“Yes, I see!” called Tas in high excitement.
“The shield, which you see on the ground, will protect you from most forms of dragonbreath—”
“Whoa!” shouted the dwarf, crossing his arms and looking stubborn once more. “What do you mean most forms? And how am I supposed to fly and hold a lance and a shield all at the same time? Not to mention the fact that the blasted shield’s bigger than me and the kender put together—”
“I thought you had done this before, Sir Flint!” Tas yelled.
The dwarf’s face went red with rage and he let out a bellow, but Khirsah cut in smoothly.
“Sir Flint probably isn’t accustomed to this newer model, Squire Burrfoot. The shield fits over the lance. The lance itself fits through that hole and the shield rests on the saddle and slides from side to side on the track. When attacked, you simply duck behind it.”
“Hand me the shield, Sir Flint!” the kender yelled.
Grumbling, the dwarf stumped over to where the huge shield lay on the ground. Groaning with the weight, he managed to lift it up and haul it over to the dragon’s side. With the dragon’s help, the dwarf and the kender between them managed to get the shield mounted. Then Flint went back for the dragonlance. Lugging it back, he thrust the tip of the lance up to Tas, who caught hold of it and—after nearly losing his balance and tumbling overboard—pushed the lance through the hole in the shield. When the pivot locked into position, the lance was counterbalanced and swung lightly and easily, guided by the kender’s small hand.
“This is great!” Tas said, experimenting. “Wham! There goes one dragon! Wham! There goes another. I—oh!” Tas stood up on the dragon’s back, balanced lightly as the lance itself. “Flint! Hurry! They’re getting ready to leave. I can see Laurana! She’s riding that big silver dragon and she’s flying this way, checking the line. They’re going to be signaling in a minute! Hurry, Flint!” Tas began jumping up and down in excitement.
“First, Sir Flint,” said Khirsah, “you must put on the padded vest. There... that’s right. Put the strap through that buckle. No, not that one. The other—there, you have it.”
“You look like a woolly mammoth I saw once.” Tas giggled. “Did I ever tell you that story? I—”
“Confound it!” Flint roared, barely able to walk, engulfed in the heavy, fur-lined vest. “This is no time for any of your harebrained stories.” The dwarf came nose-tip to nose-tip with the dragon. “Very well, beast! How do I get up? And mind you—don’t you dare lay a tooth on me!”
“Certainly not, Sire,” Khirsah said in deep respect. Bowing his head, the dragon extended one bronze wing full length upon the ground.
“Well, that’s more like it!” Flint said. Smoothing his beard with pride, he shot a smug glance at the stunned kender. Then, solemnly mounting the dragon’s wing, Flint ascended, regally taking his place at the front of the saddle.
“There’s the signal!” Tas shrieked, leaping back into the saddle behind Flint. Kicking his heels against the dragon’s flanks, he yelled, “Let’s go! Let’s go!”
“Not so fast,” said Flint, coolly testing the workings of the dragonlance. “Hey! How do I steer?”
“You indicate which direction you want me to turn by pulling on the reins,” Khirsah said, watching for the signal. There it was.
“Ah, I see,” said Flint, reaching down. “After all, I am in charge—ulp!”
“Certainly, Sire!” Khirsah leaped into the air, spreading his great wings to catch the rising currents of air that floated up the face of the small cliff they stood upon.
“Wait, the reins—” Flint cried, grasping at them as they slid out of his reach.
Smiling to himself, Khirsah pretended not to hear.
The good dragons and the knights who rode them were gathered on the rolling foothills east of the Vingaard Mountains. Here, the chill winter winds had given way to warm breezes from the north, melting the frost from the ground. The rich smell of growth and renewal perfumed the air as the dragons rose in flashing arcs to take their places in formation.
It was a sight that took the breath away. Tasslehoff knew he would remember it forever—and maybe even beyond that. Bronze and silver, brass and copper wings flared in the morning light. The Greater Dragonlances, mounted on the saddles, glittered in the sun. The knights’ armor shone brilliantly. The Kingfisher flag with its golden thread sparkled against the blue sky.
The past few weeks had been glorious. As Flint said, it seemed the tide of war was finally flowing in their direction.
The Golden General, as Laurana came to be called by her troops, had forged an army seemingly out of nothing. The Palanthians, caught up in the excitement, rallied to her cause. She won the respect of the Knights of Solamnia with her bold ideas and firm, decisive actions. Laurana’s ground forces surged out of Palanthas, flowing across the plain, pressing the unorganized armies of the Dragon Highlord, known as the Dark Lady, into panic-stricken Flight.
Now, with victory after victory behind them and the dragonarmies fleeing before them, the men considered the war as good as won.
But Laurana knew better. They had yet to fight the dragons of the Highlord. Where these were and why they had not fought before was something Laurana and her officers couldn’t figure out. Day after day, she held the knights and their mounts in readiness, prepared to take to the air. And now that day had come. The dragons had been sighted—flights of blues and reds reportedly heading westward to stop the insolent general and her rag-tag army.
In a shimmering chain of silver and bronze, the Dragons of Whitestone, as they were called, soared across the Solamnic Plain. Although all the dragon-mounted knights had been trained in flight as much as time allowed (with the exception of the dwarf who steadfastly refused), this world of wispy, low-hanging clouds and rushing air was still new and foreign to them.
Their banners whipped about wildly. The foot soldiers beneath them seemed no more than bugs crawling across the grasslands. To some of the knights, flying was an exhilarating experience. To others, it was a test of every bit of courage they possessed.
But always before them, leading them in spirit and by example, flew Laurana upon the great silver dragon her brother had ridden from the Dragon Isles. The sunlight itself was not more golden than the hair that streamed out from beneath her helm. She had become a symbol to them like the dragonlance itself—slender and delicate, fair and deadly. They would have followed her to the Gates of the Abyss itself.
Tasslehoff, peering over Flint’s shoulder, could see Laurana ahead of them. She rode at the head of the line, sometimes looking back to make certain everyone was keeping up, sometimes bending down to consult with her silver mount. She seemed to have things well under control, so Tas decided he could relax and enjoy the ride. It was truly one of the most wondrous experiences of his life. Tears streaked his windblown face as he stared down in absolute joy.
The map-loving kender had found the perfect map.
Below him was spread—in tiny, perfect detail—rivers and trees, hills and valleys, towns and farms. More than anything in the world, Tas wished he could capture the sight and keep it forever.
Why not? he wondered suddenly. Clinging to the saddle with his knees and thighs, the kender let go of Flint and began rummaging around in his pouches. Dragging out a sheet of parchment, he rested it firmly against the dwarf’s back and began to draw on it with a piece of charcoal.
“Quit wiggling!” he shouted at Flint, who was still trying to grab the reins.
“What’re you doing, you doorknob?” the dwarf yelled, pawing frantically at Tas behind his back like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
“I’m making a map!” Tas yelled in ecstasy. “The perfect map! I’ll be famous. Look! There are our own troops, like little ants. And there’s Vingaard Keep! Stop moving! You made me mess up.”