Dragons of Autumn Twilight

by Margaret Weis

  The sounds of battle raged around her, the screams, the death cries, the thuds and groans, the clash of steel—but she heard none of it.

  She waited calmly until she saw the body crumble. Then she reached down and, sifting the dust aside with her hand, she grasped the hilt of her sword and lifted it into the air. Sunlight flashed on the blood-stained blade, her enemy lay dead at her feet. She looked around but could not see Tanis. She could not see any of the others. For all she knew, they might be dead. For all she knew, she might herself be dead within the next moment.

  Laurana lifted her eyes to the sun-drenched blue sky. The world she might soon be leaving seemed newly made—every object, every stone, every leaf stood out in painful clarity. A warm fragrant southern breeze sprang up, driving back the storm clouds that hung over her homeland to the north. Laurana’s spirit, released from its prison of fear, soared higher than the clouds, and her sword flashed in the morning sun.

  15

  The Dragon Highlord.

  Matafleur’s children.

  Verminaard studied the four men as they approached him. These were not slaves, he realized. Then he recognized them as the ones who traveled with the golden-haired cleric. These, then, were the ones who had defeated Onyx in Xak Tsaroth, escaped the slave caravan, and broken into Pax Tharkas. He felt as if he knew them—the knight from that broken land of past glories; a half-elf trying to pass himself off as human; a deformed, sickly magician; and the mage’s twin—a human giant whose brain was probably as thick as his arms.

  It will be an interesting fight, he thought. He almost welcomed hand-to-hand combat—it had been a long time. He was growing bored with commanding armies from the back of a dragon. Thinking of Ember, he glanced into the sky, wondering if he might be able to summon aid.

  But it appeared that the red dragon was having his own problems. Matafleur had been fighting battles when Pyros was still in the egg; what she lacked in strength, she made up for in guile and cunning. The air crackled with flames, dragon blood dropped down like red rain.

  Shrugging, Verminaard looked back at the four approaching him warily. He could hear the magic-user reminding his companions that Verminaard was a cleric of the Queen of Darkness and—as such—could call upon her aid. Verminaard knew from his spies that this magic-user, though young, was imbued with a strange power and considered very dangerous.

  The four did not speak. There was no need for talk among these men, nor was there need for talk between enemies. Respect, grudging as it may be, was apparent on both sides. As for the battle rage, that was unnecessary. This would be fought coolly. The major victor would be death.

  And so the four came forward, spreading to outflank him since he had nothing to set his back against. Crouching low, Verminaard swung Nightbringer in an arc, keeping them back, forming his plans. He must even the odds quickly. Gripping Nightbringer in his right hand, the evil cleric sprang forward from his crouched stance with all the strength in his powerful legs. His sudden move took his opponents by surprise. He did not raise his mace. All he needed now was his deadly touch. Landing on his feet in front of Raistlin, he reached out and grasped the magic-user by the shoulder, whispering a swift prayer to his Dark Queen.

  Raistlin screamed. His body pierced by unseen, unholy weapons, he sank to the ground in agony. Caramon gave a great, bellowing roar and sprang at Verminaard, but the cleric was prepared. He swung the mace, Nightbringer, and struck the warrior a glancing blow. “Midnight,” Verminaard whispered, and Caramon’s bellow changed to a shout of panic as the spellbound mace blinded him.

  “I can’t see! Tanis, help me!” the big warrior cried, stumbling about. Verminaard, laughing grimly, struck him a solid blow to the head. Caramon went down like a felled ox.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Verminaard saw the half-elf leap for him, a two-handed sword of ancient elvish design in his hands. Verminaard whirled, blocking Tanis’s sword with Nightbringer’s massive, oaken handle. For a moment, the two combatants were locked together, but Verminaard’s greater strength won out and he hurled Tanis to the ground.

  The Solamnic knight raised his sword in salute—a costly mistake. It gave Verminaard time to remove a small iron needle from a hidden pocket. Raising it, he called once more upon the Queen of Darkness to defend her cleric. Sturm, striding forward, suddenly felt his body grow heavier and heavier until he could walk no more.

