companions halted, hands on their weapons.

  “Is it time for breakfast already, Maritta?” Matafleur (Flamestrike being her name to common mortals) said in a sleepy, husky voice.

  “Yes, we’re just a bit early today, dearie,” Maritta said soothingly. “But there’s a storm brewing and I want the children to have their exercise before it breaks. Go back to sleep. I’ll see they don’t wake you on their way out.”

  “I don’t mind.” The dragon yawned and opened her eyes a bit farther. Now Tanis could see that one of them had a milky covering; she was blind in that eye.

  “I hope we don’t have to fight her, Tanis,” Sturm whispered. “It’d be like fighting someone’s grandmother.”

  Tanis forced his expression to harden. “She’s a deadly grandmother, Sturm. Just remember that.”

  “The little ones had a restful night,” the dragon murmured, apparently drifting off to sleep again. “See that they don’t get wet if it does storm, Maritta. Especially little Erik. He had a cold last week.” Her eyes closed.

  Turning, Maritta beckoned the others on, putting her finger to her lips. Sturm and Tanis came last, their weapons and armor muffled by numerous cloaks and skirts. Tanis was about thirty feet from the dragon’s head when the noise started.

  At first he thought it was his imagination, that his nervousness was making him hear a buzzing sound in his head. But the sound grew louder and louder and Sturm turned, staring at him in alarm. The buzzing sound increased until it was like a thousand swarming locusts. Now the others were looking back, too—all of them staring at him! Tanis looked at his friends helplessly, an almost comic look of confusion on his face.

  The dragon snorted and stirred in irritation, shaking her head as though the noise hurt her ears.

  Suddenly Raistlin broke from the group and ran back to Tanis. “The sword!” he hissed. He grabbed the half-elf’s cloak and threw it back to reveal the blade.

  Tanis stared down at the sword in its antique scabbard. The mage was right. The blade hummed as if in the highest state of alarm. Now that Raistlin called his attention to it, the halfelf could actually feel the vibrations.

  “Magic,” the mage said softly, studying it with interest.

  “Can you stop it?” yelled Tanis over the weird noise.

  “No,” said Raistlin. “I remember now. This is Wyrmslayer, the famed magical sword of Kith-Kanan. It is reacting to the presence of the dragon.”

  “This is an abysmal time to remember!” Tanis said in fury.

  “Or a very convenient time,” snarled Sturm.

  The dragon slowly raised her head, her eyes blinking, a thin stream of smoke drifting from a nostril. She focused her bleary red eyes on Tanis, pain and irritation in her gaze.

  “Who have you brought, Maritta?” Matafleur’s voice was filled with menace. “I hear a sound I have not heard in centuries, I smell the foul smell of steel! These are not the women! These are warriors!”

  “Don’t hurt her!” Maritta wailed.

  “I may not have any choice!” Tanis said viciously, drawing Wyrmslayer from its sheath. “Riverwind and Goldmoon, get Maritta out of here!” The blade began to shine with a brilliant white light as the buzzing grew louder and angrier. Matafleur shrank back. The light of the sword pierced her good eye painfully; the terrible sound went through her head like a spear. Whimpering, she huddled away from Tanis.

  “Run, get the children!” Tanis yelled, realizing that they didn’t need to fight—at least not yet. Holding the shining sword high in the air, he moved forward cautiously, driving the pitiful dragon back against the wall.

  Maritta, after one fearful glance at Tanis, led Goldmoon to the children’s room. About one hundred children were wide-eyed with alarm over the strange sounds outside their chamber. Their faces relaxed at the sight of Maritta and Goldmoon and a few of the littler ones actually giggled when Caramon came rushing in, his skirts flapping around his armored legs. But at the sight of warriors and their drawn weapons, the children sobered immediately.

  “What is it, Maritta?” asked the oldest girl. “What’s happening? Is it fighting again?”

  “We hope there’ll be no fighting, dear one,” Maritta said softly. “But I’ll not lie to you—it may come to that. Now I want you to gather your things, particularly your warm cloaks, and come with us. The older of you carry the wee ones, as you do when we go outdoors for exercise.”

  Sturm expected confusion and wailing and demands for explanations. But the children quickly did as they were told, wrapping themselves in warm clothing and helping to dress the younger ones. They were quiet and calm, if a bit pale. These were children of war, Sturm remembered.

  “I want you to move very swiftly through the dragon’s lair and out into the playroom. When we get there, the big man”—Sturm gestured to Caramon—“will lead you out into the courtyard. Your mothers are waiting for you there. When you get outside, look immediately for your mother and go to her. Does everyone understand?” He glanced dubiously at the smaller children, but the girl at the front of the line nodded.

