Dragons of a Vanished Moon Read online

  “There stands your foe, Skie. You have one fight left in you. One more battle to go. Then you may rest.”

  Skie raised his head. He could not see Malys. His sight was going rapidly, draining away with his life. He could see Kitiara, though, could see where she pointed. He drew in a breath, his last breath. He had better make it a good one.

  The breath mingled with the sulfur in his belly. He exhaled.

  Lightning cracked and sizzled, split the air. Thunder boomed, shook the mountain. The sound was horrendous, but he could still hear Malys’s shriek of rage and pain. He could not see what damage he had done to her, but he guessed it had been considerable.

  Enraged, Malys attacked him. Her razor-sharp talons dug through his scales, ripped apart his flesh, tore a gaping hole in his flank.

  Skie felt nothing, no more pain, no more fear.

  Pleased, he let his head sink to the floor of his lair.

  “Well done, my lovely Blue,” came Kitiara’s voice, and he was proud to feel the touch of her hand on the side of his neck. “Well done.…”

  Skie’s weak thunderbolt had caused Malys no real harm, beyond a jarring, tingling sensation that danced through her body and knocked a large chunk of scaly flesh off the joint of her upper left foreleg. She felt the pain more to her pride than to her great, bloated body, and she lashed out at the dying Skie, ripping and rending his flesh until the lair was awash with blood. Eventually, she realized she was doing nothing but maltreating an unfeeling corpse.

  Her fury spent, Malys resumed her dismantling of his totem, prepared it for transport back to her lair in the new Goodlund Range, the Peak of Malys.

  Gloating over her prize, eyeing with satisfaction the large number of skulls, Malys could feel her own power swell just handling them.

  She had never had much use for Krynn dragons. In a world where they were the dominant species, Krynn dragons were feared and revered by the rest of the world’s puny inhabitants and had thus become spoiled. Sometimes, it was true, Krynn’s soft-skins had taken up arms against the dragons. Malys had heard accounts of these contests from Skie, heard him go on and on about some event known as the War of the Lance, about the thrill of battle and the bonds formed between dragonrider and dragon.

  Clearly Skie had been away from his native world for too long, if he considered such childlike flailings to be true battles. Malys had gone up against a few of these dragonriders, and she’d never seen anything so amusing in her life. She thought back to her old world, where not a day went by but that some bloody fight erupted to establish hierarchy among the clan.

  Survival had been a daily battle, then, one reason Malys and the others had been glad to find this fat and lazy world. She did not miss those cruel times, but she tended to look back upon them with nostalgia, like an old war veteran reliving his past. She and her kind had taught these weakling Krynn dragons a valuable lesson—those who survived. The Krynn dragons had bowed down before her, had promised to serve and worship her. And then came the night of that strange storm.

  The Krynn dragons changed. Malys could not say exactly what was different. The Reds and Blacks and Blues continued to serve her, to come when summoned and answer her every beck and call, but she had the feeling they were up to something. She would often catch them in whispered conversations that broke off whenever she appeared. And, of late, several had gone missing. She’d received reports of Krynn dragons bearing dragonriders—Dark Knights of Neraka—into battle against the Solamnics at Solanthus.

  Malys had no objections to the dragons killing Solamnics, but she should have been consulted first. Lord Targonne would have done so, but he had been slain, and it was in the reports of his death that Malys had first heard the most disturbing news of all—the appearance on Krynn of a god.

  Malys had heard rumors of this god—the very god who had brought the world to this part of the universe. Malys had seen no signs of this god, however, and could only conclude that the god had been daunted by her arrival and had abandoned the field. The idea that the god might be lying low, building up her strength, never occurred to Malys—not surprising, for she came from a world devoid of guile, a world ruled by strength and might.

  Malys began to hear reports of this One God and of the One God’s champion—a human girl-child named Mina. Malys did not pay much attention to these, mainly because this Mina did nothing to annoy Malys. Mina’s actions actually pleased Malys. Mina removed the shield from over Silvanesti and destroyed the sniveling, self-serving green dragon, Cyan Bloodbane. The Silvanesti elves were properly cowed, crushed beneath the boots of the Dark Knights.

