The Magic of Krynn t-1 Read online

  The Magic of Krynn

  ( Tales - 1 )

  Margaret Weis

  Tracy Hickman

  Michael Williams

  Barbara Siegel

  Scott Siegel

  Roger E. Moore

  Warren B. Smith

  Nick O

  Richard A. Knaak

  Nancy Varian Berberick

  Margaret Weis,Tracy Hickman, Michael Williams, Barbara Siegel, Scott Siegel, Roger E. Moore, Warren B. Smith, Nick O'Donohoe, Richard A. Knaak, Nancy Varian Berberick

  The Magic of Krynn

  FOREWORD

  "No! No! Please don't leave!" cried Tasslehoff Burrfoot and, before we could stop him, the kender grabbed hold of our magical device that would have transported us out of Krynn and ran off with it down the road!

  So here we are, back again, ready for more adventures. If you are one of our long-time fellow travelers, we welcome you along. If you have never journeyed with us through the DRAGONLANCE worlds, we hope this anthology will serve as an interesting and exciting introduction.

  A favorite fantasy theme is magic and those who practice it. In these pages, you will find tales of the magic of Krynn. Some were written by us, some written by old friends, and some written by new friends we've met along the way.

  Riverwind and the Crystal Staff is a narrative poem that describes a haunting search for a magical artifact. A Stone's Throw Away is the story of that irrepressible kender, Tassle- hoff Burrfoot, and his comic, perilous adventure of the tele- porting ring.

  The Blood Sea Monster tells about "the one that got away." Dreams of Darkness, Dreams of Light recounts the tale of Pig-Face William and the magical coin.

  Otik the innkeeper has unusual problems in Love and Ale. The young mage, Raistlin, faces danger in the Tower of High Sorcery in The Test of the Twins. Draconians stumble into a mysterious village of elves in Wayward Children.

  Finding the Faith is a high-adventure tale of the elf maid, Laurana, and her search for the famed dragon orb in Icewall Castle. A young Tanis and his friend, Flint the dwarf, learn about love that redeems and love that kills in Harvests.

  Finally, in the novella, The Legacy, a young mage must face the fact that his evil uncle-the powerful wizard, Raistlin — may be trying to escape eternal torment by stealing his nephew's soul!

  Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

  Riverwind and the Crystal Staff

  Michael Williams

  I

  Here on the plains where the wind embraces light and the absence of light, where the wind is the voice of the Gods come down, the rumor of song before singing begins, here the people under the winds are wandering ever towards home, forever in movement an old man is singing the song of an absent country, beautiful, heartless as sunlight, cold as imagined winds behind the eye of the rain, and wide before us, my sons and fathers, the song of the country centers and swoops like a hawk in a sleeping land, borne upon hunger and thermals, singing forever, singing: It was not always after the wars, it was a time once when fire did not rise on its own out of the dead grass, a time of waters and of vanishing light, when we did not imagine new country arising out of the long mirage of countries remembered from mother to daughter in a ruinous dream that would not have let this happen, nor did the dance of the moons, the opened hearts of hawks, nor did the wind itself foresee the fires hot as shrew's blood in the veins of the land consuming our dream while we slept in our journeys, while these things came to pass.

  The outrunners found the child among waves of grass and darkness, on the night when the moon and the moon wed one another and canceled their light and the sky was black except for a wedge of silver turned like a blade in the heart of the heavens. And the night they found him was his naming night, and the years unnamed were the years behind him, the time among leopards who must have raised him in the waves of grass and darkness, though he did not remember this, did not recount the graves upon graves to which he gave infancy, where he buried the first words of childhood, And the night they found him was his naming night.

  Riverwind the name he borrowed, borrowed for him out of the grass and the darkness moving, out of their fear of the sky and the blade of the swallowed moon. And honored he was among families, as the source of the blood was lost in the people, as the path of the eland, the high call of the hawk buried themselves in words and the long wind died at the back of his head as he moved and he moved, as the Que-Shu contained him, becoming his country, as the dream of the Que-Shu wed to his dreaming like dark to the moon, until he remembered the plains and the wind and the wandering only.

  II

  Riverwind, borrowed from night, grew as the eyes of the People, reading the air, the descending wind, the back of his mind a prophet, a jackal, while the cry of the leopard, unheard by the People except at the place where the world falls over, choired at the back of his head. And his hand, with the grace of the falconer's hand or the falcon herself, unjessed in the diving air, was the hand of the People, the left hand, the off-hand, the hand that steadies the bow. And so it would be, my sons and fathers, until the night of the dancing moons when the sky to the east was silver and black, red the sky in the westland falling, the night when we bring forth the daughters.

  Robed in the friends of the people, robed in eland, robed in the fox, in the falcon's high feathers ten winters counting, came forth the daughter of chieftains, the daughter unwed to man or to sorrow, unwed to the things she could not be.