  “We understand, sir,” she said.

  “All right,” Sturm turned. “Caramon?”

  The warrior, flushing in embarrassment as one hundred pairs of eyes turned to look at him, led the way back into the dragon’s lair. Goldmoon scooped up a toddler in her arms, Maritta picked up another one. The older boys and girls carried little ones on their backs. They hurried out the door in orderly fashion, without saying a word until they saw Tanis, the gleaming sword, and the terrified dragon.

  “Hey, you! Don’t hurt our dragon!” one little boy yelled. Leaving his place in line, the child ran up to Tanis, his fists raised, his face twisted into a snarl.

  “Dougl!” cried the oldest girl, shocked. “Get back in line this instant!” But some of the children were crying now.

  Tanis, the sword still raised—knowing that this was the only thing keeping the dragon at bay—shouted, “Get them out of here!”

  “Children, please!” Chieftain’s Daughter, her voice stern and commanding, brought order to the chaos. “Tanis will not hurt the dragon if he does not have to. He is a gentle man. You must leave now. Your mothers need you.”

  There was an edge of fear in Goldmoon’s voice, a feeling of urgency that influenced even the youngest child. They got back into line quickly.

  “Good-bye, Flamestrike,” several of the children called out, wistfully, waving their hands as they followed Caramon. Dougl gave Tanis one final threatening glance, then he returned to line, wiping his eyes with grubby fists.

  “No!” shrieked Matafleur in a heartbroken voice. “No! Don’t fight my children. Please! It is me you want! Fight me! Don’t harm my children!”

  Tanis realized the dragon was back in her past, reliving whatever terrible event had deprived her of her children.

  Sturm stayed near Tanis. “She’s going to kill you when the children are out of danger, you know.”

  “Yes,” said Tanis grimly. Already the dragon’s eyes—even the bad eye, were flaring red. Saliva dripped from the great, gaping mouth, and her talons scratched the floor.

  “Not my children!” she said with rage.

  “I’m with you—” Sturm began, drawing his sword.

  “Leave us, knight,” Raistlin whispered softly from the shadows. “Your weapon is useless. I will stay with Tanis.”

  The half-elf glanced at the mage in astonishment. Raistlin’s strange, golden eyes met his, knowing what he was thinking: do I trust him? Raistlin gave him no help, almost as if he were goading him to refusal.

  “Get out,” Tanis said to Sturm.

  “What?” he yelled. “Are you crazy? You’re trusting this—”

  “Get out!” Tanis repeated. At that moment, he heard Flint yelling loudly. “Go, Sturm, they need you out there!”

  The knight stood a moment, irresolute, but he could not in honor ignore a direct order from one he considered his commander. Casting a baleful glance at Raistlin, Sturm turned on h
is heel and entered the tunnel.

  “There is little magic I can work against a red dragon,” Raistlin whispered swiftly.

  “Can you buy us time?” Tanis asked.

  Raistlin smiled the smile of one who knows death is so near it is past fearing. “I can,” he whispered. “Move back near the tunnel. When you hear me start to speak, run.”

  Tanis began backing up, still holding the sword high. But the dragon no longer feared its magic. She knew only that her children were gone and she must kill those responsible. She lunged directly at the warrior with the sword as he began to run toward the tunnel. Then darkness descended upon her, a darkness so deep Matafleur thought for a horrible moment she had lost the sight of the other eye. She heard whispered words of magic and knew the robed human had cast a spell.

  “I’ll burn them!” she howled, sniffing the smell of steel through the tunnel. “They will not escape!” But just as she sucked in a great breath, she heard another sound—the sound of her children. “No,” she realized in frustration. “I dare not. My children! I might harm my children.…” Her head drooped down on the cold stone floor.

  Tanis and Raistlin ran down the tunnel, the half-elf dragging the weakened mage with him. Behind them they heard a pitiful, heartbroken moan.

  “Not my children! Please, fight me! Don’t hurt my children!”

  Tanis emerged from the tunnel into the playroom, blinking in the bright light as Caramon swung the huge doors open to the rising sun. The children raced out the door into the courtyard. Through the door, Tanis could see Tika and Laurana, standing with their swords drawn, looking their way anxiously. A draconian lay crumbling on the floor of the playroom, Flint’s battle-axe stuck in its back.

  “Outside, all of you!” Tanis shouted. Flint, retrieving his battle-axe, joined the half-elf as the last to leave the playroom. As they did so, they heard a terrifying roar, the roar of a dragon, but a very different dragon than the pitiful Matafleur. Pyros had discovered the spies. The stone walls began to tremble—the dragon was rising from his lair.