The Dragon's Doom (dragonlance)

by Ed Greenwood

  Her arms went around Blackgult, and she kissed him. Blackgult put his own arms around her as delicately as if she was a slender crystal carving-and they rocked together gently. Tshamarra heard a soft, broken sound that made her frown, and glide closer, and then come to a sudden stop.

  Ezendor Blackgult was sobbing. When he could speak again, he murmured, "Oh, my precious one. Live, child, and make Aglirta brighter."

  His arms tightened around his daughter, and he added quietly, his voice steady now, "Oh, lass, I am so proud of you!"

  Embra started to weep, then. Tshamarra Talasorn watched for a moment, her eyes very bright, smiled… and then quietly withdrew to the door, slipped out, and was gone.

  The cage of shimmering force spun silently in the cavern air before them like a knife rolling slowly across a tilting table. Spell-lights winked and glowed like tiny stars as it turned-and Ingryl Ambelter smiled. "Behold," the Spellmaster exulted, "the Sword of Spells."

  "Truly finished, this time?" the man standing behind him asked, cradling a softly glowing Dwear-Stone against his armored breast.

  The wizard turned to face the baron. " 'Twas done before," he said smoothly, "when I said 'twas, but now I've tested it on a man I happened to know, yonder down by the river, and snuffed out his mind like a candle. Wherefore we know it works."

  Ambelter took two restless strides across the chamber, ducked around a dust-covered, impassive Melted, and whirled to face Phelinndar again.

  "Now," he gloated, "we can begin-slowly and softly at first, like a boy hunting frogs with a spear. Subtly I'll turn Blackgult to my will."

  "Our will," Baron Phelinndar reminded him coldly. "Or had you forgotten me already, friend Ambelter?"

  Fury flashed across the Spellmaster's face, just for a moment-though that was quite long enough for even a Baron of Aglirta to recognize it, as he was sure he was meant to-ere the wizard masked it with the smooth reply, "Of course not, Phelinndar. I merely meant that I, as the one of us who knew him best and knows magic better than he does, will be able to subtly guide him more than you could, and so should be the one influencing him."

  The Sword of Spells spun a little closer as Ambelter added warningly,

  "If Blackgult becomes aware of what we're doing, our danger will be much greater than mere loss of control of a key man of Aglirta."

  "Of course," the baron agreed quietly, inclining his head politely and oh-so-subtly lifting the Dwaer as he did so. I must destroy Ingryl Ambelter even sooner than I'd thought, he told himself silently as he turned away, or perish at his hands-leaving Aglirta itself his next victim.

  Maelra Bowdragon screamed, but no one heard her.

  Again she shrieked, raging in helpless fury inside her own skull. Gadaster grinned savagely all around her embattled awareness, showing her that he'd heard her-as he made her body slay her kin.

  Fire flashed back in savage reflection from the burnished copper banners soaring on all sides to the ceiling as she-as Gadaster Mulkyn, in coldly firm control of her body-spell-cloaked her in a semblance of her favorite clinging black gown, and then transported her to the heart of Uncle Dolmur's weaving, in the deep chamber in Arlund she'd only seen once before.

  Mists swirled and cleared around the edges of her gaze. Barely had Bowdragon eyes lifted to recognize her, and excited smiles appeared, when the cold, ruthless thing that had once been Spellmaster of Silvertree took control of all the roused Bowdragon magic with a few deft weavings that Maelra could not even follow, let alone understand.

  Frantically she tried to scream warnings, tried to wave at those of her blood to flee or guard themselves, but Gadaster's cold, silent laughter cloaked her in his mockery as he made her smile and spread her hands in thanks and welcome instead. Then he sent the whelmed power of Dolmur's weaving down her arms and out of her fingertips, lashing her own kin with death as they sat with their scepters.

  The howling storm of magic that dashed the youngest to whirling bones in their seats forced staff after beautiful enchanted staff to explode, in blasts that shook the room and brought more raw power whirling up into Maelra.

  Gadaster roared with soundless, triumphant mirth in her head as she watched Multhas Bowdragon struggle to his feet in the raging storm of her hurled magic, disbelief and rage twisting his face as the runes on his robes burst into flames, one after another, their magic spent vainly trying to protect him.

