The Dragon's Doom (dragonlance)

by Ed Greenwood

  " Well, now," the procurer said eagerly, "why didn't you-?"

  "Because I was busy putting Tash's hands back together, and didn't want to have to wipe spatters of pulverized Craer off my face and garments, that's why."

  Hawkril took a few steps into the room, his warsword in his hand out of sheer habit. Ashes swirled and eddied around his boots with every step. "You blasted them all?" His voice held both hope and disappointment.

  "I hope so," Embra replied, "but he's always liked to cage things; we may find beasts and half-crazed mages and the Three know what else. Please wait, love, until we can do this together."

  "The Band of Four once more, hey?" Craer asked, helping Tshamarra to her feet. The Talasorn sorceress was still flexing her fingers in wonder, as if not quite able to believe they were hers. She looked up at her lord sharply.

  "Never ridicule that term, or our fellowship," she said in a voice that was low, calm-and as firm as iron. "Never."

  Maps proved to be few, written schemes nonexistent, spellbooks gone. There were a few half-finished spells whose natures were obvious to Embra and Tshamarra at a glance, a handful of old enchanted things recovered from tombs and caches (buckles and heraldic cloak-pins for the most part, loot that Craer and Hawkril examined rather dubiously, but that made Tshamarra ooh and aah), and no captives.

  Embra used the Dwaer to twist the unfinished spells into traps of minor nastiness for Ingryl-or anyone else-who might come poking around the lair, and then called on it to whisk the Four back to Flowfoam.

  A few breaths after their departure some of the ashes boiled up into the shape of a dark and ghostly figure-out of which stepped a slender, dark-gowned girl with a long fall of hair and a skull for a face. Gadaster grinned around at the cavern for a few moments, paused to be amused by the puling traps, and then made Maelra's body weave a soundless spell, and-vanish.

  The ashes swirled, and then seemed almost relieved to settle down again.

  21

  Arrivals and Departures in Violence

  The old lady sighed. "I can see why it is that Aglirta is truly the Kingless Land."

  Flaeros cast a quick glance at the closest guard, one of an impassive pair by the doors, and hissed, "Lady, this may not be our King, but he is still a King! Insult him not so!"

  Lady Natha Orele sighed again, and turned to face the other young man sitting before her-the one who was wearing a crown. "I do not insult Your Majesty," she said firmly, "I do Your Majesty the courtesy of speaking truth-something your courtiers seem to have in very short supply, I might add."

  " 'Tis a disease at court, Lady," King Castlecloaks replied gravely. "Yet tell me: Why think you Aglirta is truly kingless?"

  "With Snowsar and with you, 'tis always rush to fight this and strain to withstand that-and never to snatch time enough to make the little decisions that shape life in the realm, assuming you do win your ways and there is still an Aglirta on the morrow. In short, you play warcaptain, and have time for little else… and so do not rule, and so enjoy not the trust and loyalty of your people. Without that, you are nothing, no matter how many crowns, coins, and lances you command. Of course the task before you is-as it has been too often these past few seasons-to rid Aglirta of the Serpents. But have you given any thought to after that?"

  "Why, uh"-the king coughed-"no."

  "Ah. Thank you. Some truth handed back to me. Very good," the aged Lady of Chambers said briskly. "Now I'll pass from truth to my opinion.

  Hear it, think on it, but follow it not if you think I'm wrong-and believe me, I can be very wrong. If I were King…"

  "Yes?" Raulin reached up as if to take the crown from his head and hand it to her.

  "Don't," she said sharply. "I would do a poor job, and Aglirtans would never accept me-some old, wrinkled, outlander woman? Really! But hearken, King Castlecloaks: Were I you, I'd do away with all barons. Keep the rank of tersept, and yourself move often and-this is crucial-unpredictably from castle to castle, up and down the Vale. Meet your subjects directly, see to their needs, and work with the clergy of the Three to keep worship of the Serpent outlawed henceforth. Make sure each and every person sees some reward, and complaints are answered, and so on. The people will see that you serve them, and you reward them-rather than regarding you as some distant, decadent figure who ignores them while their local baron struts and exploits and oppresses and occasionally rewards. In short, they'll see you as needful, and as theirs."

