“If you had left me there, you would still be there as well, for it was my wings that bore us both to the surface of the world!” growled Tombfyre.
“You will obey me,” Ariakas declared grimly, and Tombfyre admitted to a grudging respect. Certainly no other creature in the world would dare to speak to him like this.
And what Ariakas said, for the most part, was true. Tombfyre’s destiny had been laid clearly by the Dark Queen, and he was bidden to bear this Dragon Highlord where he would go. Bitterly Tombfyre followed his rider’s instruction, winging toward the monstrous, twisted shape that now seemed to rise higher than ever into the sky. He felt an immortal presence behind that grim structure, knew that Takhisis herself was again drawing near Krynn, seeking the portal through which she could enter and gain mastery over the world.
“Your vengeance can wait,” Ariakas snapped, as if reading the red dragon’s mind. “Our mistress-your queen and mine, should I need to remind you-will pass through the Foundation Stone gate tonight. Would you not be in attendance?”
Ariakas had regained his composure, and now his voice was as cold and arrogant as it was when he was sentencing some wretched prisoner to torture or execution.
Tombfyre glowered into the gathering darkness, declining to voice an answer, for in truth, this was a time when the will of his mistress was but a faint and secondary compulsion compared to the hatred that drove him to take wing against the ancient silver. He thought of victories won and disasters suffered during millennia of strife between the two forces of dragonkind. Certainly all that history had been meant to lead to this dramatic resolution… now, here, tonight!
Of course, he knew of other tales, legends, and predictions. If the prophets were true and the alignment of the Foundation Stone properly established, than Ariakas was right: Takhisis herself would pass from the Abyss to Krynn on this bleak eve. The pieces of her mighty spell were in place, and though her armies had suffered setbacks on the fields of battle, the opening of her mighty gate would allow the Queen of Darkness herself to rule upon this world that was her destined plaything.
And Tombfyre’s greatness would again be eclipsed, as it had been during the reign of Deathfyre, was now by his human lord. His mistress would be here as well, and she would command the troops of the army. Ansalon would be her empire, and Tombfyre would have yet another master upon Krynn.
“Do you hear me? She comes! ” The Highlord’s voice was increasingly shrill, as if he sensed his mount’s growing reluctance.
“If the queen passes her gate, then she will summon me at her pleasure,” Tombfyre declared, tucking his wings and slicing a downward course through the air. He glided with serene grace toward the massive clearing before the twisted, deformed edifice that was the Temple of Neraka. In grim silence, he landed and waited for more arguments from the human emperor. But Ariakas made no sound. He merely slid to the ground and turned his back upon the mighty dragon.
After the Highlord had started toward the gates of the Dark Queen’s fortress, Tombfyre once again took to the air. His eyes remained fixed upon the Khalkists, where his clan had reigned for thousands of years.
The silver dragons, gloating from their victory in the skies over Vingaard, would be gathering there, he knew. And certainly there he would find the mighty Lectral.
And Tombfyre would find his destiny as well.
Chapter 42
352 AC
Allsar Dane’s life seemed to have lasted but an eyeblink of time, a fact that Lectral found curiously saddening. He looked at the pallid, drained features of the knight, saw where Ariakas’s mighty sword had pierced the armor and the flesh of Dane’s back. The blade had torn through the metal plate, puncturing the body to a relatively shallow depth, at least by the standard of a dragon’s wound.
Yet in a man, it had been enough to be lethal.
After landing, the silver dragon changed shape, but only long enough to shrug out of his saddle, to release the slain knight’s buckles and armor, and to lay him in state on a low hillside, overlooking a lake of pure, clear water. Eyes closed as if in slumber, the knight’s face was gray and pallid. To Lectral, it suddenly seemed to look very old.
Again silver scales gleamed as the mighty dragon assumed his true shape. Sadly Lectral scooped a grave in the rocky ground of the Khalkist shale, remembering his first reluctant acquaintance with this brave man.
“Ah, my friend, you were a worthy foe for Tombfyre, and for the Dark Queen herself, whether they knew it or not.”
Gently the silver dragon lifted the limp body and laid it in the grave. With a few scoops of his massive forelegs, Lectral poured dirt and gravel over the motionless shape until the grave was a slightly mounded spot atop the low hill. He patted and smoothed the surface for a long time, wanting to insure that the surface was perfect.
With a shimmering of magic, the mighty silver shape contracted, faded to a mundane gray, and rose to stand upon two feet. The figure of a proud knight stood beside the burial site, head bowed, hands clasped before his armored chest as he remembered the brave warrior’s last moments.
“O Platinum Father,” murmured Lectral. “Please see that this courageous Knight of the Crown receives the honors due a hero of Paladine… and know that he will be missed, by humans and dragons alike. By the Oath and the Measure, he fought well and died as a hero.”
Fighting a curious twinge of emotion that thickened his throat and misted his eyes, Lectral looked to the placid lake just below the hill. Many ripples spread across the surface, marking the feeding of numerous trout as they snatched flies and water bugs from the surface.
He wondered idly if they were rainbows. He hoped they were, for that trout had been Allsar Dane’s favorite.
“Good fishing, my friend,” murmured the silver dragon, once again a gleaming serpent.
With a respectful nod, Lectral spread his wings to catch the mountain breeze, gliding low over the sparkling blue waters, then stroking powerfully upward to soar above the encircling ridge. Gusts of wind swirled, lifting him higher, but he used his strength to hasten his ascent, no longer content to ride the breeze like some carrion-hunting bird.
He thought of Silvara and Heart, of their talk of love. Surely that was not an emotion for dragons… but was it true that it could be learned? Is that what he felt now, the emotion that was causing him such grief? Perhaps it was true that a dragon, a young dragon at any rate, could in fact learn to love.
Perhaps, in fact, that was the silvers’ unique gift to the clans of their kin-dragons. It was the counterpart to the learned reflection and the magical mastery of the golds, the genial sociability of the brass or the stolid strength of the bronzes. Even the vengeful coppers had shown that, through the ages, there was a need for violence and fury, and the clan of Cymbol had borne that torch bravely and well.
And for the silvers, was it their place to show the kin-dragons the value, even the mere existence, of love? Perhaps that and, of course, to embody the pure beauty of flight, the thing that the silvers did so much better than any of the other metallic dragons.
Lectral considered the question. His life was his flying-that was the thing that gave him the purest joy. Indeed, if there were such a thing as love, perhaps flight was its purest expression. Finding himself among the heights again, he didn’t lapse into a leisurely glide. Instead, he strived like a youngster, pulling great scoops of air with each powerful beat of his wings, lifting himself higher than the surrounding ridges, vying for the altitude that was the province of the high peaks of the range.
He knew the other silvers were dispersed, hunting perhaps, or waiting for word of the night’s developments. The evil dragons had fled from the skies over Kalaman and the plains, falling back to the twisted fortress that Lectral had glimpsed during his pursuit of Tombfyre. No doubt they still circled there, anxiously awaiting the arrival of their queen.