The Dragon's Doom (dragonlance)

by Ed Greenwood

  "Hulgor, set Flaeros on the bed," she said crisply, by way of greeting. "You'll find a nightshirt laid ready for him. Get the king a chair, send everyone else out, and then lock and bar the door. Everyone. I'm not in the habit of regicide, and all of these guards whose hygiene seems so poor would be best deployed well away from my keyhole-but making sure no one else tarries by it."

  "Let all be done as the Lady Orele commands," the king said firmly, before anyone could raise protest-and, in a remarkably short time, it was.

  "Wrinkles," Hulgor said gruffly, "the lad came awake shouting-"

  Orele held up a hand. "I know. You were right to bring him here. Go to yonder board and get everyone a drink. Anything His Majesty fancies we will of course sip first, to show him 'tis safe. Go, Old Ram!"

  Hulgor opened his mouth to protest, flushed, grinned, and went.

  "You had a dream," Orele told the bard, "that I know all about. Worry not about the heat and the sweat-that will pass. You're neither ill nor crazed."

  Flaeros smiled in relief, sitting up. "L-lady Orele, forgive this abrupt asking, but… well, I've long suspected you of being one of the Wise…"

  The old woman smiled. "Well, you're not completely stone-headed, I see. Your suspicions are correct."

  The bard and the king both leaned forward, grinning at her with identical expressions of eager excitement, two young lads entranced by all the tales of-

  Lady Natha Orele raised one bony hand and said severely, "Before you ask, I neither kiss nor mate with toads, rarely flog myself in the moonlight, and have never cast any magics to make anyone sicken or die. On the other hand, I often dance naked out of doors by night, harvest useful herbs whenever I can, and keep secrets well. No, I can't fly, with or without a broomstick. I don't drink blood save when I prick myself, and don't cast love-spells for anyone-even by royal command."

  She lifted both eyebrows, together. "Does that take care of your first flood of foolish questions, and buy me time enough to speak of what exactly befell you this night, Flaeros?"

  "Uh, ah," the king asked awkwardly, "just one asking: Are there many Wise? Have you seen any in Aglirta, since your arrival?"

  Orele regarded him severely. "Are there many skilled singers in your kingdom, Majesty? Can you tell who they are at a glance?"

  She let silence fall, and after it had stretched long enough for a tightly grinning Hulgor to steer a glass into every hand but the king's, Raulin said, "Oh. I see. Yes, of course. My apologies, Lady-say on about Flaeros." Then he cocked his head and added, "Any chance of seeing you dance? Later, I mean?"

  The old woman sipped her wine, shook her head, and told the glass severely, "Men. Kings little better than the rest, I see. It'll be dawn before we're done, so find something to wet your royal throat, Raulin. Hulgor's tried a bit of everything already, so if he doesn't fall over in the next few breaths, 'tis all safe."

  The old noble chuckled. "Ye can see out of the back of your head, Swee-hem, Natha."

  "Trick of the Wise," the old lady said darkly, and then drained her glass in a swig like a man in a hurry to leave a tavern, handed it to the astonished king, and clapped her hands lightly together. "Enough empty tongue-wagging! You dreamt of fire, Flaeros, and came awake shouting. This is not unusual, and probably happened to scores of folk the world over this night-most of them in the Vale."

  "Lady," King Castlecloaks said politely, "I believe you've now established that you are eloquent, learned, and can be very mysterious. Can you also speak plainly, and Reveal All?"

  Lady Orele grinned at him. Surprisingly, she still had all of her teeth. "The Wise never Reveal All, Majesty; you know that. Or should. Let's test your learning: What know you of the Arrada?"

  Raulin Castlecloaks sighed. "Beyond the fact that it's a grand name for all the magic of Darsar, which is the gathered lore of our ways of harnessing the energies of all that lives, nothing at all."

  The old woman sat back, regarding him with new respect. "Well said, Majesty-very well said. I'd say you have learning enough. The son of a bard, you-and a bard yourself, Lord Flaeros, so you know this too, hmm?"

  "I do," Flaeros agreed. "Like Raul-the King, I know very little more than what the Arrada is-and that it flows in cycles."

  "Ah!" Orele said, leaning forward again. "Hulgor," she said, "get this King a drink."

