Inevitably, the warriors' gazes were lifted by the soaring hollowness of the interior. As Sturm and Kitiara raised their eyes, they saw a series of ledges and horizontal pillars set into the immensely thick walls. Perched about fifty feet above the floor was the occupant of the obelisk, the Keeper.
A dragon. Where blades of sunlight struck him, his scales shone greenish gold.
No dragon had been seen on Krynn in centuries, so long, in fact, that their actual existence was a sorely debated point among historians, clerics, and natural philosophers. Sturm believed from boyhood that there had been dragons, but face to face with a living example, he felt so much fear that he thought he'd faint.
Be a man, a knight! he admonished himself. Men had faced dragons before. Huma had done it. So while Sturm's head swam from this newest and greatest revelation, he kept his feet firmly under him.
Kitiara, too, was stunned. Her eyes were huge and white in the dim light. She recovered more quickly than Sturm, however, and said, "Are you the Keeper who spoke to us?"
Yes. "Or do you prefer spoken language?" asked the dragon. Its voice was not as booming as Sturm had expected it to be; considering its size (thirty-five feet from nose to tail) and the distance to it, it was quite soft-spoken.
"Spoken is best. That way I can be sure of what I'm hear ing," answered Kitiara.
"As you wish. I do enjoy speaking, and I've gone such a long time without having anyone to speak to. The ants, you see, respond best to telepathy." The dragon shook its broad, angular head with a noise of clanging brass. It lifted its feet off the ledge and dropped to a lower perch with a single fluff of its wings. The breeze washed over the amazed explorers.
"Where are my manners? I am Cupelix Trisfendamir,
Keeper of the New Lives and resident of this obelisk." The gnomes had retreated behind the humans when the dragon appeared. Now they spread out and began to bombard him with questions.
"Keeper of what new lives?"
"How much do you weigh?"
"How did you get here?"
"How long have you been here?"
"Do you have any raisins?"
The dragon was amused by this barrage, but he dismissed the gnomes with a wave of one giant foreclaw. "You are Kiti ara Uth Matar and Sturm Brightblade, are you not?" he asked. The two nodded dumbly. "Your small friend, Stutts, speaks very highly of you both. Apparently, you have impressed him with many sterling qualities."
"Apparently'" said Kitiara dryly.
"I have only the evidence of Stutts's impressions. Be that as it may, I am very glad you are here. 1 followed your prog ress along the trail I had the Micones make -" Cupelix tilted his burnished head and peered at Sturm with dagger eyes.
"Yes, Sir Knight, the trail was deliberate."
"You read minds," Sturm said uncomfortably.
"Not deeply. Only when a thought is so clearly on the tip of one's tongue."
Stutts introduced his colleagues to the dragon. Cupelix exchanged witty banter with each one, until Sighter's turn came.
"You are a bronze dragons" questioned the gnome.
"Brass, if you must know. But enough of these trivialities!
You have come a long way and labored hard to recover your flying craft. Now that you have found it and each other once more, enjoy a moment of repose at my expense."
"We'd rather be on our way," said Sturm.
"But I insist," said the dragon. He slid along the edge of his perch, his rear legs gripping the stone ledge and his wings flaring out for balance. Cupelix worked his way around to just over the door – the only way out.
Sturm didn't like what was happening. By instinct, his hand strayed to the pommel of his sword – which changed to a chicken drumstick when he touched it. The gnomes looked popeyed, and Kitiara's jaw fell open in surprise.
"Please excuse my little joke," said Cupelix. In the wink of an eye, the poultry leg was gone and the sword was back.
"Your weapons are unnecessary here. That was just my way of showing you the truth of it. Men so often have to be shown the truth before they believe something. r,
"And now," said Cupelix, drawing himself erect. "Let there be victuals!" His eyes flashed with an inner light that seemed to leave bright sparkles in the air. The sparkles col lected in the open space before the bow of the Cloudmaster.
When they faded, they left behind a broad oak table groan ing under the weight of food and drink.
"Eat, my friends. Drink, and we shall tell each other tales of great doings," intoned the dragon. The gnomes fell upon the table with squeals of delight. Kitiara eyed the pitchers of foaming ale and sauntered over. Though the spear plants could taste like any food she wished, Kitiara had missed the sight of real food. Only Sturm remained where he stood, his hands folded at his waist.
"You do not eat, Master Brightblade," said Cupelix.
"The fruits of magic are not fit victuals," Sturm said.
The reptilian nostrils twitched. "You have poor manners for one who styles himself a knight."
Sturm answered carefully. "There are higher directives than mere manners. The Measure tells us to reject magic in all its forms, for example." The brass jaws widened, reveal ing saber-sized teeth and a forked black tongue flecked with gold. For a second, Sturm's heart contracted to a tight knot in his chest, for he knew he could not withstand this mon ster's attack. Then, he realized Cupelix was grinning at him.
"Oh, how boring it has been these centuries past without creatures to dispute with! Bless your stiff neck, Sturm
Brightblade! What pleasure you give me!" The jaws closed with a metallic clank. "But come now, surely you have heard of Huma the Lancer?"
"Of course."
"He got along quite well with some types of dragons, did he not?"
"So the histories say. I can only point out that while
Huma was a brave warrior and a great hero, he was not a model knight."
Cupelix burst out laughing; it sounded like a chorus of mighty gongs. "Do as you please, then! I would not want to be responsible for undermining such formidable virtue!"
With that, Cupelix sprang from his stand and, beating his wings furiously, flew up to the highest recesses of the hollow obelisk.
Sturm went to the sumptuous table. The gnomes were gorging themselves on baked apples, dove stuffed with bacon and chestnuts, wild rice with saffron, whole sweet onions glazed with honey, venison steaks, blood pudding, pickled eggs, breads, punch, wine, and ale.
Kitiara had taken her injured arm out of its sling and let it rest on the table. With her coat falling off one shoulder and the flush of new ale on her cheeks, she looked quite wanton.
She sniffed when her eyes met Sturm's, and she popped a whole pickled egg in her mouth.
'You're missing a feast," she said after swallowing. "The old emperors of Ergoth never ate so well."
"I wonder what it's made from?" Sturm said, picking up a warm roll and letting it fall back into its tray. "Sand? Poi sonous mushrooms?"
"Sometimes you are tiresome beyond belief," said Kitiara and quaffed a three-gulp swallow of ale. "If the dragon wanted to kill us, he could do it without resorting to the sub tleties of poison."
"Actually," Cutwood said, leaning across the table and spewing bread crumbs with every syllable, "brass dragons traditionally are not aligned with evil."
"Have we nothing to fear from this creature?" Sturm asked the table at large. He glanced up at the darkness that held the dragon, and lowered his voice. "Our ancestors on
Krynn fought long and hard to eliminate dragons from the world. Were they all wrong?"
"The situation here is completely different," said Stutts.
"Lunitari is this dragon's home. He has taken a kindly inter est in our plight. We shouldn't refuse his help because of ancient prejudices that have no application at the present time."
'What does he want from us?"
"He hasn't told us yet," Stutts admitted. "But he, ah, won't let us leave."
"What do you mean?" Sturm said sharply.
"Birdcall, Flash, and I wanted to go searching for you. We rerouted the engine control sufficiently to make short ascents – hops, really – but Cupelix refused to allow us out of the obelisk. He claimed it wasn't safe, and that he was taking steps to bring you all here."
"Well, we're here now," said Kitiara, reaching for another broiled dove. "And we'll soon be on our way."
"Will we?" Sturm asked, craning his neck again to peer into the dim heights of the obelisk. "Now that he has us all, will he let us go?"