The Dragon's Doom (dragonlance)

by Ed Greenwood

  "Imprisoning yourself to save some foe the trouble?" Craer demanded of the young, smiling man sitting at a table at the back of the room. "Raulin, d'you mind telling me just who this most puissant enemy is?"

  If Macros Delcamper or any of the handful of old, trusted warriors in the stout-walled upper room-the stub of a long-vanished turret, sporting but the one door, a roof-hatch, and two narrow archers' windows-were shocked at hearing the King of Aglirta addressed so abruptly by only his first name, none of them showed it.

  "Anyone and everyone," Raulin Castlecloaks replied with a sigh, slapping the table in weary exasperation. "I hope you brought food. We're starving up here, and hardly dare mount more armed expeditions to the kitchens. It cost us Ilger and his three underguard trainees two days back."

  "No, Raulin," Blackgult told him darkly, "as a matter of fact we didn't, but if you stay here, I'll fetch the rest of your wayward overdukes, and we'll scour the kitchens for you. Embra might even be able to purge any poisons in whatever provender we find there. I take it the Serpents don't quite openly rule the palace yet?"

  "Well," the young king replied ruefully, "not this chamber of it, at least."

  Blackgult rolled his eyes again. "Remind me to leave you alone in Flowfoam Palace less often, lad. At least you had enough sense to choose a room a handful of willing swords have some chance of defending-but that's about it."

  "Lord Blackgult," the bard from Ragalar said quietly, "might I remind you that you address your King? More respectful words would be advisable."

  "No, Lord Delcamper, you may not remind me of such matters," the Golden Griffon told him flatly. "I'm getting too old to have time left for such foolishness-but not yet so age-enfeebled as to become respectful of anyone. That way lies ruin for all Aglirta, just now, no matter whose backside warms the throne."

  The king pretended to be shocked, but as Flaeros Delcamper started to sputter with indignation, Raulin burst into whoops of laughter-the rather wild laughter of someone seizing on mirth after too long with nothing to laugh at-and told the room, "May the Band of Four live forever!"

  Craer grinned. "Well, that's one more sharp difference of opinion between you and the Snake-lovers, to be sure. I-"

  His face changed, and he clutched at the saddlebag slung over his shoulder. It was rising, the worn leather shifting, and as he caught at it, a sudden glow spilled from under its flaps.

  "What have you there?" a guard growled, hefting his blade.

  "A Dwaer-Stone, and its doings right now tell me another Dwaer's being used close by."

  "Somewhere on Flowfoam?" Flaeros asked sharply.

  "Somewhere within a few chambers of right here," Blackgult answered. "Have you a spyhole, or the like, looking in this direction?" He waved at the barred, bolted, and chained door behind him.

  "No," Raulin replied. "Why?"

  The Golden Griffon smiled. "I'm fairly sure the Lady Silvertree is coming up the same steps we did, but I'd rather not fling the door wide to see if that's so-just in case I end up welcoming someone else who can casually flatten overdukes and palaces alike with a Dwaer."

  "There's no need," Embra's voice said crisply from the empty air beside him, causing Craer's saddlebag to tremble wildly and light to flare from it as if a whirling inferno of flame spun within. "The enchantments of my childhood are still useful for some things-and finding known sources of mighty magic is one of them. We're all here; open the door."

  Blackgult turned to do so, and Greatsarn moved to help him, but a guard barred their way, sword raised, and said coldly, "I don't recall hearing the King give his permission regarding any use of this door-'tis barred for a reason, y'know."

  "Either we open it," Blackgult told the armsman, reaching for the first doorbolt as if there wasn't a swordtip in his face, "or she'll blast it down and all of us with it. Unless, of course, she gets irritated."

  The sword drew back a little. "And if she is, what then?"

  The Golden Griffon shot two bolts and reached for a third. "Then," he told the guard, "she'll do something much worse."

  The guard regarded Blackgult expressionlessly for a moment, as the oldest Overduke of Aglirta went on tossing aside bars, lifting pins, and unhooking chains, and then silently stepped back, taking his sword with him.

  "No," Blackgult said to the king not much later, as they watched one of Tshamarra's spells cook a roast from the kitchens without need of hearthfire or spit, "I'd best remain here on Flowfoam with you, to defend and advise.