  Malys had not been pleased to hear that her cousin Beryl was about to attack the land of the Qualinesti elves. Not that Malys cared anything for the elves, but such actions broke the pact. Malys didn’t trust Beryl, didn’t trust her ambition and her greed. Malys might have been tempted to intervene and put a stop to this, but she had been assured by Lord Targonne, late leader of the Dark Knights, that he had the situation under control. Too late Malys found out that Targonne didn’t even have his own situation under control.

  Beryl flew off to attack and destroy Qualinesti, and she was successful. The Qualinesti elves were now fleeing the wreckage of their homeland like the vermin they were. True, Beryl managed to get herself killed in the process, but she had always been an impulsive, over-emotional, irrational nincompoop.

  The green dragon’s death was reported to Malys by two of Beryl’s minions—red dragons, who cringed and groveled properly but who, Malys suspected, were chortling out of the sides of their mouths.

  Malys did not like the way these reds gloated over her cousin’s death. They didn’t show the proper respect. Nor did Malys like what she heard of the reports of Beryl’s death. It had the whiff of the god about it. Beryl might have been a braying donkey of a dragon, but she was an immense and powerful beast, and Malys could not envision any circumstances under which a band of elves could have taken her down without divine assistance.

  One of the Krynn dragons gave Malys the idea of seizing Beryl’s totem. He had happened to mention the totem, wondered what they were going to do with it. Power radiated from the totem still, even after Beryl’s death. There was some talk among her surviving human generals that they might make use of it themselves, if they could figure out how to harness the magic.

  Appalled by the idea of humans laying their filthy hands on something so powerful and sacred as the totem, Malys flew immediately to claim it for herself. She used her magic to transport it to her lair, added the skulls of Beryl’s victims to the skulls of her own. She drew upon the magic and felt it well up inside her, making her stronger, more powerful than ever. Then came the report from Mina that she had slain the mighty Skie.

  Malys wasted no time. So much for this god. She had best creep back into whatever hole she had crawled out of. Malys wrapped Skie’s totem in magic and prepared to carry it off. Pausing, she glanced at the mangled remains of the great blue dragon, and wondered if she should add his head to the totem.

  “He does not deserve such distinction,” Malys said, shoving aside a bit of Skie’s bone and flesh with a disdainful toe. “Mad, that’s what he was. Insane. His skull would likely be a curse.”

  She glowered at the wound on her shoulder. The bleeding had stopped, but the burned flesh stung and ached, the damage to the muscle was causing her front foreleg to stiffen. The wound would not impede her flying, however, and that was all that mattered.

  Gathering up the skulls in her magical web, Malys prepared to depart. Before leaving, she sniffed the air, took one last look around. She had noticed something strange on her arrival—an odd smell. At first she’d been unable to determine the nature of the smell, but now she recognized it. Dragon. One of those Krynn dragons and, unless Malys was much mistaken, a Krynn metallic dragon.

  Malys searched the chamber of Skie’s lair in which his body lay, but found no trace of a metallic dragon: no golden scales lying about, no silver scrapings on the walls. At lengt
h, Malys gave up. Her wound pained her. She wanted to return to the dark and restful sanctuary of her lair and build up her totem.

  Holding fast to the web-encased skulls of the totem and favoring her wounded leg, Malys wormed her massive body out of the lair of the dead Blue and flapped off eastward.

  5

  The Silver Dragon and the Blue

  irror remained in hiding until he was certain beyond doubt that Malys was gone and that she would not return. He had heard the battle, and he’d even felt pride in Skie for standing up to the heinous red dragon, experienced a twinge of pity at Skie’s death. Mirror heard Malys’s furious roar of pain, heard her rip apart Skie’s body. When he felt a trickle of warm liquid flow past his hand, Mirror guessed that it was Skie’s blood.

  Yet now that Malys was gone, Mirror wondered what he would do. He put his hand to his maimed eyes, cursed his handicap. He was in possession of important information about the true nature of the One God. He knew what had become of the metallic dragons, and he could do nothing about any of it.