  Raulin Castlecloaks regarded her with shining eyes. "Before the Three, I swear to do so! As soon as the realm is rid of the plague and the Serpents!"

  "Mind you do," the old woman told him sharply. "Darsar is full of rulers who will do great things and keep high promises as soon as some-thing else is taken care of. But they do lots of taking care, and yet there's always a something else in their laps preventing them from rising to seize those great things they promise."

  Raulin sighed, and nodded. "I can see how easy 'twould be to fall into such ways. Flaeros, you must be my reminder, and hold me to all my promises."

  The bard lifted his eyebrows. "Me, Your Majesty? You really think any one man can do all that?"

  There was a moment of startled silence, and then Raulin and Orele both burst out laughing. The guards turned their heads, surprised, as the king and the two Ragalan outlanders chorded and guffawed together like younglings at a revel. Then the armsmen hastily resumed their expressionless, statuelike poses as the three rose and parted, the old woman withdrawing to her inner chambers and the two young men striding toward them.

  "Bed for me," Raulin was saying, as the guards flung the door wide for them.

  Macros nodded. "A good idea. My bit of floor calls to me." The guards followed the two, exchanging looks that were not-quite-smiles. Since his arrival, the bard had been sleeping with the guards who stood watch and slumbered across the door to the king's chamber, to prevent any more attempted regicides.

  Despite their brisk pace, both young men yawned more than once on their walk through the passages. Neither they nor their guards glanced into every dark alcove they passed.

  Most of those spaces were empty, but in one of them the eldest Overduke of Aglirta stood with his hand solemnly clapped over the mouth of a buxom chambermaid-to still the gasps she'd made as his other hand wandered beneath the unlaced, hip-high sideslit of her gown.

  When the guards were past, she bit one of his fingers gently, and purred, "Ah, but 'tis good to have you back to your old self, Griffon. Now play fair; let me do a little… exploring with my fingers, too."

  "Gladly," Blackgult muttered. "The battlements, Indalue, or somewhere warmer?"

  "Your bedchamber, I think," she whispered, before running her tongue along the edge of his hand. "You thrust me back against far too much cold, hard stone last time. Besides, I've thought of a new use for bedposts."

  "O-ho? If 'tis truly new, 'twill be worth seeing," the man once considered the most handsome-and lusty-lord in all the kingdom murmured, as he glanced out of the alcove.

  The passage was deserted, and he let Indalue lead him out into it toward his bedchamber. They went quickly, hand-in-hand, chuckling like younglings.

  Craer came awake suddenly. Something was wrong. Tshamarra was writhing beside him, moaning in dismay and pain. Before he could raise a hand she rolled over atop him. She was slick with sweat, her smooth skin drenched.

  "Tash! I'm here! What's wrong?"

  The Lady Talasorn sobbed and clawed at him. "Craer! Help me!" "I'm here, Lady! What is it? What were you dreaming?" The sorceress shook her head wildly. "No dream… I never dream unless spells lie on my mind… and I've none left." She convulsed in his arms, so violently that he was almost thrust from the bed.

  "I'm burning up," she gasped. "Flames, flames everywhere!" Craer held her, trying to comfort her by murmuring empty reassurances and stroking her shoulder, but she swore at him, trembling and panting, and turned in his arms to hiss furiously, "I'm not dream-addled, my lord! I'm… I'm…"

&nbs
p; "Pleased to see me," Craer suggested, kissing her. She tried to protest, tried to pull her head away, but his hands were busy, and in a few moments she was pulling at him hungrily. Craer chuckled inwardly; the old distractions were the sure ones.

  And then, as his lady arched atop him in their shared passion, his inward laughter chilled in an instant. Above him in the darkness, a tiny wisp of flame had darted out of her gasping mouth.

  "So what," Blackgult asked, as Indalue bit his shoulder again, "is all this about bedposts? Hey?"

  "Not… yet…" the woman beneath him growled-and then he felt a sudden burning across his back. It came again, and he heard the whirring that brought it this time. The Golden Griffon thrust out a hand in the darkness, caught the knotted rope-cord she wore as a belt around his palm, and jerked, pulling her into a tangled ball ere he broke her grip on it.