  Tanis, lying on the ground, felt an unseen hand press down on him. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t turn his head. His tongue was too thick to speak. He could hear Raistlin’s screams choke off in pain. He could hear Verminaard laugh and shout a hymn of praise to the Dark Queen. Tanis could only watch in despair as the Dragon Highlord, mace raised, walked toward Sturm, preparing to end the knight’s life.

  “Baravais, Kharas!” Verminaard said in Solamnic. He lifted the mace in a gruesome mockery of the knight’s salute, then aimed for the knight’s head, knowing that this death would be the most torturous possible for a knight—dying at the mercy of the enemy.

  Suddenly a hand caught Verminaard’s wrist. In astonishment, he stared at the hand, the hand of a female. He felt a power to match his own, a holiness to match his unholiness. At her touch, Verminaard’s concentration wavered, his prayers to his Dark Queen faltered.

  And then it was that the Dark Queen herself looked up to find a radiant god, dressed in white and shining armor, appear on the horizon of her plans. She was not ready to fight this god, she had not expected his return, and so she fled to rethink her options and restructure her battle, seeing—for the first time—the possibility of defeat. The Queen of Darkness withdrew and left her cleric to his fate.

  Sturm felt the spell leave his body, his muscles his own to command once more. He saw Verminaard turn his fury on Goldmoon, striking at her savagely. The knight lunged forward, seeing Tanis rise, the elven sword flashing in the sunlight.

  Both men ran toward Goldmoon, but Riverwind was there before them. Thrusting her out of the way, the Plainsman received on his sword arm the blow of the cleric’s mace that had been intended to crush Goldmoon’s head. Riverwind heard the cleric shout “Midnight!” and his vision was obscured by the same unholy darkness that had overtaken Caramon.

  But the Que-shu warrior, expecting this, did not panic. Riverwind could still hear his enemy. Resolutely ignoring the pain of his injury, he transferred the sword to his left hand and stabbed in the direction of his enemy’s harsh breathing. The blade, turned aside by the Dragon Highlord’s powerful armor, was jarred from Riverwind’s hand. Riverwind fumbled for his dagger, though he knew it was hopeless, that death was certain.

  At that moment, Verminaard realized he was alone, bereft of spiritual help. He felt the cold, skeletal hand of despair clutch at him and he called to his Dark Queen. But she had turned away, absorbed in her own struggle.

  Verminaard began to sweat beneath the dragonmask. He cursed it as the helm seemed to stifle him; he couldn’t catch his breath. Too late he realized its unsuitableness for hand-to-hand combat—the mask blocked his peripheral vision. He saw the tall Plainsman, blind and wounded, before him—he could kill him at his leisure. But there were two other fighters near. The knight and the half-elf had been freed of the unholy spell he had cast on them and they were coming closer. He could hear them. Catching a glimpse of movement, he turned quickly and saw the half-elf running toward him, the elvish blade glistening. But where was the knight? Verminaard turned and backed up, swinging his mace to keep them at bay, while with his free hand, he struggled to rip the dragonhelm from his head.

  Too late. Just as Verminaard’s hand closed over the visor, the magic blade of Kith-Kanan pierced his armor and slid into his back. The Dragon Highlord screamed and whirled in rage, only to see the Solamnic knight appear in his blood-dimmed vision. The ancient blade of Sturm’s fathers plunged into his bowels. Verminaard fell to his knees. Still he struggled to remove the helm—he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see. He felt another sword thrust, then darkness overtook him.<
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  High overhead, a dying Matafleur—weakened by loss of blood and many wounds—heard the voices of her children crying to her. She was confused and disoriented: Pyros seemed to be attacking from every direction at once. Then the big red dragon was before her, against the wall of the mountain. Matafleur saw her chance. She would save her children.

  Pyros breathed a great blast of flame directly into the face of the ancient red dragon. He watched in satisfaction as the head withered, the eyes melted.

  But Matafleur ignored the flames that seared her eyes, forever ending her vision, and flew straight at Pyros.

