Dragons of Autumn Twilight

by Margaret Weis

  “Ember!” Tanis swore bitterly. “He hasn’t gone!”

  The dwarf shook his head. “I’ll bet my beard,” he said gloomily, “that Tasslehoff’s involved.”

  The broken chain plummeted to the stone floor of the Chain Room in the Sla-Mori, three little figures falling with it.

  Tasslehoff, clinging uselessly to the chain, tumbled through the darkness and thought, this is how it feels to die. It was an interesting sensation and he was sorry he couldn’t experience it longer. Above him, he could hear Sestun shrieking in terror. Below, he heard the old mage muttering to himself, probably trying one last spell. Then Fizban raised his voice: “Pveatherf—” The word was cut off with a scream. There was the sound of a bone-crushing thud as the old magician crashed to the floor. Tasslehoff grieved, even though he knew he was next. The stone floor was approaching. Within a very few seconds he too would be dead.…

  Then it was snowing.

  At least that was what the kender thought. Then he realized with a shock that he was surrounded by millions and millions of feathers—like an explosion of chickens! He sank into a deep, vast pile of white feathers, Sestun tumbling in after him.

  “Poor Fizban,” Tas said, blinking tears from his eyes as he floundered in an ocean of white chicken feathers. “His last spell must have been featherfall like Raistlin uses. Wouldn’t you know it? He just got the feathers.”

  Above him, the cogwheel turned faster and faster, the freed chain rushing through it as if rejoicing in its release from bondage.

  Outdoors in the courtyard chaos reigned.

  “Over here!” Tanis yelled, bursting out of the door, knowing they were doomed but refusing to give in. The companions gathered around him, weapons drawn, looking at him anxiously. “Run to the mines! Run for shelter! Verminaard and the red dragon didn’t leave. It is a trap. They’ll be on us any moment.”

  The others, their faces grim, nodded. All of them knew it was hopeless—they must cover about two hundred yards of flat, wide-open surface to reach safety.

  They tried to herd the women and children along as swiftly as possible, but not very successfully. All the mothers and children needed to be sorted out. Then Tanis, looking over at the mines, swore aloud in added frustration.

  The men of the mines, seeing their families free, quickly overpowered the guards and began running toward the courtyard! That wasn’t the plan! What was Elistan thinking about? Within moments there would be eight hundred frantic people milling around out in the open without a scrap of shelter! He had to get them to head back south to the mountains.

  “Where’s Eben?” he called to Sturm.

  “Last I saw him, he was running for the mines. I couldn’t figure out why—”

  The knight and half-elf gasped in sudden realization.

  “Of course,” said Tanis softly, his voice lost in the commotion. “It all fits.”

  As Eben ran for the mines, his one thought was to obey Pyros’s command. Somehow, in the midst of this furor, he had to find the Green Gemstone Man. He knew what Verminaard and Pyros were going to do to these poor wretches. Eben felt a moment’s pity—he was not, after all, cruel and vicious. He had simply seen, long ago, which side was bound to win, and he determined, for once, to be on a winning side.

  When his family’s fortune was wiped out, Eben was left with only one thing to sell—himself. He was intelligent, handy with a sword, and as loyal as money could buy. It was on a journey to the north, looking for possible buyers, that Eben met Verminaard. Eben had been impressed with Verminaard’s power and had wormed his way into the evil cleric’s favor. But more importantly, he had managed to make himself useful to Pyros. The dragon found Eben charming, intelligent, resourceful, and—after a few tests—trustworthy.

  Eben was sent home to Gateway just before the dragonarmies struck. He conveniently “escaped” and started his resistance group. Stumbling upon Gilthanas’s party of elves the first time they tried to sneak into Pax Tharkas was a stroke of luck that further improved Eben’s relationship with both Pyros and Verminaard. When the cleric actually fell into Eben’s hands, he couldn’t believe his luck. It must go to show how much the Dark Queen favored him, he supposed.

  He prayed that the Dark Queen continue to favor him. Finding the Green Gemstone Man in this confusion was going to take divine intervention. Hundreds of men were milling about uncertainly. Eben saw a chance to do Verminaard another favor. “Tanis wants you men to meet in the courtyard,” he cried. “Join your families.”