  Hulgor and Raulin both blinked at her. Ignoring them, she said serenely, "Two creatures manifest at either end of the flows of the Arrada: the Serpent and the Dragon. Now tell me, which one is associated with fire?"

  Flaeros stared at the old woman as if she'd suddenly grown three serpent-heads, with a golden crown gleaming on each one. "The Dragon," he whispered.

  Orele nodded and raised her glass. King Raulin and the bard both stared at it. Though they'd both seen her drain it to the dregs but a few moments ago, and she'd sent Hulgor away to fill another glass for the king, the old woman's glass was brimful once more.

  She smiled at them over it. "Whenever there's a Serpent-The Serpent, called by those who worship it the Great Serpent, and usually a human wizard twisted to evil-there must also be a Dragon. When one arises, there comes the other. In the words of the bard Tanathavur-you should know this, Lord Flaeros-'I burned in the night of fire, at the awakening of the Dragon.' You do know what became of Tanathavur, don't you?"

  "He became the Dragon," Flaeros murmured, wide-eyed, "and was slain in the skies above the Silverflow by the wizard Garaunt, who rode the Winged Serpent!"

  Hulgor thrust a glass into the king's hand, another into the trembling fingers of Flaeros-who hastily drained it-and then set two glasses in front of himself and deliberately quaffed them both.

  All three men stared at each other as Orele sighed, "An astonishing display of greed, Hulgor. 'Twas always your besetting fault."

  "Does that mean…" Flaeros whispered, his voice dwindling into a squeak. He tried again. "Does that mean I'll become the Dragon?"

  "Not necessarily," the old woman with the cane told him, drinking deeply-and setting down a glass that was just as full as before. "The Arrada visits many suitable folk, ere flowering in one. If no one else in all the Vale saw flames in their dreams hot enough to awaken them, then you might want to set your affairs in order accordingly, but I think that's highly unlikely. Majesty, if you were to issue a royal decree in the morning that any waking dreams suffered this night must be reported…"

  "I shall," Raulin said, pale-faced. "This is…"

  "Unsettling," Orele told him. "You were going to say 'exciting,' and discovered that the word was unsuitable. Unsettling is nearer the mark."

  King Castlecloaks gave the old woman a respectful look. "Not for nothing are you deemed one of the Wise. Have you any advice for me?"

  "Get yourself a wife," Lady Orele said promptly, "but make sure you choose the right one. Bed her well, and sire at least two heirs. Give one to me, to raise far away and in secret." A smile touched her lips. "You see why I wanted no one near the keyhole?"

  Raulin Castlecloaks stared at her, his eyes large and dark, and shivered suddenly.

  "Secrets, secrets," the Delcamper chambermaid Faerla whispered, her fingers laid carefully across the keyhole of the door that connected their room with Lady Orele's.

  Lameira nodded, so close in the darkness that their foreheads almost touched. She was close enough to see Faerla's disapproving expression as her irrepressible friend added mournfully, "Life used to be so simple."

  25

  A Dragon Over Flowfoam

  I trust," Ingryl Ambelter said mildly in the nickering firelight, "you all understand my orders? And the fate awaiting anyone who disobeys them?"

  There was a moment of silence, and then the answer came as a thunderous, ragged murmur: "Yes, Great Serpent."

  The snake-headed man looked down at them from his newly shaped, emerald-scaled height (Ingryl Ambelter had discovered he rather liked being head-and-shoulders taller than everyone around him) and hissed, "Good. Very good. Now, my Lords of the Serpen
t, heed me further. Rather than try to whelm armies and march them on Flowfoam, you are to round up all Aglirtans you've managed to infect with Blood Plague, but who you've thus far kept from beast-shape or falling into madness, and give them weapons. I shall do the rest. You shall know my question as to your readiness, when it comes, and I shall expect only one answer."

  He let silence hang in the still-shattered chamber for a tightly-smiling moment, and then snapped, "Now go and do this! Hasten!"

  Men in robes far more elaborate than his own streamed past the flickering braziers to the door-all but a dozen senior priests, who stepped back from the throng to stand along one wall together. When the doors had been closed behind their departing Brethren, they stepped forward in a small group to face the Great Serpent. Each had mind-heard his personal orders to remain, and so knew without a doubt that this wizard commanded the Thrael, and thereby was the rightful Serpent.