  The big male dragon, his mind clouded by fury and pain and thinking he had finished his enemy, was taken by surprise. Even as he breathed again his deadly fire, he realized with horror the position he was in—he had allowed Matafleur to maneuver him between herself and the sheer face of the mountain. He had nowhere to go, no room to turn.

  Matafleur soared into him with all the force of her once-powerful body, striking him like a spear hurled by the gods. Both dragons slammed against the mountain. The peak trembled and split apart as the face of the mountain exploded in flames.

  In later years when the Death of Flamestrike was legend, there were those who claimed to have heard a dragon’s voice fade away like smoke on an autumn wind, whispering:

  “My children …”

  The Wedding

  The last day of autumn dawned clear and bright. The air was warm—touched by the fragrant wind from the south, which had blown steadily ever since the refugees fled Pax Tharkas, taking with them only what they could scrounge from the fortress as they fled the wrath of the dragonarmies.

  It had taken long days for the draconian army to scale the walls of Pax Tharkas, its gates blocked by boulders, its towers defended by gully dwarves. Led by Sestun, the gully dwarves stood on top of the walls throwing rocks, dead rats, and occasionally each other down on the frustrated draconians. This allowed the refugees time to escape into the mountains where, although they skirmished with small forces of draconians, they were not seriously threatened.

  Flint volunteered to lead a party of men through the mountains, searching for a place where the people could spend the winter. These mountains were familiar to Flint since the hill dwarves’ homeland was not far to the south. Flint’s party discovered a valley nestled between vast, craggy peaks whose treacherous passes were choked with snow in the winter. The passes could be easily held against the might of the dragonarmies and there were caves where they could hide from the fury of the dragons.

  Following a dangerous path, the refugees fled into the mountains and entered the valley. An avalanche soon blocked the route behind them and destroyed all trace of their passing. It would be months before the draconians discovered them.

  The valley, far below the mountain peaks, was warm and sheltered from the harsh winter winds and snows. The woods were filled with game. Clear streams flowed from the mountains. The people mourned their dead, rejoiced in their deliverance, built shelters, and celebrated a wedding.

  On the last day of autumn, as the sun set behind the mountains, kindling their snow-capped peaks with flame the color of dying dragons, Riverwind and Goldmoon were married.

  When the two came to Elistan to ask him to preside over their exchange of vows, he had been deeply honored and had asked them to explain the ways of their people to him. Both of them replied steadily that their people were dead. The Que-shu were gone, their ways were no more.

  “This will be our ceremony,” Riverwind said. “The beginning of something new, not the continuation of that which has passed away.”

  “Though we will honor the memory of our people in our hearts,” Goldmoon added softly, “we must look forward, not behind. We will honor the past by taking from it the good and the sorrowful that have made us what we are. But the past shall rule us no longer.”

  Elistan, therefore, studied the Disks of Mishakal to find what the ancient gods taught about marriage. He asked Goldmoon and Riverwind to write their own vows, searching their hearts for the true meaning of their love—for these vows would be spoken before the gods and last beyond death.

  One custom of the Que-shu the couple kept. This was that the bridegift and the groomgift could not be purchased. This symbol of love must be made by the hand of the beloved. The gifts would be exchanged with the saying of the vows.

  As the sun’s rays spread across the sky, Elistan took his place on the top of a gentle rise. The people gathered in silence at the foot of the hill. From the east came Tika and Laurana, bearing torches. Behind them walked Goldmoon, Chieftain’s Daughter. Her hair fell down around her shoulders in streams of molten gold, mingled with silver. Her head was crowned with autumn leaves. She wore the simple fringed doeskin tunic she had worn through their adventures. The medallion of Mishakal glittered at her throat. She carried her bridegift wrapped in a cloth as fine as cobweb, for the beloved one’s eyes must be the first to see it.

  Tika walked before her in solemn, misty-eyed wonder, the young girl’s heart filled with dreams of her own, beginning to think that this great mystery shared by men and women might not be the terrifying experience she had feared, but something sweet and beautiful.