  “No! That isn’t the plan!” Elistan cried, trying to stop them. But he was too late. The men, seeing their families free, surged forward. Several hundred gully dwarves added to the confusion, rushing gleefully out of the mines to join the fun, thinking, perhaps, it was a holiday.

  Eben scanned the crowd anxiously for the Green Gemstone Man, then decided to look inside the prison cells. Sure enough, he found the man sitting alone, staring vaguely around the empty cell. Eben swiftly knelt beside him, racking his brain to come up with the man’s name. It was something odd, old-fashioned.…

  “Berem,” Eben said after a moment. “Berem?”

  The man looked up, interest lighting his face for the first time in many weeks. He was not, as Toede had assumed, deaf and dumb. He was, instead, a man obsessed, totally absorbed in his own secret quest. He was human, however, and the sound of a human voice speaking his name was inordinately comforting.

  “Berem,” said Eben again, licking his lips nervously. Now that he had him, he wasn’t sure what to do with him. He knew the first thing those poor wretches outside would do when the dragon struck would be to head for the safety of the mines. He had to get Berem out of here before Tanis caught them. But where? He could take the man inside Pax Tharkas as Pyros had ordered, but Eben didn’t like that idea. Verminaard would certainly find them and, his suspicions aroused, would ask questions Eben couldn’t answer.

  No, there was only one place Eben could take him and be safe—outside the walls of Pax Tharkas. They could lie low in the wilderness until the confusion died, then sneak back inside the fortress at night. His decision made, Eben took Berem’s arm and helped the man rise to his feet.

  “There’s going to be fighting,” he said. “I’m going to take you away, keep you safe until it is over. I am your friend. Do you understand?”

  The man regarded him with a look of penetrating wisdom and intelligence. It was not the ageless look of the elves but of a human who has lived in torment for countless years. Berem gave a small sigh and nodded.

  Verminaard strode from his chamber in a fury, yanking at his leather, armored gloves. A draconian trotted behind, carrying the Highlord’s mace, Nightbringer. Other draconians milled around, acting on the orders Verminaard gave as he stepped into the corridor, returning to Pyros’s lair.

  “No, you fools, don’t recall the army! This will take but a moment of my time. Qualinesti will be in flames by nightfall. Ember!” he shouted, throwing open the doors that led to the dragon’s lair. He stepped out onto the ledge. Peering upward toward the balcony he could see smoke and flame and, in the distance, hear the dragon’s roar.

  “Ember!” There was no answer. “How long does it take to capture a handful of spies?” he demanded furiously. Turning, he nearly fell over a draconian captain.

  “Will you be using the dragon saddle, my lord?”

  “No, there isn’t time. Besides, I use that only for combat and there will be no one to fight out there, simply a few hundred slaves to burn.”

  “But the slaves have overcome the guards at the mine and are rejoining their families in the courtyard.”

  “How strong are your forces?”

  “Not nearly strong enough, my lord,” the draconian captain said, its eyes glinting. The captain had never thought it wise to deplete the garrison. “We are forty or fifty, perhaps, to over three hundred men and an equal number of women. The women will undoubtedly fight alongside the men, your lordship, and if they ever get organized and escape into the
mountains—”

  “Bah! Ember!” Verminaard called. He heard, in another part of the fortress, a heavy, metallic thud. Then he heard another sound, the great wheel—unused in centuries—creaking with protest at being forced into labor. Verminaard was wondering what these odd sounds portended, when Pyros flew down into his lair.

  The Dragon Highlord ran to the ledge as Pyros dropped past him. Verminaard climbed swiftly and skillfully onto the dragon’s back. Though separated by mutual distrust, the two fought well together. Their hatred for the petty races they strove to conquer, combined with their desire for power, joined them in a bond much stronger than either cared to admit.

  “Fly!” Verminaard roared, and Pyros rose into the air.

  “It is useless, my friend,” Tanis said quietly to Sturm, laying his hand on the knight’s shoulder as Sturm frantically called for order. “You’re only wasting your breath. Save it for fighting.”