  Ingryl’s eyes seemed to meet all of theirs at once. "Is everyone armed sufficiently? The doorpriests can bring you blades if you wish."

  There was a general silence. Priests cast glances at each other, but no one stepped forward or spoke.

  The Great Serpent nodded. "Good. You deem yourselves ready, then?"

  There were nods and murmurs of "Yes, Highest."

  "You know what to do, and that the Brotherhood depends on you this day. Fail us all not."

  Ingryl Ambelter threw up his hands, arms spread wide dramatically, and sent them all elsewhere. The Thrael allowed him to command the Dwaer without even touching it directly. Such power…

  As the glow where the dozen had stood faded, Ingryl Ambelter turned away to stroll and smile.

  Well, now. Spellmaster of All Aglirta and Great Serpent of all Darsar. Not too shabby… not shabby at all. The Thrael showed him that his meal was almost ready, and that none of the priests preparing it had dared to introduce taints or poisons. He'd best get to the eating; there was a busy day ahead.

  With the Dwaer he'd soon be jumping up and down the Vale, from beacon fire to beacon fire. At each blaze one of the hastening priests-teleporting each other right now to their towns and villages, in a glow of bustling magic so strong that it was almost painful, through the Thrael-would be waiting, with a whelming of armed Aglirtans.

  The Dwaer would transport those groups to Flowfoam. When they appeared on the isle, the dozen priests he'd just sent ahead-into hiding in the palace gardens-would quell the magic that stopped plague-madness. The arriving Aglirtans, warriors or ploughmen, would go berserk.

  "And so let king and overdukes and all be overwhelmed in loyal subjects, and hewn down," Ingryl Ambelter told the star-scattered sky above him, visible through the riven ceiling. Then he burst into laughter.

  The sound brought one of the doorpriests to peer timidly in through the doors. He saw the lone, laughing man grow the beginnings of a tail and rise taller, towering to twice the height of tall armaragors and even more… But as the Great Serpent mastered his mirth, his stature diminished again, and the stump of a tail faded away.

  "Cease your useless spying," he told the doorpriest without turning, "and bring me some wine. I shall be in the Hall of Coils."

  There was a wink of Dwaer-flash, and the room was empty even before the frightened doorpriest could begin to stammer acknowledgment of the order.

  The center of the Hall of Coils was a great pit whose sides were concentric rings of shallow steps, and its walls were adorned with huge snakes, the carved stone heads and coils standing out in some places almost ten feet from the wall. Huge gems enspelled to glow served as the gleaming eyes of those forever frozen serpents, and the tiles underfoot were painted in scenes of triumphs of the faith. Decades of dedicated work, in this room alone. No wonder this place was hidden high in the mountains, where an Aglirtan army would have to fly to come against it in strength.

  Ingryl Ambelter smiled again. The Great Serpent. As empty as all titles-but the Thrael, now… worth the dark weight of a fell god's attention, to taste such power. With its web, even now, he could…

  "Most Holy Lord?"

  He could sip wine knowing it was safe, that's what he could do. Ambelter turned with a smile, took the decanter from the trembling priest, and waved away the goblet and platter with the words, "My thanks. Begone, and keep all others from this chamber."

  He did not have to turn around to know when the door opened and closed-or to know that he was alone, without anyone lurking to peer through the scores of spyholes in the walls, floor, and ceiling of the vast room. My, but he'd have slain his way to the top of the Church of the Serpent long ago if he'd known what the Thrael was truly like.

  The wine was good-and Ambelter used the Thrael to snatch ready morsels from the platters in the kitchens as he strolled, not waiting for scurrying priests to let things get cold as they raced down long passages and up the many stairs. Yes, this was a life much preferable to the lurking loneliness of an archmage in hiding in a cave, surrounded by the unlovely bodies of stolen dead men held in shuffling servitude by spells.

  Soon he'd be lording it in Flowfoam, at the very heart of the great garden that was Aglirta-and using his priests like poisoned daggers to seek out and slay mages in Sirlptar. When he ruled that city, it would be time to take down everyone else in Darsar whose sorcery was strong, his own most capable priests included. Oh, yes, he'd make the Dark One proud of him, and taste the flesh of every woman he fancied in all the world, along the way…

  Sated and gloating, Ingryl Ambelter licked sauce from his fingers, drained the last of the decanter, and strolled onto the balcony that opened off the end of the hall.