  Tshamarra can take my place in the Four whilst they go forth to strike down Serpent-priests the length of the Vale-and, I suppose, the usual mercenary warlords or nobles who're taking advantage of the plague to set themselves up as war leaders against you."

  King Castlecloaks spread his hands. "I never wanted this crown, you know. Any of you would be so much better as Aglirta's king-even if you sat there hating it. But you're also the realm's best defenders; no matter what's unfolding, I can never see a better way forward than what you propose. So you'll get no argument from me. I'm right glad to have you here, Old Lion, while the rest of you hunt the Serpents. What now?"

  "What must come first, Raulin," Embra said from across the room, "is the breaking of the spells laid on the second Dwaer, so my father can wield it. Then we go hunting… and I believe our first quarry should be the missing Baron Phelinndar, or whoever's taken his Dwaer from him. We must assume the Serpents have the fourth, and I'd prefer that we be able to muster three against their one when they make their usual bid to openly and grandly snatch Aglirta."

  Raulin nodded. "You'll break these spells, of course?"

  "If we're not actually fighting Serpent-priests and I can spare the time and attention to work freely, it shouldn't take long. Here on Flowfoam, I can call on the Living Castle enchantments to source more power, protecting me as I strip away the trap-spells. Tash and my father can help me."

  "Right after we've all eaten," Blackgult said. "We'll find one of the cellars, and leave Craer and Hawkril to entertain-ahem-guard you."

  Flaeros Delcamper rolled bis eyes. "You play manyshields, I hope?"

  "Not unless you're wagering," Craer said brightly, "and I don't see enough wealth lying about this room to wager with. You wouldn't happen to have any outlying castles filled with beautiful maidens, would you?"

  "Lord Delnbone," Tshamarra said softly, and the procurer winced.

  "Then again," he continued swiftly, "we could tell you airy tales of our exploits to pass the time and inspire any bards present to compose ballads to our gallantry, and-"

  "Annoy all of you thoroughly," the Lady Talasorn added, causing King Castlecloaks to struggle on the edge of exploding mirth again.

  Flaeros sighed and began to arrange pieces on the manyshields board. "While you begin the feast," he said, "Raulin and I will try to get in a game or two before you start ruining our play with your no doubt helpful suggestions."

  "Lord Delcamper," Craer said slyly, "might I remind you that you describe the King of Aglirta, in a room full of his subjects? More formal tides would be advisable."

  Several of the guards snickered.

  Tshamarra sighed. "You see? 'Tis starting already."

  19

  True Faces Revealed

  T he younger Bowdragons stared around in awe at the copper-sheathed walls reaching so high overhead, and at the polished marble floor studded with countless curving runes and intricately graven inset floorstones. Even those who tried to pretend they weren't impressed kept looking down at the carved stone faces of their long-dead ancestors set here and there into the floor, each effigy marking a vertical burial beneath. The glittering eye-gems of those faces seemed to stare accusingly up at the living Bowdragons. The youngest, though they'd all taken the chairs he'd indicated for each one, leaned toward each other in their seats, as if seeking to huddle together. The air was rich with magic, drifting and coiling… and waiting.

  It was a room in Arlund most of them had never seen before. Years had passed
since a Bowdragon had perished and left behind a body that could be buried here.

  Dolmur had not bothered to share his reasons for bringing them down to this deep and hidden place. Buried magics and enchantments yet lingering around Bowdragon bones could augment the sorcery of the living-and if things were to go bad this day, he wanted his family to face what befell together, not weep at more vanished and lost kin.

  He looked up from his chair now, less at his two brothers than at their offspring; so many young and frightened faces. Armed with magic and ready for war.

  Yet not ready. These who were left were not the bold and warlike.

  They'd never be ruthless sorcerer-lords or wandering archmages of power. The Bowdragons were doomed already.

  " 'Tis time," he said calmly. Well, if 'twas in his power, 'twould be a more dignified doom than most. "Remember, obey my commands absolutely. We'll use our magic to farscry Aglirta and learn who slew Maelra, not repeat the mistakes of our departed ones, and blunder into that land lashing out at every ruler and mage we see."

  They stared at him in silence, waiting… nervously rather than eagerly, looking more like warriors being sent into battle than mages about to taste the power of a true meld for the first time.