  “There’ll be no fighting.” Sturm coughed, hoarse from shouting. “We’ll die, trapped like rats. Why won’t these fools listen?”

  He and Tanis stood at the northern end of the courtyard, about twenty feet from the front gates of Pax Tharkas. Looking south, they could see the mountains and hope. Behind them were the great gates of the fortress that would, at any moment, open to admit the vast draconian army, and within these walls, somewhere, were Verminaard and the red dragon.

  In vain, Elistan sought to calm the people and urge them to move southward. But the men insisted on finding their womenfolk, the women on finding their children. A few families, together again, were starting to move south, but too late and too slowly.

  Then, like a blood-red, flaming comet, Pyros soared from the fortress of Pax Tharkas, his wings sleek, held close to his sides. His huge tail trailed behind him. His taloned forefeet were curled close to his body as he gained speed in the air. Upon his back rode the Dragon Highlord, the gilded horns of the hideous dragonmask glinting in the morning sun. Verminaard held onto the dragon’s spiny mane with both hands as they flared into the sunlit sky, bringing night’s shadows to the courtyard below.

  The dragonfear spread over the people. Unable to scream or run, they could only cower before the fearful apparition, arms around each other, knowing death was inevitable.

  At Verminaard’s command, Pyros settled on one of the fortress towers. Verminaard stared out from behind the horned dragonmask, silent, furious.

  Tanis, watching in helpless frustration, felt Sturm grip his arm. “Look!” The knight pointed north, toward the gates.

  Tanis reluctantly lowered his gaze from the Dragon Highlord and saw two figures running toward the gates of the fortress. “Eben!” he cried in disbelief. “But who’s that with him?”

  “He won’t escape!” Sturm shouted. Before Tanis could stop him, the knight ran after the two. As Tanis followed, he saw a flash of red out of the corner of his eye—Raistlin and his twin.

  “I, too, have a score to settle with this man,” the mage hissed. The three caught up with Sturm just as the knight gripped Eben by the collar and hurled him to the ground.

  “Traitor!” Sturm yelled loudly. “Though I die this day, I’ll send you to the Abyss first!” He drew his sword and jerked Eben’s head back. Suddenly Eben’s companion whirled around, came back, and caught hold of Sturm’s sword-arm.

  Sturm gasped. His hand loosened its grip on Eben as the knight stared, amazed at the sight before him.

  The man’s shirt had been torn open in his wild flight from the mines. Impaled in the man’s flesh, in the center of his chest, was a brilliant green jewel! Sunlight flashed on the gem that was as big around as a man’s fist, causing it to gleam with a bright and terrible light—an unholy light.

  “I have never seen nor heard of magic like this!” Raistlin whispered in awe as he and the others stopped, stunned, beside Sturm.

  Seeing their wide eyes focused on his body, Berem instinctively pulled his shirt over his chest. Then, loosening his hold on Sturm’s arm, he turned and ran for the gates. Eben scrambled to his feet and stumbled after him.

  Sturm leaped forward, but Tanis stopped him.

  “No,” he said. “It’s too late. We have others to think of.”

  “Tanis, look!” Caramon shouted, pointing above the huge gates.

  A section of the stone wall of the fortress above the massive front gates began to open, forming a huge, widening crack. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, the massive granite boulders began to fall from the crack, smashing to the ground with such force that the flagstone cracked and great clouds of dust rose into the air. Above the roar could be dimly heard the sound of the massive chains releasing the mechanism.

  The boulders began to fall just as Eben and Berem arrived at the gates. Eben shrieked in terror, instinctively and pitifully raised his arm to shield his head. The man next to him glanced up and—it seemed—gave a small sigh. Then both were buried under tons of cascading rock as the ancient defense mechanism sealed shut the gates of Pax Tharkas.

  “This is your final act of defiance!” Verminaard roared. His speech had been interrupted by the fall of the rocks, an act that only enraged him more. “I offered you a chance to work to further the glory of my Queen. I cared for you and your families. But you are stubborn and foolish. You will pay with your lives!” The Dragon Highlord raised Nightbringer high in the air. “I will destroy the men. I will destroy the women! I will destroy the children!”

