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  Dragons of Autumn Twilight

  ( Dragonlance: Chronicles - 1 )

  Margaret Weis

  Tracy Hickman

  Creatures of legend, the dragons have returned to Krynn. Now, the darkness of war threatens to engulf the land. Then hope appears — a blue crystal staff in the hands of a beautiful bar barian woman. The promise of this hope forces a group of long-time friends into the unlikely roles of heroes: Tanis Half-Elven, their leader, a skilled warrior who detests fighting and is tormented by love for two women; Sturm Brightblade, Knight of Solamnia, driven to restore the honor of the knighthood; Raistlin Majere, the powerful and unsettling magic-user, whose hourglass-shaped eyes conceal dark mysteries; Caramon, Raistlin's twin, a genial giant both loved and feared by his brother; Flint Fireforge, the gruff old dwarven fighter, almost a father to them all; and Tasselhoff Burrfoot, a kender, the nuisance race of Krynn, immune to fear and followed by trouble wherever he goes.

  Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Dragons of Autumn Twilight

  CANTICLE OF THE DRAGON

  Hear the sage as his song descends like heaven's rain or tears,

  and washes the years, the dust of the

  many stories

  from the High Tale of the Dragonlance.

  For in ages deep, past memory and word,

  in the first blush of the world

  when the three moons rose from the

  lap of the forest,

  dragons, terrible and great,

  made war on this world of Krynn.

  Yet out of the darkness of dragons,

  out of our cries for light

  in the blank face of the black moon soaring,

  a banked light flared in Solamnia,

  a knight of truth and of power,

  who called down the gods themselves

  and forged the mighty Dragonlance,

  piercing the soul

  of dragonkind, driving the shade of

  their wings

  from the brightening shores of Krynn.

  Thus Huma, Knight of Solamnia,

  Lightbringer, First Lancer,

  followed his light to the foot of the

  Khalkist Mountains,

  to the stone feet of the gods,

  to the crouched silence of their temple.

  He called down the Lancemakers, he took on

  their unspeakable power to crush the

  unspeakable evil,

  to thrust the coiling darkness

  back down the tunnel of the

  dragon's throat.

  Paladine, the Great God of Good,

  shone at the side of Huma,

  strengthening the lance of his strong right arm,

  and Huma, ablaze in a thousand moons,

  banished the Queen of Darkness,

  banished the swarm of her shrieking hosts

  back to the senseless kingdom of

  death, where their curses

  swooped upon nothing and nothing

  deep below the brightening land.

  Thus ended in thunder the Age of Dreams

  and began the Age of Might,

  When Istar, kingdom of light and

  truth, arose in the east,

  where minarets of white and gold

  spired to the sun and to the sun's glory,

  announcing the passing of evil,

  and Istar, who mothered and cradled

  the long summers of good,

  shone like a meteor

  in the white skies of the just.

  Yet in the fullness of sunlight

  the Kingpriest of Istar saw shadows:

  At night he saw the trees as things

  with daggers, the streams

  blackened and thickened under the

  silent moon.

  He searched books for the paths of Huma,

  for scrolls, signs, and spells

  so that he, too, might summon the

  gods, might find

  their aid in his holy aims,

  might purge the world of sin.

  Then came the time of dark and death

  as the gods turned from the world.

  A mountain of fire crashed like a

  comet through Istar,

  the city split like a skull in the flames,

  mountains burst from once-fertile valleys,

  seas poured into the graves of mountains,

  the deserts sighed on abandoned

  floors of the seas,

  the highways of Krynn erupted

  and became the paths of the dead.

  Thus began the Age of Despair.

  The roads were tangled.

  The winds and the sandstorms dwelt

  in the husks of cities,

  The plains and mountains became our home.

  As the old gods lost their power,

  we called to the blank sky

  into the cold, dividing gray to the ears

  of new gods.

  The sky is calm, silent, unmoving.

  We have yet to hear their answer.