  As their eyes met, hatred kindled in his gaze, though she struggled to plead apologies, tried vainly to weep-and stared back at him in anguish, trying to tell him, to make him see she wasn't… wasn't…

  Gadaster guided her limbs and lips through swift, cruel castings that blasted her older cousins where they sat. Uncle Multhas stared at their dyings in shock and rage, and then back at her with his own lips snarling a spell that would surely slay her, would tear her apart limb from bloody limb before his eyes.

  So this was Gadaster's cruel trick: She'd slay her family and be slain doing so! Maelra tried to show Multhas with her eyes that she had no willing part in all of this, tried to scream her innocence-and managed only to make a sort of feeble mewing as he leveled his hands to guide the magic that would rend her.

  Something flashed and winked off to one side, and Gadaster forced her to turn her head and see what it was. Green, winking sparks danced where Uncle Dolmur and Ithim her father had been-somehow, Dolmur had managed to whisk them away!

  She exulted, seizing on the only good thing she could in all of this slaughter, as the death-spell cast by Uncle Multhas failed right in front of her eyes, and Gadaster made her send back a deadly magic that would make the flesh melt slowly off his bones.

  Uncle Multhas stared in horror at the bare, glistening bones of his fingers… and then watched them fall away, one by one, as the creeping sorcery that was taking his life climbed up both of his arms…

  Multhas looked at Maelra in terror, trying to plead for mercy, and saw the same pleading look in her own eyes, directed back at him. The sorcery gnawed at him with frightening speed.

  He died bewildered and despairing. Around his crumbling, toppling form enchanted item after enchanted Bowdragon item burst or melted, surrendering flames of magic that swirled up to join Gadaster's ever hungry, ever-growing spellstorm.

  Maelra hung at its glowing heart, trying to whimper and lose her gaze in the flames, and so not see what Gadaster did to her loved ones and their power-but the cold, commanding presence in her head prevented her missing a single moment.

  The last Maelra saw, ere she threw herself into his laughter and let the chill, laughing darkness overwhelm her, were many tiny plumes of spell-smoke rising from the eye-gems of the stone faces in the floor, as the last spells of her ancestors were drained away…

  And then, mercifully, the darkness took her.

  "My Maelra," Ithim Bowdragon whispered, staring unseeing into the darkness.

  "She was," Dolmur agreed gravely, "and she was not. 'Tis best, brother, if you believe we're the last living Bowdragons, and she's lost to us."

  "I-Kill me, brother, if you have any love left for me at all," Idiim said brokenly. "I've nothing left to live for. All our family thrown down and swept away. All gone, all dark…"

  "No, Idiim," the eldest Bowdragon replied in a voice of cold, heavy iron, "there's much for us both still to do. We have a family to refound, and revenge to prosecute for all our lost and fallen. You have the greatest revenge of all."

  "I do?"

  "Vow with me," Dolmur Bowdragon commanded, as they floated together in the dark refuge where he'd spellsnatched them. "Vow this: That we shall never the, nor rest, until we hunt down and fittingly slay whoever was riding Maelra, to make her attack us all as she did."

  Ithim's voice rose. "I felt our foe-cold and gleeful, more a master of magic even than you! Yes, of course my Maelra could not have grown so in sorcery, in such a short time." His voice changed, becoming a wavering, conspiratorial whisper. "So strong… Dolmur, do you think we can do this?"

  "Ithim,"
the patriarch of the Bowdragons whispered back, "I think we must do this-or the Three Watching Gods will not have lost just one over-proud human family this day, but all Darsar!"

  He waved a hand, and a few sparks kindled in the darkness as he added, with more bitterness than Ithim had ever heard in Dohnur's voice before, "And what will they do for amusement then?"

  "So of course," Overduke Delnbone was saying airily, "I had no choice but to accept her surrender-minus her cloak. She protested, as women do, saying the night was too cold to be running arou-"

  "Craer," Embra Silvertree said into his ear, though she was to be seen nowhere in the room, " 'twould be a very good idea to fall abruptly silent right now. Right now. I very much doubt your lady will want to hear all about the time you chased an unclad Naevrele Lashantra down three streets in Sirlptar… especially as she happens to be Tshamarra's cousin."

  "Ooop," the procurer remarked brightly, as Flaeros, the king, and Suldun Greatsarn all broke into grins-and across the room there sounded the rhythm of sharp raps upon the door that announced the arrival of the two Lady Overdukes.