  At a touch of the Dragon Highlord’s hand, Pyros spread his huge wings and leaped high into the air. The dragon drew in a deep breath, preparing to swoop down upon the mass of people who wailed in terror in the wide-open courtyard and incinerate them with his fiery breath.

  But the dragon’s deadly dive was stopped.

  Sweeping up into the sky from the pile of rubble made when she crashed out of the fortress, Matafleur flew straight at Pyros.

  The ancient dragon had sunk deeper into her madness. Once more she relived the nightmare of losing her children. She could see the knights upon the silver and golden dragons, the wicked dragonlances gleaming in the sunshine. In vain she pleaded with her children not to join the hopeless fight, in vain she sought to convince them the war was at an end. They were young and would not listen. They flew off, leaving her weeping in her lair. As she watched in her mind’s eye the bloody, final battle, as she saw her children die upon the dragonlances, she heard Verminaard’s voice.

  “I will destroy the children!”

  And, as she had done so many centuries before, Matafleur flew out to defend them.

  Pyros, stunned by the unexpected attack, swerved just in time to avoid the broken, yet still lethal teeth of the old dragon aiming for his unprotected flanks. Matafleur hit him a glancing blow, tearing painfully into one of the heavy muscles that drove the giant wings. Rolling in the air, Pyros lashed out at the passing Matafleur with a wicked, taloned forefoot, tearing a gash in the female dragon’s soft underbelly.

  In her madness, Matafleur did not even feel the pain, but the force of the larger and younger male dragon’s blow knocked her backwards in the air.

  The rollover maneuver had been an instinctive defensive action on the part of the male dragon. He had been able to gain both altitude and time to plan his attack. He had, however, forgotten his rider. Verminaard—riding without the dragon saddle he used in battle—lost his grip on the dragon’s neck and fell to the courtyard below. It was not a long drop and he landed uninjured, only bruised and momentarily shaken.

  Most of the people around him fled in terror when they saw him rise to his feet, but—glancing around swiftly—he noticed that there were four, near the northern end of the courtyard, who did not flee. He turned to face those four.

  The appearance of Matafleur and her sudden attack on Pyros jolted the captive people out of their state of panic. This, combined with the fall of Verminaard into their midst, like the fall of some horrifying god, accomplished what Elistan and the others had not. The people were shaken out of their fear,
sense returned, and they began fleeing south, toward the safety of the mountains. At this sight, the draconian captain sent his forces pouring into the crowd. He detailed another messenger, a wyvern, to fly from the fortress to recall the army.

  The draconians surged into the refugees, but, if they hoped to cause a panic, they failed. The people had suffered enough. They had allowed their freedom to be taken away once, in return for the promise of peace and safety. Now they understood that there could be no peace as long as these monsters roamed Krynn. The people of Solace and Gateway—men, women, and children—fought back using every pitiful weapon they could grab, rocks, stones, their own bare hands, teeth, and nails.

  The companions became separated in the crowd. Laurana was cut off from everyone. Gilthanas had tried to stay near her, but he was carried off in the mob. The elfmaiden, more frightened than she believed possible and longing to hide, fell back against the wall of the fortress, her sword in her hand. As she watched the raging battle in horror, a man fell to the ground in front her, clutching his stomach, his fingers red with his own blood. His eyes fixed in death, seeming to stare at her, as his blood formed a pool at her feet. Laurana stared at the blood in horrid fascination, then she heard a sound in front of her. Shaking, she looked up—directly into the hideous, reptilian face of the man’s killer.

  The draconian, seeing an apparently terror-stricken elven female before him, figured on an easy kill. Licking its bloodstained sword with its long tongue, the creature jumped over the body of his victim and lunged for Laurana.

  Clutching her sword, her throat aching with terror, Laurana reacted out of sheer defensive instinct. She stabbed blindly, jabbing upward. The draconian was caught totally off guard. Laurana plunged her weapon into the draconian’s body, feeling the sharp elven blade penetrate both armor and flesh, hearing bone splinter and the creature’s last gurgling scream. It turned to stone, yanking the sword from her hand. But Laurana, thinking with a cold detachment that amazed her, knew from hearing the warriors talk that if she waited a moment, the stone body would turn to dust, releasing her weapon.