  The Old Man

  Tika Waylan straightened her back with a sigh. flexing her shoulders to ease her cramped muscles. She tossed the soapy bar rag into the water pail and glanced around the empty room.

  It was getting harder to keep up the old inn. There was a lot of love rubbed into the warm finish of the wood, but even love and tallow couldn't hide the cracks and splits in the well-used tables or prevent a customer from sitting on an occasional splinter. The Inn of the Last Home was not fancy, not like some she'd heard about in Haven. It was comfortable. The living tree in which it was built wrapped its ancient arms around it lovingly, while the walls and fixtures were crafted around the boughs of the tree with such care as to make it impossible to tell where nature's work left off and man's began. The bar seemed to ebb and flow like a polished wave around the living wood that supported it. The stained glass in the window panes cast welcoming flashes of vibrant color across the room.

  Shadows were dwindling as noon approached. The Inn of the Last Home would soon be open for business. Tika looked around and smiled in satisfaction. The tables were clean and polished. All she had left to do was sweep the floor. She began to shove aside the heavy wooden benches, as Otik emerged from the kitchen, enveloped in fragrant steam.

  "Should be another brisk day-for both the weather and business," he said, squeezing his stout body behind the bar. He began to set out mugs, whistling cheerfully.

  "I'd like the business cooler and the weather warmer," said Tika, tugging at a bench. "I walked my feet off yesterday and got little thanks and less tips! Such a gloomy crowd! Everybody nervous, jumping at every sound. I dropped a mug last night and-I swear-Retark drew his sword!"

  "Pah!" Otik snorted. "Retark's a Solace Seeker Guard. They're always nervous. You would be too if you had to work for Hederick, that fanat-"

  "Watch it," Tika warned.

  Otik shrugged. "Unless the High Theocrat can fly now, he won't be listening to us. I'd hear his boots on the stairs before he could hear me." But Tika noticed he lowered his voice as he continued. "The residents of Solace won't put up with much more, mark my words. People disappearing, being dragged off to who knows where. It's a sad time." He shook his head. Then he brightened. "But it's good for business."

  "Until he closes us down," Tika said gloomily. She grabbed the broom and began sweeping briskly.

  "Even theocrats need to fill their bellies and wash the fire and brimstone from their throats." Otik chuckled. "It must be thirsty work, haranguing people about the New Gods day in and day out-he's in here every night."

  Tika stopped her sweeping and leaned against
the bar.

  "Otik," she said seriously, her voice subdued. "There's other talk, too-talk of war. Armies massing in the north. And there are these strange, hooded men in town, hanging around with the High Theocrat, asking questions."

  Otik looked at the nineteen-year-old girl fondly, reached out, and patted her cheek. He'd been father to her, ever since her own had vanished so mysteriously. He tweaked her red curls.

  "War. Pooh." He sniffed. "There's been talk of war ever since the Cataclysm. It's just talk, girl. Maybe the Theocrat makes it up just to keep people in line."

  "I don't know." Tika frowned. "I-"

  The door opened.

  Both Tika and Otik started in alarm and turned to the door. They had not heard footsteps on the stairs, and that was uncanny! The Inn of the Last Home was built high in the branches of a mighty vallenwood tree, as was every other building in Solace, with the exception of the blacksmith shop. The townspeople had decided to take to the trees during the terror and chaos following the Cataclysm. And thus Solace became a tree town, one of the few truly beautiful wonders left on Krynn. Sturdy wooden bridge-walks connected the houses and businesses perched high above the ground where five hundred people went about their daily lives. The Inn of the Last Home was the largest building in Solace and stood forty feet off the ground. Stairs ran around the ancient vallenwood's gnarled trunk. As Otik had said, any visitor to the Inn would be heard approaching long before he was seen.

  But neither Tika nor Otik had heard the old man.