  Mirror realized he was going to have to do something—go in search of food and water. The odor of dragon blood was strong, but through it he could just barely detect the scent of water. He used his magic to shift back to his dragon form, for his sense of smell was better in that form than this puny human body. He invariably looked forward to the shifting, for he felt cramped and vulnerable in the frail, wingless human form, with its soft skin and fragile bones.

  He flowed into the dragon’s body, enjoying the sensation as a human enjoys a long, luxurious stretch. He felt more secure with his armored scales, felt better balanced on four legs than on two. He could see far more clearly, could spot a deer running through a field miles below him.

  Or, rather, I could have once seen more clearly, he amended.

  His sense of smell now much more acute, he was soon able to find a stream that flowed through the cavernous lair.

  Mirror drank his fill and then, his thirst slaked, he next considered easing his hunger pangs. He smelled goat. Skie had brought down a mountain goat and not yet had a chance to eat it. Once he quieted the rumblings of his belly, Mirror would be able to think more clearly.

  He hoped to avoid returning to the main chamber where the remnants of Skie’s body lay, but his senses told him that the goat meat he sought was in that chamber. Hunger drove Mirror back.

  The floor was wet and slippery with blood. The stench of blood and death hung heavy in the air. Perhaps it was this that dulled Mirror’s senses or perhaps the hunger made him careless. Whatever the reason, he was startled beyond measure to hear a voice, dire and cold, echo in the chamber.

  “I thought at first you must be responsible for this,” said the dragon, speaking in the language of dragons. “But now I realize that I was wrong. You could not have brought down the mighty Skie. You can barely move about this cavern without bumping into things.”

  Calling defensive magical spells to mind, Mirror turned his sightless head to face the unknown speaker—a blue dragon, by the sound of his voice and the faint scent of brimstone that hung about him. The blue must have flown in the main entrance to Skie’s lair. Mirror had been so preoccupied with his hunger that he had not heard him.

  “I did not slay Skie,” said Mirror.

  “Who did, then? Takhisis?”

  Mirror was surprised to hear her name, then realized that he shouldn’t be. He was not the only one to have recognized that voice in the storm.

  “You might say that. The girl called Mina wielded the magical bolt that brought about his death. She acted in self-defense. Skie attacked her first, claiming that she had betrayed him.”

  “Of course she betrayed him,” said the Blue. “When did she ever do anything else?”

  “I am confused,” said Mirror. “Are we speaking of Mina or Takhisis?”

  “They are one and the same, to all intents and purposes. So what are you doing here, Silver, and why is the stench of Malys heavy about the place?”

  “Malys took away Skie’s totem. Skie was mortally wounded, yet he still managed to defy her. He wounded her, I think, though probably not severely. He was too weak. She did this to him in retaliation.”

  “Good for him,” growled the Blue. “I hope gangrene sets in and she rots. But you didn’t answer my first question, Silver. Why are you here?”

  “I had questions,” said Mirror.

  “Did you receive answers?”

  “I did,” said Mirror.

  “Were you surprised to hear these answers?”

  “No, not really,” Mirror admitted. “What is your name? I am called Mirror.”

  “Ah, the Guardian of the Citadel of Light. I am called Razor. I am”—the Blue paused and when he next spoke, his voice was heavy and tinged with grief—“I was the partner of Marshal Medan of Qualinesti. He is dead, and I am on my own now. You, being a Silver, might be interested to hear that Qualinesti has been destroyed,” Razor added. “The Lake of Death, the elves call it. That is all that is left of the once-beautiful city.”

  Mirror was suspicious, wary. “I can’t believe this!”

  “Believe it,” said Razor grimly. “I saw the destruction with my own eyes. I was too late to save the Marshal, but I did see the great, green dragon Beryl meet her death.” His tone held grim satisfaction.

  “I would be interested to hear the account,” said Mirror.

  The Blue chuckled. “I imagine you would. The elves of Qualinesti were warned of her coming, and they were ready for her. They stood on their rooftops and fired thousands of arrows at her. Attached to each arrow was cord that someone had strengthened with magic. The elves thought it was their magic, naturally. It wasn’t. It was her magic.”