  "So," he murmured triumphantly, "we flog our horse onward, do we?"

  He sat up and gently flicked the tasseled end of her cord down across the breasts he could not quite see. Indalue hissed and arched under him.

  "Yes," she whispered, " 'tis almost time for the bedposts." The cord fell again, and she twisted and bit at his knee. He brought the cord down harder, and she growled, "Yesss!"

  And then she screamed.

  "What-?" Blackgult asked sharply, hearing the horror in her cry.

  "Move, Lord!" she cried, thrusting upward so furiously she almost bucked him off the bed. "Behind you!"

  Blackgult threw himself forward into the darkness, over the side of the bed and into a scrabbling, skidding landing on the floor. His sword…

  Indalue screamed again as his hands found the hilt they were seeking. He whirled around on his knees, and saw-a glowing, grinning skull bending over the bed, framed by long hair. It was reaching for the pillows with hands that glowed-slender, girlish hands-and under them was… his Dwaer!

  Indalue clawed at those hands, and the skull-headed intruder hissed and dug fingers like talons into the chambermaid's face.

  Into, Blackgult saw as he scrambled up faster than anything he'd ever done in his life, and whipped back his sword to throw-for living flesh shrank away like mist before sun where those glowing talons touched, and Indalue's shrieks rose into raw, frantic terror.

  Blackgult threw his blade right into that skull-face-what mattered it if he hit Indalue as it whirled? She was doomed already-and sprang for the pillows.

  He had to get the Stone-and he did, clawing single-mindedly for it in the darkness, and so never seeing his blade strike something unseen around the head and shoulders of the intruder and go clanging away into the shadows, trailing sparks… or clumps and tresses of hair fall from the bare, lolling skull that had been Indalue's lovely head moments before, as his bedmate sagged back in death.

  The skull-faced sorceress let go of the corpse and reached for Blackgult, but he bent his will furiously upon the Dwaer-and sent forth a wall of green flame that thrust the intruder back across the room in an ungainly stagger, carrying footstools and sidetables with it in a crashing fury.

  A tapestry on the far wall caught alight and blazed up, green flames racing, and by its light Blackgult saw his newfound foe's hands raised to shape intricate gestures of spellweaving-a magic he did not know-so he used the Dwaer to snatch a great mirror off the wall and smash it, edge-on, into those hands.

  Its shattering was deafening, and crowned by a scream of pain and dismay that must have come from the skull-face. Blackgult tried to lash it with Dwaer-force again, but a yellow haze was creeping around the edges of his vision now, and he suddenly found it hard to keep his feet.

  He wrestled with the Stone, seeking to stand strong, but a spell came across the room and slammed into him, shattering the bedposts like kindling-and smashing open the doors of the room behind him.

  There was a moment of whirling yellow haze and red fury, and Blackgult found himself lying numbly near the wall, with more yellow mists rising before his eyes. The Dwaer was still in his hands-he thought-and he could hear shouts and the poundings of running feet. Somehow he snarled his way to his feet again and padded wildly forward, shaking his head to try to clear it. Where was the skull-sorceress? Where…?

  Purple fire blinded him. Cold laughter came from behind it, as pain burst into Blackgult's side and flung him against a wall as if he was a toy, the Stone tumbling away, his fingers smashed like twigs…

  And then everything was yellow, and he forgot all pain as rage made him strong. He saw the grinning skull across the room, and went for it…

  Hawkril thrust an evening cloak around Embra's shoulders as he stamped his feet into his boots. Drawing his warsword, he threw down the scabbard and ran.

  Dwaer cradled in her hands and the cloak slipping down her bare shoulders, Embra sprinted after him. Gods, but Hawk was fast! Those boots were all he wore, and he dodged and ran along the passages like a furious wind.

  Somewhere ahead of them the palace shook again, and there was a brief, bright flash of light. A spell-duel was going on in one of the bedchambers! That almost had to mean at least one of the Four was involved.

  A deeper, booming blast nearly hurled Embra off her feet as she skidded around a corner, and was followed by a smaller, splintering crash.

  They were very close now, and through all the tumult of spell-blasts and things breaking and the shouts of guards she could hear the slobbering snarls of a marauding beast. Then she heard Hawkril's voice raised in a great bellow: "'Away! Away, monster, or die!"