  He stood in the doorway, leaning on a worn oak staff, and peered around the Inn. The tattered hood of his plain, gray robe was drawn over his head, its shadow obscuring the features of his face except for his hawkish, shining eyes.

  "Can I help you. Old One?" Tika asked the stranger, exchanging worried glances with Otik. Was this old man a Seeker spy?

  "Eh?" The old man blinked. "You open?"

  «Well…» Tika hesitated.

  "Certainly," Otik said, smiling broadly. "Come in. Gray-beard. Tika, find our guest a chair. He must be tired after that long climb."

  "Climb?" Scratching his head, the old man glanced around the porch, then looked down to the ground below. "Oh, yes. Climb. A great many stairs…" He hobbled inside, then made a playful swipe at Tika with his staff. "Get along with your work, girl. I'm capable of finding my own chair."

  Tika shrugged, reached for her broom, and began sweeping, keeping her eyes on the old man.

  He stood in the center of the Inn, peering around as though confirming the location and position of each table and chair in the room. The common room was large and bean-shaped, wrapping around the trunk of the vallenwood. The trees smaller limbs supported the floor and ceiling. He looked with particular interest at the fireplace, which stood about three-quarters of the way back into the room. The only stonework in the Inn, it was obviously crafted by dwarven hands to appear to be part of the tree, winding naturally through the branches above. A bin next to the side of the firepit was stacked high with cordwood and pine logs brought down from the high mountains. No resident of Solace would consider burning the wood of their own great trees. There was a back route out the kitchen; it was a forty-foot drop, but a few of Otik's customers found this setup very convenient. So did the old man.

  He muttered satisfied comments to himself as his eyes went from one area to another. Then, to Tika's astonishment, he suddenly dropped his staff, hitched up the sleeves of his robes, and began rearranging the furniture!

  Tika stopped sweeping and leaned on her broom. "What are you doing? That table's always been there!"

  A long, narrow table stood in the center of the common room. The old man dragged it across the floor and shoved it up against the trunk of the huge vallenwood, right across from the firepit, then stepped back to admire his work.

  "There," he grunted. "S'posed to be closer to the firepit. Now bring over two more chairs. Need six around here."

  Tika turned to Otik. He seemed about to protest, but, at that moment, there was a flaring light from the kitchen. A scream from the cook indicated that the grease had caught fire again.

  Otik hurried toward the swinging kitchen doors.

  "He's harmless," he puffed as he passed Tika. "Let him do what he wants-within reason. Maybe he's throwing a party."

  Tika sighed and took two chairs over to the old man as requested. She set them where he indicated.

  "Now," the old man said, glancing around sharply. "Bring two more chairs-comfortable ones, mind you-over here. Put them next to the firepit, in this shadowy corner."

  "'Tisn't shadowy," Tika protested. "It's sitting in full sunlight!"

  "Ah"-the old man's eyes narrowed-"but it will be shadowy tonight, won't it? When the fire's lit…»

  "I–I suppose so…" Tika faltered.

  "Bring the chairs. That's a good girl. And I want one, right here." The old man gestured at a spot in front of the firepit. "For me."

  "Are you giving a party. Old One?" Tika asked as she carriedmover the most comfortable, well-worn chair in the Inn.

  "A party?" The thought seemed to strike the old man as funny. He chuckled. "Yes, girl. It will be a party such as the world of Krynn has not seen since before the Cataclysm! Be ready, Tika Waylan. Be ready!"

  He patted her shoulder, tousled her hair, then turned and lowered himself, bones creaking, into the chair.

  "A mug of ale," he ordered.

  Tika went to pour the ale. It wasn't until she had brought the old man his drink and gone back to her sweeping that she stopped, wondering how he knew her name.

  BOOK 1

  1

  Old friends meet. A rude interruption

  Flint Fireforge collapsed on a moss-covered boulder. His old dwarven bones had supported him long enough and were unwilling to continue without complaint.