  Under the stars the Vale lay below, long and lushly green and sinuous- and Ingryl smiled down upon it as a flame flared up on a hill not far off. The first beacon fire.

  He tossed the decanter over the wide stone balcony rail, and used the Thrael to enjoy every shriek of its splintering destruction on the rocks far, far below. Hefting the Dwaer in his hand, he sprang up onto the rail.

  Teetering on the edge of a killing fall, Ingryl Ambelter laughed at all Darsar-and jumped. The Dwaer flashed, and he was gone.

  Darkness shimmered in the Hall of Coils, just inside the archway that led onto the balcony, and parted like a veil to let a slender, darkly beautiful maid in a gown step out. Bare bone gleamed in the spell-glows as the head turned, long black hair melting away to nothingness to expose a skull floating above those black-clad shoulders.

  The skull-headed sorceress moved in silence, clutching a lump of stone to her breast as she glided forward on bare feet. The splendors of the hall seemed to hold little interest for her; she went straight out onto the balcony.

  In the night below, down the Vale, many fires were now rising.

  "So that's your game, is it?" Gadaster Mulkyn murmured. "Well, two can play at that. Flowfoam, ho!" The Dwaer flashed-and the balcony was empty.

  "Claws of the Dark One," the king gasped, "is there no end to them?"

  "Raulin," Hawkril growled, "get you down! A hurled blade could take your throat out in a trice in all this. Get back to guard Orele and let us fight without having to worry about you!"

  Before the king could reply, several guards took him by the shoulders and ran him toward the rear, royal doors. Embra's Dwaer flashed on the far side of the chamber, momentarily making the darkened room full of howling, hacking men as bright as noonday. The flood of berserk Aglirtans seemed endless, stretching out the doors and down the passages for as far as the eye could see-and it mattered not how much they fought among themselves, if their numbers never ended. The palace guards were growing weary and being overwhelmed, one by one, overborne and hacked viciously by foes who cared nothing for their own safety, and blundered forward rather than being wary of blades. Only in the narrowest passages were their bodies now heaped high enough to block the way-but Flowfoam Palace was a warren of grand chambers, and it would take days to choke up all of its entrances with the dead.

  The floor was slick with gore, in some place
s puddled inches deep, and still they came: a howling, madly hacking flood of men and maids armed with hayforks, belt-knives, and anything else that could crush or stab or slash. They gave battle to each other and anyone else they saw, wild-eyed and reckless. Courtiers had fallen like trampled weeds before them-if any such were left, they'd fled to cower in the deepest, darkest corners of the palace cellars and dungeons. The guards had died a little more slowly-but fallen they had, one after another, and still the seemingly endless flood of Aglirtans continued. Room by room, the defenders of the palace had been forced to give way.

  By the faint gray glow stealing in through the windows, it was almost dawn. Gasping and leaning on their swords, the guards saw the king hustled out of the great throne room. Three Above, that they'd been forced to retreat this far!

  At least, in the wake of Embra's latest Dwaer-blast and furious grunting and hacking on all of their parts, they'd found time for a rest at last, with the room momentarily empty of madly attacking, still-living Aglirtans.

  "We must bar those doors!" one of the younger guards shouted excitedly, pointing around the Throne Chamber with his sword at the many grand and gilded entrances. His blade was notched and dripping blood that was not his own.

  "No, no!" Hawkril snarled at him. "This room's a deathtrap for us, with our few blades. We fall back. Up the Wyvern Stair! We'll make our stand in the Hall of Shields, that has its own kitchens and apartments behind it, and only one back door to guard: that stair down to the cellars!"

  " What stair down to the cellars?" the guardsman bellowed back, even as he nodded and waved a weary arm to beckon what was left of his command to rally around.

  "The secret stair you've now been told about, obviously," Hulgor Delcamper roared, wiping away enough Aglirtan blood to let the guard see his toothy grin. In the same movement he lurched around to peer through his gore-matted hair at Hawkril and shouted, "Gods, man, but you sure know how to lay on battles here! I thought I'd been reduced to tussling over pillows and gown fastenings with chambermaids for the rest of my fading days, but this, now! Ho, yes!"