  "All rings and coronets on? If not, don them now."

  He waited through the resulting brief flurry of movement, noted that everyone seemed to be seated comfortably, and lifted his hand.

  In answer to a spell he'd cast and left waiting more than twenty summers earlier, certain floorstones flipped back, and staves of power slowly rose into view beside each chair.

  More than one Bowdragon gasped at their beauty and obvious power. Within a humming halo of blue flame, each metal shaft stood upright with no hand to hold it, entwined about with intricately sculpted arms and flourishes of metal that bore enchanted gems and glowing runes. Each was topped with an open claw, a long-nailed hand that looked human, and partly was.

  "Each of you now take up your scepter," he said quietly, "and hold it out until the hand atop your staff can grasp it. Let the hand do so."

  Some of the scepters were extended with reluctance, a few even with trembling fear-but extended they all were, after a few moments that seemed an eternity. The seated Bowdragons then stared at him and each other in mounting wonder as the thrumming power reached into and through them, and they started to share thoughts and sight…

  Someone gasped, and Dolmur said swiftly and firmly, "The meld begins. Sit still, all of you, from now on. It can be death to arise suddenly, at the wrong time, whatever happens. Remember: Obey me absolutely, or you may doom not only yourself but all the rest of us."

  Ithim and Multhas had done this before, but the shuddering power was making the younglings visibly excited, eager at last, as Dolmur swiftly wove the spell that called on the power of the staves to spy from afar. "First," he announced, his voice now echoing in their minds as well as in their ears, "we'll gaze upon Flowfoam, observing any wizards there who serve the King of Aglirta…"

  The room shook, hurling Blackgult and Tshamarra into the air like rag dolls, and a web of crackling lightnings burst out of the untamed Dwaer as it shot from its cage and skidded along the floor, rending flagstones in its wake.

  Eyes swimming, Embra used her Dwaer to drink in those lightnings- and slowly, like fisherfolk dragging laden nets out of the Silverflow, she managed to drag the second, enspelled-against-her Stone closer.

  When it hung in front of her, spitting angry sparks and smokes, she drew in a deep breath, cloaked herself in all the power she could summon, and-clasped her hand around it, whilst still firmly gripping her own Stone.

  And thereby learned what true pain was.

  Tshamarra, lying dazed and winded on shattered and jumbled rock that had been a smooth, unbroken floor not long ago, thought she'd never heard such a loud and powerful howl of agony, not even from clawbears of the peaks burned alive by Talasorn spells.

  Raking tangled hair out of her eyes, she stared at Embra-who stood rigid in Dwaer-glow, arms outstretched and with a warring Stone in either one.

  The eyes of the Lady of Jewels were like raging flames, and lightnings seemed to be tumbling from her mouth. Tumbling… and slowly dying away.

  Embra swayed, uttered a weak but very unladylike curse, and then stumbled forward, looking wearily down the room to Blackgult. "Please come and get this, Father," she gasped, "for I fear I'll fall on my face if I have to walk all the way to where you stand. I… gods, I still hurt. Dwaer-healed, yes, but my body doesn't quite believe it yet."

  She shook her head. "Don't any of you ever try that. The pain…"

  The Golden Griffon chuckled. "I knew you'd do it, lass. Did I not set out to sire someone fit to rule the realm, all those years ago? A sorceress to shame all others?"

  "You sound like Craer," the Lady Talasorn muttered, as she hastened to Embra.

  The Lady Silvertree sighed. "Ah, to have been born a man," she said lightly, "and so always know exactly where my feet and all Darsar beneath them are headed, even before I stop to think."

  Tshamarra drew back as Embra dropped the newly tamed Stone into her father's hands, threw up her hands, and gasped, "Lady, how can you speak so of the Lord Blackgult, your own father?" There was a twinkle in her dark eyes, and the corners of her lips twitched.

  Twitched, then curved, and then burst into merry laughter. Embra joined in as they embraced in giddy mirth, rocking briefly breast-to-breast as men often did. By unspoken agreement, however, as their laughter died into chuckles and they drew apart again, they refrained from slapping each other heartily on backs and shoulders, and snarling praises back and forth like tossed fruit.