  Grace of the fathers dove through her veins like a wind that the world obeyed. Heart of the hunter she was at the heart of the wandering, gold of the eyes imagining gold of the moon descended her naming night, and Riverwind knew that the journey, the truce with horizons, was ending in light and the promise of light. And holy the days he drew near her, holy the air that carried his songs of endearment, the country behind him a song like a choir of bees at the edge of hearing, telling him here is great sweetness here is pain and you will have to learn about this. And seven the summers in which she eluded him, winters in which the cold and the country collapsed on the words Chieftain's Daughter .

  The halved heart of the eland steamed from the spinning ground below him and Old Man, Grandfather, Wanderer, reader of skies, reading the face of the boy arising out of the face of the man, as the binding of moons on his naming night, repeating the words like a charm, like a warding, Chieftain's Daughter , the old enduring story of love and of distance, of the borders at which the heart bows down. But the eyes of Wanderer never the lone eyes watching as these things came to pass, in the eyes of the daughter the leopard's eye reflected upon reflection, until it mirrors itself into forever like the thoughts of a long hall never the lone eyes watching, and the eyes of Goldmoon for the Chieftain looked on at the dance of the eyes and whispers, looked on from the place of judgment deciding this could not be, and he set for River-wind three tasks unapproachable, saying Pay court to my daughter only when you can return to my hearthside bearing the moon in your hands, the stars on a dying blanket, and when you can come from the east, bearing the crystal staff, the arm of the gods in forgotten country, the source of the magics. And Wanderer hearing this heard the NO and again the NO at the heart of the words, and knew that the magic was fractured light, the light at the heart of a crystal, bending and bending upon itself, forever becoming nothing. Knew that the magic was fractured light when Riverwind spread his cloak on the dew, when the waters gathered, spangling stars, and the hunter cupped water alight in the palms of his han
ds, and returned to the Chieftain, bearing the moon in his hands, the stars trapped on a dying blanket. And the third task then was the terrible one, for the others were easy, were riddles set before children set before huntsmen set before those whom the Chieftain could never remember, and the heart and the mind of Wanderer bent like the light of the one true crystal, turning to words and to whispers, to the counsel that Riverwind heard that night at the brink of the journey, and traveling eastward under the reeling moons toward the source of the light in the heart of the Staff, again that night was his naming night.

  III

  The plains are long as thought, my fathers, as memory, where the traveler sees at the edge of the sky the dead children walking, and closer, as the sky recedes, the children accept his name, in the terrible dust becoming, as the sky recedes, the skins of himself he abandoned in wandering. Or this is the way it always happens, the story they tell us of blindness in the country of leopards when our eyes say no more, say we are done with looking, with the children, with skins and with dust and with memory.

  But the time of the Staff was no time, as Old Man told him it would be, knowing, reading the hawk's heart, reading the switch of the wind, knowing the Staff was calling, changing the country, changing the heart and the way the memory wanders the heart. And the moons crossed at impossible angle, Solinari to rest in the source of the sun, Lunitari to rest in the dragons. So Riverwind knew when the leopard approached him, skin full of light, of dark, of darkness boiling in light, bone and muscle giving way in imagined tunnels of plains and movement. Something behind him sang with the leopard, his left eye shining straight through the leopard to the edge of the world, and behind him something saying lie down, give this away at once, give this away before it begins, our son, our young one, for you can learn nothing of this mystery, nothing from this mystery but dry grass but dark but yearning but the graves of your childhood open to moonlight, and the dead the unspeaking dead you see where the sky meets the plains will be always your own, approaching.

  And he knows that he dreams this story out of wandering out of night and the long singing he kept away from the People from Goldmoon from the Chieftain from Old Man himself, the weaver of blood, a dream that he cannot remember where the hawk scuttles over the ground, dragging its wing like a trophy, a kill, surrendered wind in its eyes. And as he approaches, the leopard, the hawk vanish like water, reflections of moon over moon at the heart of the place of the Staff. He follows each vanishing, awaiting the snares of the moon, and Old Man, he whispers, old man, I am learning this mapless country. But the wanderer travels through hunger's ambush, through the thirst of the country that drives away knowing and knowledge, and the words of the Old Man translate the country behind him but the country before him is rumors of water, is crystal arising distorted by moonlight, by thought and the absence of thought, and water arises like blue crystal before him. This time the dreaming is over, he thinks, and this time and this time but the water escapes him bearing the moons in its depths like memories, like the speculations of gods, until the water is standing before him and down in the water he sees himself looking upwards, the knotted moons at his shoulders, and kneeling to drink he drinks too long, for out of the water his arms are rising, terrible, cold as the wind, and drawing him downward to moons and to darkness to peace past remembering, peace that whispers join me my brother my double over his vanishing face, and the words of the Wanderer returning, drawing him upwards, the air in the words sustaining him after belief falls to the floors of the waters that never were, for somewhere the Old Man is saying, is saying belief is a facet of crystal that turning, catches the light and bends it to shapes and mirages, bends it to foxfire that lies at the heart of the crystal, where nothing lies but the light that is damaged and broken beyond those things you remember, my son, you remember, and Riverwind, doused and redeemed by the words, by the saving air, is saying, old man, I have passed this, too, I am learning this mapless country. Learning until the red of the moon, the silver, combine in the air and the light was gold as the perfumed candles of Istar, forgotten perhaps terrible, and Goldmoon walks like a leopard there at the edge of hearing and faith saying

  Lie down, give this away at once, give this away before it begins, our darling, our young one, for you can learn all of this mystery, all from this mystery dry grass and dark and yearning, the source of the children blossoms for you in the winter. lie down, my love, lie down.