  Laurana, next to Tika, held her torch high, brightening the day’s dying light. The people murmured at Goldmoon’s beauty; they fell silent when Laurana passed. Goldmoon was human, her beauty the beauty of the trees and mountains and skies. Laurana’s beauty was elvish, otherworldly, mysterious.

  The two women brought the bride to Elistan, then they turned, looking to the west, waiting for the groom.

  A blaze of torches lit Riverwind’s way. Tanis and Sturm, their solemn faces wistful and gentle, led. Riverwind came behind, towering over the others, his face stern as always. But a radiant joy, brighter than the torches, lit his eyes. His black hair was crowned with autumn leaves, his groomgift covered by one of Tasslehoff’s handkerchiefs. Behind him walked Flint and the kender. Caramon and Raistlin came last, the mage bearing the lighted-crystal Staff of Magius instead of a torch.

  The men brought the groom to Elistan, then stepped back to join the women. Tika found herself standing next to Caramon. Reaching out timidly, she touched his hand. Smiling down at her gently, he clasped her little hand in his big one.

  As Elistan looked at Riverwind and Goldmoon, he thought of the terrible grief and fear and danger they had faced, the harshness of their lives. Did their future hold anything different? For a moment he was overcome and could not speak. The two, seeing Elistan’s emotion and, perhaps, understanding his sorrow, reached out to him reassuringly. Elistan drew them close to him, whispering words for them alone.

  “It was your love and your faith in each other that brought hope to the world. Each of you was willing to sacrifice your life for this promise of hope, each has saved the life of the other. The sun shines now, but already its rays are dimming and night is ahead. It is the same for you, my friends. You will walk through much darkness before morning. But your love will be as a torch to light the way.”

  Elistan then stepped back and began to speak to all assembled. His voice, husky to begin with, grew stronger and stronger as he felt the peace of the gods surround him and confirm their blessings on this couple.

  “The left hand is the hand of the heart,” he said, placing Goldmoon’s left hand in Riverwind’s left hand and holding his own left hand over them. “We join left hands that the love in the hearts of this man and this woman may combine to form something greater as two streams join together to form a mighty river. The river flows through the land, branching off into tributaries, exploring new ways, yet ever drawn to the eternal sea. Receive their love, Paladine—greatest of the gods; bless it and grant them peace at least in the hearts, if there is no peace in this shattered land.”

  In the blessed silence, husbands and wives put their arms around each other. Friends drew close, children quieted and crept near their parents. Hearts filled with mourning were comforted. Peace was granted.


  “Pledge your vows, one to another,” Elistan said, “and exchange the gifts of your hands and hearts.”

  Goldmoon looked into Riverwind’s eyes and began to speak softly.

  Wars have settled on the North

  and dragons ride the skies,

  “Now is the time for wisdom,”

  say the wise and the nearly wise.

  “Here in the heart of battle,

  the time to be brave is at hand.

  Now most things are larger than

  the promise of woman to man.”

  But you and I, through burning plains,

  through darkness of the earth,

  affirm this world, its people,

  the heavens that gave them birth,

  the breath that passes between us,

  this altar where we stand,

  and all those things made larger by

  the promise of woman to man.

  Then Riverwind spoke:

  Now in the belly of winter,

  when ground and sky are gray,

  here in the heart of sleeping snow,

  now is the time to say

  yes to the sprouting vallenwood

  in the green countryside,

  for these things are far larger than

  a man’s word to his bride.

  Through these promises we keep,

  forged in the yawning night,

  proved in the presence of heroes

  and the prospect of spring light,

  the children will see moons and stars

  where now the dragons ride,

  and humble things made large by

  a man’s word to his bride.

  When the vows were spoken, they exchanged gifts. Goldmoon shyly handed her present to Riverwind. He unwrapped it with hands that trembled. It was a ring plaited of her own hair, bound with bands of silver and of gold as fine as the hair they surrounded. Goldmoon had given Flint her mother’s jewelry; the dwarf’s old hands had not lost their touch.