Durothil drew in a long breath and turned his gaze out over his new realm. There was no doubt in his mind that he would rule-the right and the responsibility were his by birth. The well-being of these People, for good or ill, was in his hands. Young though he was, he would ensure that they prospered in this new land.
It was a fair land, he noted, as wild and rugged as the fabled northlands of Faerie. From where he stood-a small, flat plateau atop a soaring mountain-the view was one that stole the breath and quickened the imagination. A host of enormous mountains, so tall that their summits were lost in thick banks of sunset clouds, stood like watchful sentinels as far to the north and west as Durothil's eyes could reach.
The young elf's gaze swept down the rocky slope before him, over the thick pine forest that blanketed most of the mountain. In the valley below, a river wandered through verdant meadow, its placid waters reflecting the brilliant tints of rose and gold cast by the setting sun.
Nodding thoughtfully, Durothil took a deep breath and squared his shoulders for the task ahead. He noted that the air was thin and crisp, quite unlike the sultry, flower-scented winds that caressed his lost island home. Yet the bracing winds felt alive, singing with magic that was not so different from that to which he had been reared. The Weave was strong upon this new world, and already the young elf could glimpse his own place within the magical fabric. Where there was magic, elves could thrive. In time, this land would become a true home.
"Faerun," Durothil murmured, adding the rising inflection that changed the elven word for his homeland into something new, yet familiar. He turned to face his people, and took heart at seeing his own sense of wonder-and recognition-reflected upon several elven faces.
Under Durothil's direction, the survivors set to work. Several minor priests had survived, as well as a few mages. These began tending the wounded with the salves and spells that remained to them. Those whose store of magic had been depleted offered prayers or simply gave comfort to those who had been shattered by the loss of their homeland, and those who were dazed by the new and unfamiliar world in which they found themselves.
And strange it was, Durothil silently agreed, despite the reassuring tug of the magical Weave. Even the stone beneath their feet was odd. The plateau was remarkably flat, almost as level as a floor, and apparently made of a single rock. The floor was slick and smooth, shiny as polished marble. Yet for all that, there were odd lumps here and there. Ever curious, the young elf wandered to the edge of the flat, then took his dagger from his belt and began to chip at one of these lumps. The stone was as brittle as glass, and it fell away easily to reveal an odd, charred shape. Durothil quickly dug free a slender metal tube from the stone.
He picked it up, noting the silent hum of magic that flowed through it. As soon as he lifted the tube, he caught the glint of a brighter metal beneath-a sword, most likely. A few more blows with his dagger confirmed the nature of this second find. Frowning in puzzlement, Durothil lifted the magical tube to the fading light and turned it this way and that, trying to make sense of it.
"A wrist bracer," announced a male voice in the odd accents of Faerie's far northlands. The speaker-a tall, flame-haired elf-stooped and took the metal tube from Durothil's hand without bothering to ask permission. After a moment's scrutiny, he announced, "Elven make, I'd say. The sword, too."
Durothil shrugged, though he suspected the older elf was right. Sharlario Moonflower was a merchant-a pirate, more likely-who'd had the misfortune to make port at Tintageer days before the invading forces struck. The northerner's appearance was quite different from the golden, elegant beauty of Tintageer's folk. Sharlario's skin was pale as parchment, a stark contrast with his bright red hair and sky-colored eyes. Odd though his appearance was, his ways were stranger still. Blunt to the point of rudeness, Sharlario had little use for the elaborate traditions and protocols of court life. At the moment, however, he seemed to share in full measure the young prince's curiosity about the objects buried in the stone.
"A metal armband, a sword. Now, how did they get there?" mused Sharlario. His blue eyes suddenly went wide, as if the answer had struck him like a blow. With one quick, fluid movement, he rose and whirled to face the others.
"You, priestess-gather those children together," he snapped, his voice crisp with urgency. "All of you, head down the mountain as fast as you dare. Find shelter-small caves if you can, thick trees if there's nothing else. Help the wounded. Hurry!"
Durothil caught the elf's arm. "By what authority do you command here?" he asked indignantly.
Shaking off Durothil's restraining hand, the pale elf brandished the charred metal band. "Think, boy! An elf wore this bracer, held that sword. She died in a blast of heat that turned her into dust and melted rock and soil into soup. What do you know of that can do that?"
Despite the speed of Sharlario's words and the urgency of his tone, Durothil regarded him silently for a moment. Elven kings did not speak or act in haste, and the young prince desired to comport himself with appropriate dignity. He also found himself wondering, incongruously, how Sharlario had decided that the bracer's former owner had been female.
"Are you utterly ignorant of magic?" Durothil retorted in due time. "In a spell battle between mages of sufficient power, it is-"
Sharlario cut him off with a curt, exasperated oath. "Stop dithering, boy-there's a dragon about. You give the command to flee, then, but do it while your people yet live!"
Durothil's eyes widened as the truth came to him. "Dragonfire," he murmured, eyeing the glasslike stone and understanding at last the danger into which they had stumbled.
"Do as the pirate said, and hurry!" he shouted to the watchful elves, ignoring Sharlario's insulted glare.
As the elves rushed to do his bidding, Durothil shielded his eyes with one hand and squinted into the west.
There lay the most rugged mountains. Dragons made their lairs in the mountains, or so the old tales said. There were no dragons upon the island that had been Durothil's only home, but legends were plentiful. By all accounts, dragons were creatures of enormous power and magic. It was likely that the creature who had razed this site could sense the spell that had brought the elves to this place. Even now, it might be coming to investigate the intrusion.
Sure enough, a tiny spot against the fading gold of the sky quickly took ominous shape. A dragon, red scales flaming in the dying light, swept toward them.
Durothil thrust aside sudden, paralyzing fear and tried to assess how long it would be before the dragon was upon them. Too soon, he concluded grimly. Before the fleeing elves could descend down past the tree line, the dragon would come, and it would easily pick them off.
The young prince drew his blade. Planting his feet wide, he brandished the sword and shouted a challenge into the rising wind.
No quick burst of flame could melt rock, Durothil reasoned. The blast of dragonfire that had transformed this mountaintop must have lasted a long time. It was his task to ensure that the next blast lasted long enough to drain the dragon's strength and allow the elves time to escape. He would purchase this time for the elves by drawing the dragon's fire upon himself.
It did not occur to the young prince to do otherwise. To die for his People was the final duty of any elven king.
To his surprise, Sharlario Moonflower stood with him, his own sword at the ready. But the older elf's cold blue eyes were fixed not upon the approaching dragon, but on a more immediate threat.