  Embra raced barefoot around a corner, startling an onrushing guard, and burst into a room that no longer had a door, and was now busily spilling smoke and firelight out into the passage.

  Her father was bounding about a room that was all splintered, burning furniture, naked and snarling. There was foam around his mouth, his eyes were wild, and he carried his Dwaer carelessly in one hand, as if he'd forgotten what it was.

  Stalking ever closer to Blackgult as he ran, trying to corner him, was a young sorceress whose face was a glowing skull. A dead chambermaid lay sprawled on the floor amid the splayed and splintered wreckage of Blackgult's great bed, and guards lay here and there about the room, moaning and kicking feebly. Just two of them still had weapons up-and they were hunched against a wall, pale fear ruling their faces.

  As Hawkril charged the skull-sorceress, a spell ripped out of her hands at him. The armaragor dived one way and Blackgult bounded in the other direction, whirling the glowing Dwaer around his head like a trophy.

  The sorceress ran toward the Golden Griffon, and the guards launched themselves from the wall in a desperate charge at her. On the other side of the room, Hawkril shouted in pain as the spell tore into the walls above him, hurling shards and slivers of wall panels and furniture in all directions.

  Embra let fly with her own Dwaer, straight at that skull-head. The fingers of the sorceress were sprouting sudden shafts of crackling light, and where they thrust, guards were screaming and staggering. One man blundered into Embra's striking magic and was flung away, torn and dying.

  Blackgult slew another guard bare-handed, wrenching a helmed head around until the neck below it cracked.

  Embra's thrust of Dwaer-fire slammed into the crackling spell of the sorceress, and the room rocked with an ear-ringing blast. Blackgult was hurled aside, his Dwaer flying from his hands to bounce off in another direction, and the sorceress was sent staggering backwards.

  Bare but for his boots, a moaning Hawkril slowly found his feet, splinters sticking out of his side and back like blades. He stalked across the room toward the sorceress, who crouched, awaiting him, and began to weave a new spell.

  Tight-lipped, Embra sent another Dwaer-blast at her. Its fury made the discarded Stone flare up into bright radiance, and the skull-face turned to regard the glow of the fallen Dwaer.

  Desperately, the Lady of Jewels called on her Stone to snatch her to a particular flagstone of the floor just beside the other Dwaer. She dared not seek it directly, for fear of her magic go
ing wild or Blackgult's Stone being driven away by her magic. The skull-sorceress was running hard, and diving for the Stone.

  Blackgult roared, another guard in his hands, and whirled the man around his head. Strangling and helpless, the guard let go of his sword-and it spun right into Hawkril, sinking deep. The armaragor went to his knees in gasping pain, as Embra screamed: "Hawk!"… and her magic whisked her away.

  She landed on the spot she'd chosen-and a heavy, armored body, stinking with fear, smashed into hers, slammed her to the floor, and rolled away, whimpering in terror. Blackgult had thrown the guard in just the wrong direction, at just the wrong time.

  Gasping for breath, Embra rolled over, fumbling for her Dwaer-and looked up into the triumphant grin of the skull-sorceress, who was rising with a glowing Stone in her own hands.

  Raging, Blackgult ran at the sorceress, his hands lifted into claws-and as his arms closed around her, she spun and blasted him with the Dwaer, the Stone in her grasp actually thumping into his chest.

  The Golden Griffon's hairy, broken body was flung up at the ceiling like a child's doll-and Embra Silvertree called on the Living Castle enchantments to pull open the floor beneath the skull-sorceress.

  Her foe fell a few feet into the hitherto-solid stone floor, off-balance and startled-and Embra slashed at the sorceress with all the power she could quickly snatch out of her Dwaer.

  Something splintered, a scream burst from skeletal jaws-and Embra's magic struck the far wall of the bedchamber, shattering it in a long, stone-splitting crack, and rebounded back into the skull-sorceress from the other side.

  The sorceress screamed again, sudden flames of twisted magic roaring up her limbs as she shuddered in agony. Embra's attack had disrupted a Dwaer-magic her foe had been shaping-and the skull-sorceress was caught in the roiling result.