  Still he walks toward the daughter of the chieftains, and still she recedes, the story of days and of years circles like diving water and Old Man, he whispers. Old Man, I am learning this mapless country, but still she recedes into the arms and the keeping of son after chieftain's son rising like skins of the dead spangled in stars forever before him, forever embracing her as she turns, her eyes green steeples of light, her eyes his eyes in the twisting moon, as she smiles, as she gives him to warriors, and Old Man, he whispers.

  Old Man, I am giving this knowledge away, this terrible dream of the staff is a terrible dream when the staff surrenders, and under the moons he follows his losses until his skin turns against him, dappling, gold upon black upon gold, his strong hands remember a nest of knives and the front of the head bows down to the hot wind to the choir of leopards and in her golden throat in the throat of her numberless chieftains the blood is dancing is rising like a mirage like a thermal, and there are no words for this as he dreams this dream and the throats unravel. Forward he moves, remembering nothing, no movement and cry of the People no hunt at the head of the movement no horizons no crossing moons of the naming nights.

  He has left them behind him utterly, surrendering all to the skin full of light, of dark, of darkness boiling in light, bone and muscle giving way in imagined tunnels of plains and movement. Something behind him sings in his ear, his left eye shining straight through mirages to the edge of the world, and the smell of the blood is fading to the smell of rock of water and of things below rock and water wise and lethal and good beyond thought. Upright, out of the leopard's salvation he stalks into light, his first and his last skin recalled and surrendered, robed once more in the long dream shining. There in a temple of rock, cold, insubstantial as rain cold as the silence of stone, lies the Staff it is singing, singing arise, you have earned this peace at the edge of the world, behind you a vanishing country. take me up like a trophy, like a third moon in the sky familiar, and instead of the arm of the chieftain, become the chieftain himself, the lord of a land of leopards, and Riverwind cold as the silence of stones, remembering the edge of the sky, the dead children walking, and the staff shines sudden in the reach of his hand refusing.

  There in his grasp the world rolls, at the back of his head the voice of the leopard descends into words, is singing lie down, give this away at once, give this away before it begins, our son, our young one, for you can leam nothing of this mystery, nothing from this mystery but dry grass but dark but yearning but the graves of your childhood open to moonlight, and the dead the unspeaking dead you see where the sky meets the plains will be always your own, approaching.

  In the light of the Staff he surrenders the Staff. More brightly it bums as it shines on the country of trials, on the three moons balancing now, on the night turning in on the heart of the night creating blue light, the light of the crystal brought forth by the hand of the warrior out of the lineage of leopards, the long heart of the people remembered past memory, but Riverwind, cold as the silence of stones, laughs the first time since the west has vanished, for this is the country he knows he has failed in winning, for under the plains lies nothing, and victory walks in the skins of the children through damaging years of light.

  IV

  The rest of the story is known to you, how Riverwind, bearing the staff, returned to the People, the darkness of stones in his eyes, what the Chieftain ordered, (I was there to see it my words this time could not stop them) what the Staff in the hand of Goldmoon accomplished. But this you may not know: that in the pathways of light from the plains to the Last Home
riding she said to him, now are you worthy, no longer in my eyes only, but now in the falcon's eye of the world forever the story is walking forever the story, but riverwind no, and no again no to the fractured light of the staff, for caught in the light his hand was fading, through facet and facet unto the heart of the light, and not of this earth was the third moon rising, and the heart of the staff was his naming night.

  Here on the plains where the wind embraces light and the absence of light, where the wind is the voice of the Gods come down, the rumor of song before singing begins, here the people under the winds are wandering ever towards home, forever in movement an old man is singing the song of an absent country, beautiful, heartless as sunlight, cold as imagined winds behind the eye of the rain, and wide before us, my sons and fathers, the song of the country centers and swoops like a hawk in a sleeping land, borne upon hunger and thermals, singing forever, singing.

  The Blood Sea Monster

  Barbara Siegel and Scott Siegel

  Out of breath — and nearly out of hope — I ran across the wet sand, looking for a place to hide. After the terrible storm earlier that day, running along the muddy beach felt like running in a huge bowl of thick mush. But I ran just the same because Thick-Neck Nick, the village baker, was dead-set after me.

  I had lost Thick-Neck when I made a quick dash between two buildings and headed down toward the sea. I knew he might realize that I had come this way, but then I saw my salvation: along the shore was a long row of fishing boats.