  "Well, I'm afraid I'll have to finish this little tale some other time," Craer gushed hastily, catching up his saddlebag. "Hawk and I have a noble audience with some heaping platters in the kitchens."

  Greatsarn waved a hand. "Oh? And the saddlebag?"

  Overduke Delnbone straightened, assuming a look of dew-washed innocence, and replied, "I didn't say just how many platters, now, did I?"

  "Craer," Embra Silvertree said into his ear, in person this time. "Get out. Get out now, while you still can."

  The procurer whirled around with a flourish-but the soft breast he'd been intending to run into wasn't there. Instead, he found himself staring into a pitying smile. It belonged to Embra, who'd spun away in unison with him, to fetch up facing him just out of reach. She gave him a sigh and the words, "Procurers are so predictable."

  Craer was still trying to think of a dignified answer to that observation, with the delighted laughter of all the men in the room ringing in his ears and a scornful Tshamarra Talasorn giving him a hard stare, when Hawkril strode past, smoothly took hold of his ear, and swept him out the door.

  "Finest shalarn," the cellarer told the towering armaragor eagerly, almost panting with fear. "Brought straight from far Sarinda."

  "Man, 'tis green," the warrior growled, holding the bottle in one hand with surprising gentleness-considering the iron strength and increasing tightness of the grip he had on the cellarer's belt with the other.

  The castle officer's legs dangled well clear of the ground, kicking slightly. He was busy deeply regretting his earlier swift rudeness-but how was he to know these two ruffians had the king's leave to raid the palace kitchens, let alone the royal winecellar!

  "Ah, well, ah-ha-ha, so 'tis," he offered hastily, fervently wishing he'd donned his older, looser truss that morning, as the armaragor's grip made all his hidden underbelts-and their buckles-dig ever deeper into soft, private areas of his anatomy. "A very splendid emerald green, ah-ha, yes!"

  "Deep green and aromatic, you say?" the armaragor asked skeptically, giving the wine another critical stare. "Well, then, you drink some, whilst I watch!"

  He rammed the cellarer down into a chair and thumped the bottle down in front of him. Well behind the quivering official, the four guards summoned earlier by the Lord High Cellarer to scourge and then expel the two intruders chuckled openly.

  They shall all boil in oil, screaming for mercy, the cellarer vowed silently, as he gulped eagerly. "Why, I couldn't! Friend warrior, this is some of the most expensi-"

  "I'm not your friend," Hawkril growled, thrusting his face close to the red and quivering visage just beyond the bottle, "I'm an Overduke of Aglirta, and I'm giving you a command. Consider how quickly you'll obey-for your alacrity may have some bearing on two things: how much longer you're cellarer of Flowfoam, and the remaining length of your life."

  "Hawk, I know he was extremely insulting, but let him live, hey? Empty yon bottle over his head, make him fetch a dozen different ones for each of us, and let's be gone from here," Craer muttered, from behind the hulking armaragor.

  Hawkril swung around to give the procurer a surprised look. Craer was sitting at a kitchen table, looking at his bowl of soup as eagerly as if a friend had just drowned in it. "You feel as restless as I do?" he asked.

  The procurer didn't look up, but he did nod. Emphatically.

  Hawkril turned back to the cellarer. "Fetch those two dozen bottles-in a pair of carrybaskets, mind. If you do so swiftly, I won't have to come looking for you, will I?"

  For the first time in his fife, the Lord High Cellarer of Flowfoam Castle set about obeying an order at a run.

  Their stroll ended up where they'd both known it would, though neither had said a word in that regard: at the graves of Sarasper and Brightpennant. Several empty bottles had been discarded in their wake, and the huge haunch of boar in Hawkril's hand had been literally whittled down-with two very sharp belt-knives-to a short end of meat around a long, bare bone.

  "So, have you decided what it is that overdukes do yet, besides bully servants?" the shorter stroller asked his taller companion.

  "Chase wenches and steal things, if they're also procurers," came the dry reply, and then, in a different voice, "No. Nor have I looked ahead, to beyond battles against Serpents and nobles. I've never thought any of us will five to see time enough to wonder. If ever we drive down the Snake-lovers, and somehow hammer loyalty into the nobles, 'twill be our turn to do the same to the merchants of Sirlptar next."

