“I think it is the Age of Dragons,” Malys said.
The green flicked his tail lazily like a cat and shook his head sadly. He reached a talon up to scratch his angular jaw. “No. The time of dragons is passing. There are not near so many of us now. We are creatures of magic. And with magic gone, how long will it take for us to fade from Krynn?”
It was a statement, really, not a question, and the green hadn’t expected an answer. But Malys gave him one.
“We do not have to fade at all.” She fixed her eyes on the green, and the corner of her massive scarlet lip curled upward in a slight smile. “A red challenged me recently, and though it pained me, I was forced to fight him. I was victorious, of course. As he died, I felt stronger. I became more powerful. I knew that by slaying him I had absorbed his magical essence. I am not going to fade.”
The green rose on his haunches and backed away from Malys. “Are you suggesting dragons purposely kill each other to survive?”
“You don’t want to fade from Krynn, do you?” she asked, turning the green’s words back on him. “Better some die, rather than all. Better you live.”
The green silently regarded Malys. Then after several silent moments he spoke. “The coppers, the brass, the bronzes. The draconians.”
“Those who are smaller and weaker, those who would not pose much of a challenge in a fight. Those who have a hint of magic about them. Kill them and gain their power.”
“They are my enemies anyway,” the green mused, his conscience tossed soundly out the door.
“Perhaps even smaller green dragons.”
“No!”
“Of course not,” Malys was quick to apologize. “Forgive me. I was merely thinking you might want to eliminate those beneath you, those who could present a threat and who might grow more powerful as they killed their enemies—and eventually turned on you.”
The green stared at her, thinking. He drummed a claw against the earth. “I would presume that smart dragons would use the magical essence they gained to establish domains, claim tracts of Krynn and shape the land to suit them.”
Malys glanced over her shoulder at her new lair, which was part of a small mountainous area she was landscaping. “The Dairly Plains are mine,” she hissed. “And soon I will take the land to the west of them.”
The green dragon nodded. Malys had provided him with an excellent plan. He couldn’t wait to share it with all of his other allies.
One year later, Khellendros became dragon overlord of a realm consisting of the Northern Wastes, Hinterlund, Gaardlund, and the Plains of Solamnia—those lands touched by the Turbidus Ocean as far south as Solamnia’s new border. The Blue likely could have claimed more territory, but that would have taken more time, and would require that many more hours be devoted to patrolling his realm.
He selected a lesser blue dragon, Gale, to keep an eye on the farthest edges of his territory. Gale, knowing it was better to ally himself with Khellendros than to be trampled by him, loyally served the Storm Over Krynn.
Khellendros preferred to spend his time trying to perfect blue spawn. He selected the best human candidates to become his nightmarish creations, and found the occasional draconian that was needed to power the transformations. He preferred to spend time thinking about Kitiara and how he would ultimately find a way to bring her back.
The inhabitants of New Coast were occupied with worries about their land, which was becoming wetter than was normal for fall. The rains had increased dramatically and the water was not being absorbed by the ground as fast as usual. Deep pools of water lay about inland villages, drowning crops and threatening homes. Rivers were spreading out and threatening to swallow farms. The temperature was climbing and swarms of insects were becoming as thick as clouds.
The unseasonable fall warmth was making the coastline steamy, hotter than it was in the summer. And the coastline itself was shifting. The water in the fingerlike bay of New Sea that reached between New Coast and Blödehelm was rising and becoming choked by lilies. People who lived along the shore were being forced farther inland.
A concerned silver dragon had taken to the skies in search of an answer. On this day he dipped low over the land, inspecting a fetid bog. It hadn’t been there a few weeks ago when he had visited. He made another pass over it and landed nearby. A hundred yards away was the edge of a copse of trees, and nestled between the largest willows was a reedy marsh that stretched toward the horizon. The trees had been there a long time, but the thick vines and moss that hung from their branches were new. Their roots were submerged in the brackish water.
The dragon didn’t remember the marsh either, though he had to admit he was not thoroughly conversant with this stretch of New Coast. A haze of mosquitoes hovered above the stagnant surface and wet roots. A fat, contented frog had partly submerged itself in a patch of mud and now rotated its eyes in the dragon’s direction.
“It is wet here,” the dragon began. “Too wet for this season.” The words sounded more like grunts and croaks. Silvers had a knack for being able to communicate with most species, and the young dragon enjoyed animal banter, often finding the conversations enlightening. Unlike people, and some other dragons he knew, animals didn’t lie.
“Never too wet,” the frog belched in tones the dragon understood. “Wet. Warm. Many insects to eat. Wonderful.”
“It has not been like this long.”
“Less than a moon,” the frog replied.
“Less than a month,” the dragon whispered.
“Forever,” the frog added. “It will be wet forever.”
The silver cocked his head closer. “What do you know about the water?”
“The master likes the water, too. And the heat. Wonderful heat.”
“The master?”
“The master makes it rain. She makes the ground hard so the rain stays on top, doesn’t sink in and run away. Wonderful rain.”
“Who is this master?”
“I am.”
The voice wasn’t the frog’s. It was deep and rich, feminine, and it came from behind the silver, from the insect-plagued marsh.
“And you are trespassing.”
The dragon slowly turned his head, and his eyes narrowed. Peering into the copse of moss-draped trees, he saw a pair of large, dull yellow eyes gleaming just above ground level, shining through the fog of mosquitoes.
The silver slipped away from the wallowing frog and moved closer to the marsh.
“What you are doing here is wrong, unnatural,” the silver lectured. “The land was not meant to be like this. You have no right to change it.”
“The land is mine, all of New Coast and Blödehelm.”
The silver edged its head past a curtain of vines so he could see the Black better. The Black was lying in the marsh.. Only the top crest of her head and her eyes were visible above the reedy water.
Suddenly the vines nearby twisted like writhing serpents. At the Black’s unspoken command, they wrapped about the silver’s head and jaws, muzzling him, spinning around his neck. Tree roots rose from the water and circled his legs.
The silver struggled. He was immensely strong, and the vines could not hold him. In the instant the silver broke free, the Black rose from the marsh and breathed a gout of acid, striking the silver on his snout.
The caustic liquid sizzled and hissed, and the silver dragon recoiled in pain and surprise. The Black pressed her attack, breathing on him again. The harsh acid melted the scales around the silver’s head. The Black rushed forward and slammed her shoulder into a willow. The tree groaned and toppled, striking the silver.
The silver backed quickly away from the marsh’s edge, and the Black followed him. Now, in the light, he could see better. She was covered with black thick scales and had midnight-blue ridged plates on the underside of her neck and her belly. Her wings were smooth and the color of the night sky, and her horns grew out of a crest just above and behind her slanted eyes. The ivory horns were menacing hooks, cruelly curving up a bit at the tips.