  "I should never have left," Flint grumbled, looking down into the valley below. He spoke aloud, though there was no sign of another living person about. Long years of solitary wandering had forced the dwarf into the habit of talking to himself. He slapped both hands on his knees. "And I'll be damned if I'm ever leaving again!" he announced vehemently.

  Warmed by the afternoon sun, the boulder felt comfortable to the ancient dwarf, who had been walking all day in the chill autumn air. Flint relaxed and let the warmth seep into his bones-the warmth of the sun and the warmth of his thoughts. Because he was home.

  He looked around him, his eyes lingering fondly over the familiar landscape. The mountainside below him formed one side of a high mountain bowl carpeted in autumn splendor. The vallenwood trees in the valley were ablaze in the season's colors, the brilliant reds and golds fading into the purple of the Kharolis peaks beyond. The flawless, azure sky among the trees was repeated in the waters of Crystalmir Lake. Thin columns of smoke curled among the treetops, the only sign of the presence of Solace. A soft, spreading haze blanketed the vale with the sweet aroma of home fires burning.

  As Flint sat and rested, he pulled a block of wood and a gleaming dagger from his pack, his hands moving without conscious thought. Since time uncounted, his people had always had the need to shape the shapeless to their liking. He himself had been a metalsmith of some renown before his retirement some years earlier. He put the knife to the wood, then, his attention caught, Flint's hands remained idle as he watched the smoke drift up from the hidden chimneys below.

  "My own home fire's gone out," Flint said softly. He shook himself, angry at feeling sentimental, and began slicing at the wood with a vengeance. He grumbled loudly, "My house has been sitting empty. Roof probably leaked, ruined the furniture. Stupid quest. Silliest thing I ever did. After one hundred and forty-eight years, I ought to have learned!"

  "You'll never learn, dwarf," a distant voice answered him. "Not if you live to be two hundred and forty-eight!"

  Dropping the wood, the dwarf's hand moved with calm assurance from the dagger to the handle of his axe as he peered down the path. The voice sounded familiar, the first familiar voice he'd hear
d in a long time. But he couldn't place it.

  Flint squinted into the setting sun. He thought he saw the figure of a man striding up the path. Standing, Flint drew back into the shadow of a tall pine to see better. The man's walk was marked by an easy grace-an elvish grace, Flint would have said; yet the man's body had the thickness and tight muscles of a human, while the facial hair was definitely humankind's. All the dwarf could see of the man's face beneath a green hood was tan skin and a brownish-red beard. A longbow was slung over one shoulder and a sword hung at his left side. He was dressed in soft leather, carefully tooled in the intricate designs the elves loved. But no elf in the world of Krynn could grow a beard no elf, but…

  "Tanis?" said Flint hesitantly as the man neared.

  "The same." The newcomer's bearded face split in a wide grin. He held open his arms and, before the dwarf could stop him, engulfed Flint in a hug that lifted him off the ground. The dwarf clasped his old friend close for a brief instant, then, remembering his dignity, squirmed and freed himself from the half-elf's embrace.

  "Well, you've learned no manners in five years," the dwarf grumbled. "Still no respect for my age or my station. Hoisting me around like a sack of potatoes." Flint peered down the road. "I hope no one who knows us saw us."

  "I doubt there are many who'd remember us," Tanis said, his eyes studying his stocky friend fondly. "Time doesn't pass for you and me, old dwarf, as it does for humans. Five years is a long time for them, a few moments for us." Then he smiled. "You haven't changed."

  "The same can't be said of others." Flint sat back down on the stone and began to carve once more. He scowled up at Tanis. "Why the beard? You were ugly enough."

  Tanis scratched his chin. "I have been in lands that were not friendly to those of elven blood. The beard-a gift from my human father," he said with bitter irony, "did much to hide my heritage."

  Flint grunted. He knew that wasn't the complete truth. Although the half-elf abhorred killing, Tanis would not be one to hide from a fight behind a beard. Wood chips flew.