  That was about the time they noticed that Ezendor Blackgult was standing as still as a statue, staring down silently at the Stone in his hands-and that it was twinkling gently, casting up tiny moving reflections onto his motionless face.

  "Father?" Embra asked hesitantly.

  "Lord Blackgult," Tshamarra snapped, "attend us!"

  The Golden Griffon's head slowly lifted, and he blinked. "Aye, I hear and heed." He shook himself, and then smiled. "Gods, girl, but I was scared you'd been blown or burned apart right in front of me."

  He shook himself again, and was suddenly the brisk, sardonic Blackgult of old. "So, shall we raid the kitchens and pantries properly this time, and get you and your men a good night's sleep or tumble, as you prefer, before you set out down the Vale again? Hey?"

  The Lady Talasorn spread her hands. "Seeing as we have privacy here, why don't you two use the Stones together now, to seek the other two Dwaer?"

  Embra and Blackgult exchanged glances, lifted eyebrows… then nodded. They went to opposite ends of the chamber, and Embra waved Tshamarra behind her so the Talasorn sorceress wasn't standing between the two Dwaerindim.

  The air between the Stones started to sing almost immediately, and that singing somehow carried Embra's murmur clearly to the ears of the others. "Feel it, Father? Power's taken thus, and received thus. Try… yes, 'tis easy, see? Now let me do the scrying, and feed me power when I call for it… yes, yes, that's it… now! Give me power now!"

  The singing rose into a whistling snarl and then climbed into a shriek that made Tshamarra wince and cover her ears-as Embra suddenly cried: "More!"

  A breath later, Blackgult called, "There! Over there! I saw…"

  The singing Died, and Embra nodded. "Yes, definitely another Dwaer. Close by the river, but underground-just underground, perhaps in a cellar. There was other magic around it, something stirring…"

  Blackgult said nothing, and it was a moment before Tshamarra glanced in his direction and saw him standing hunched over, trembling. She'd seen a man stand like that years ago, after a sword had thrust through his guts and then been snatched out again. He'd stood swaying thus for some time, feeling his death filling him, ere toppling…

  "Embra," she said quietly, laying a hand on her friend's arm. The Lady of Jewels followed her gaze, and watched her father slowl
y straighten and then look down at the Stone in his hand with a certain surprise. She exchanged glances with Tshamarra, and then strode down the room, the Lady Talasorn right behind her.

  "Father," she asked firmly, taking Blackgult's chin in her hand and staring into his eyes, "how fare you?"

  He gave her the wry, crooked smile he used so often these days. "As well as can be expected after a defeat that cost me my army, friends, wealth, and barony, and left me hated by thousands of folk who still seek my death; a short but harried career of outlawry; aging right out of the days when women clawed each other to share my bed; the cares of regency; personally battling the Great Serpent a time or two… and being mind-blasted. I get along."

  Embra gave him a frown. "Your list is not unfamiliar-but tell me more about this 'mind-blasted.' "

  Blackgult glanced at her and then at Tshamarra, and for a flickering moment his eyes seemed to glow green. "Once, in battle, I used a Dwaer to snatch myself away from the midair blast that killed Jhavarr Bowdragon. Calling on the Stone to speed me out of being torn apart, I was trapped in linkage to it when the blast broke over me and, ah, twisted the Dwaer. I can remember, sometimes, what I once was-but there are always mists now, clinging and hiding. My memory-even my thinking-comes and goes, despite the Dwaer-healing since."

  His gaze flicked up to Embra, thrust into her like a cool swordthrust, and then dropped away again. " 'Tis gone," he added quietly. "None can restore it, for none can see what was there before. I am… worn down. Feeling old. For the first time I see in myself feebleness, and failure, and forgetting."

  Blackgult lifted one hand, regarded it, and then let the newly tamed Dwaer settle into it. "More and more," he said, hefting the Stone, "this seems a toy for younger folk-and the long sleep more and more welcoming." He sighed, looked away, and then back at Embra and Tshamarra. "Yet I know my duty," he told both sorceresses. "The King shall not stand unguarded."

  There was a strange, tender look in Embra's eyes as she lifted her hand and touched his cheek with a gentle finger. "Thank you," she whispered. "I truly have a father-a sire finer than others in Aglirta can dream of having."