  Craer opened another bottle, poured a goodly amount on one grave and then the other, saluted the fallen ones quietly by name, and then asked, "So what's been riding you, these last few days? Between fights to the death and a certain Lady of Jewels, I mean?"

  Hawkril let out a long, reluctant sigh and said slowly, "Fear. Fear for her. Something's going to happen to Embra. Something bad. I can feel it."

  He looked sidelong at Craer, expecting the usual wry quip or light-heartedly tasteless comment, but his old friend wore no smile. Lifting his eyes to meet Hawkril's gaze, the procurer nodded soberly. "I've dreamed of such things, too-different horrors, different grim fates, but all of them dark."

  They stared at each other in silence for a long, long breath, and then in unison, without another word spoken, turned to look south across the river.

  On the ever-rushing waters below, a larger, grander barge than most-one of the most splendid for hire in Sirlptar-was drawing up to the Flow-foam docks.

  "Of course it's not wise," the King of Aglirta told his guards angrily, "but I'm going to do it anyway. The Three damn me if I'm going to cower in a corner of my palace forever, neglecting my realm around me. These idiots made me King, and I'm not going to sit there in front of them shirking every last royal duty!"

  The idiots so forcefully indicated were the overdukes who walked so closely and watchfully around him, only a faint shimmering of the air indicating that two of them were using the Dwaer-Stones held ready under their court cloaks to shield the young king.

  Blackgult-who'd brought word up from the docks to the bard Flaeros Delcamper, and so also to all in the room with him-strode before King Castlecloaks, and Embra Silvertree walked behind him, with the sorceress Tshamarra Talasorn flanking the monarch on one side, and Flaeros walking beside him on the other. The royal guards in their full armor, Suldun Greatsarn watchfully at the rear, stalked along in a tight ring around this royal party-making the steps down to the docks quite crowded.

  "I see the Delcampers stint not," Tshamarra remarked, surveying the boat that awaited below.

  "The best is always cheaper in the long run," Flaeros replied, as they came out onto the broad sweep of the docks, and the guards there lifted their weapons in salute and stepped back.

  The voyagers, all in Delcamper livery, were drawn up to greet the king: a dozen servants, with the swordcaptain of their travel escort of six house warriors at th
eir head. He saluted Flaeros, bowed to King Castlecloaks, and then smoothly stood aside before anyone could speak, revealing who'd been standing behind him: an old, small woman leaning on a silver-handled cane.

  "Your Majesty," Flaeros said with a broad smile, "may I present again to you the Lady of Chambers who has served so many of my family so well, for far more years than I've been alive-and is more truly noble than any dozen Delcampers: the Lady Natha Orele."

  The king grinned and extended his hand in time to stop the aged Lady of Chambers from trying to kneel to him. "No, please-no one should kneel to me unless I'm passing sentence on them," he said firmly. "Flaeros, be informal, hey?"

  The bard grinned and joyfully swept the old woman into an embrace. "Am I mortifying you enough, Orele?" he asked, when he'd finished kissing her.

  "Tolerably, Lord," was the dry reply-which so delighted Raulin Castiecloaks that he took a turn at embracing a Lady of Chambers.

  "Now that was foolish," she chided him. "I could be a murderous priestess of the Serpent!"

  Raulin grinned. "Well, are you?"

  "Not this morning, dear," she said gently. "But let us all start this formidable climb, the sooner to have something to drink, hey? I'll be putting us to work right briskly, by the look of you two. Has the palace run short of servants, or is there some crazed current fashion for sleeping in your armor?"

  As the king chuckled and stepped back to offer her his arm, the shimmering of air that surrounded him fell upon her for a second time, and she turned and looked straight at the Overduke Blackgult, who stood watchfully to one side, one hand on his sword-hilt and the other on his Dwaer-Stone.

  "Well, who's this?" she asked quietly, peering.

  "Overduke Ezendor Blackgult," Flaeros said helpfully. "He used to be Regent of Aglirta-and is still famous throughout Asmarand as the Golden Griffon. You've met before, remember?"

  "Ah, yes," Lady Orele murmured, her gaze locked with Blackgult's. They measured each other in wary silence for a long moment, unmoving, and then the overduke bowed his head gravely and turned away.