  “Takhisis?”

  “Simply ridding herself of another rival and the elves at the same time. The thousands of strands of magical cord formed a net over Beryl, dragged her down from the skies. The elves planned to kill her as she lay helpless on the ground, but their plans went awry. The elves had worked with the dwarves, you see, to dig tunnels beneath the ground of Qualinost. Many elves managed to escape through these tunnels, but, in the end, they proved to be Qualinost’s undoing. When Beryl landed on the ground, her great weight caused the tunnels to collapse, forming a huge chasm. She sank deep into the ground. The waters of the White-Rage River left their banks and flowed into the chasm, flooding Qualinost and turning it into a gigantic lake. A Lake of Death.”

  “Beryl dead,” Mirror murmured. “Skie dead. The Qualinesti lands destroyed. One by one, Takhisis rids herself of her enemies.”

  “Your enemies, too, Silver,” said Razor. “And mine. These overlords, as they call themselves, have slain many of our kind. You should rejoice in our Queen’s victory over them. Whatever you may think of her, she is the goddess of our world, and she fights for us.”

  “She fights for no one but herself,” Mirror retorted. “As she has always done. This is all her fault. If Takhisis had not stolen away the world, these overlords would have never found us. Those who have died would be alive today: dragons, elves, humans, kender. The great dragons murdered them, but Takhisis herself is ultimately responsible for their deaths, for she brought us here.”

  “Stole the world …” Razor repeated. His claws scratched against the rock. He shifted his tail slowly back and forth, his wings stirred restlessly. “So that is what she did.”

  “According to Skie, yes. So he told me.”

  “And why would he tell you, Silver?” Razor asked, sneering.

  “Because I tried to save his life.”

  “He a blue dragon, your most hated enemy! And you tried to save his life!” Razor scoffed. “I am not some hatchling to swallow this kender tale.”

  Mirror couldn’t see the Blue, but he could guess what he looked like. A veteran warrior, his blue scales would be shining clean, perhaps with a few scars of his prowess on his chest and head.

  “My reasons for saving him were cold-blooded enough to satisfy even you,” Mirror ret
urned. “I came to Skie seeking answers to my questions. I could not let him die and take those answers to the grave with him. I used him. I admit it. I am not proud of myself, but at least, because of my aid, he managed to live long enough to strike a blow against Malys. For that, he thanked me.”

  The Blue was silent. Mirror could not tell what Razor was thinking. His claws scraped the rock, his wings brushed the blood-tainted air of the lair, his tail swished back and forth. Mirror had spells ready, should Razor decide to fight. The contest would not be equal—a seasoned, veteran Blue against a blind Silver. But at least, like Skie, Mirror would leave his mark upon his enemy.

  “Takhisis stole the world.” Razor spoke in thoughtful tones. “She brought us here. She is, as you say, responsible. Yet, she is our goddess as of old, and she fights to avenge us against our enemies.”

  “Her enemies,” said Mirror coldly. “Else she would not bother.”

  “Tell me, Silver,” Razor challenged, “what did you feel when you first heard her voice. Did you feel a stirring in your heart, in your soul? Did you feel nothing of this?”

  “I felt it,” Mirror admitted. “When I first heard the voice in the storm, I knew it to be the voice of a god, and I thrilled to hear it. The child whose father beats him will yet cling to that parent, not because he is a good or wise parent, but because he is the only parent the child knows. But then I began to ask questions, and my questions led me here.”

  “Questions,” Razor said dismissively. “A good soldier never questions. He obeys.”

  “Then why haven’t you joined her armies?” Mirror demanded. “Why are you here in Skie’s lair, if not to ask questions of him?”

  Razor had no response. Was he brooding, thinking things over or was he angry, planning to attack? Mirror couldn’t tell, and he was suddenly tired of this conversation, tired and hungry. At the thought of food, his stomach rumbled.

  “If we are going to battle,” Mirror said, “I ask that we do it after I have eaten. I am famished, and unless I am mistaken, I smell fresh goat meat in the lair.”