Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun (5 page)

return to sleep.

Finally she was driven to seek the lower levels of her moun-

tain home. Malys was an ancient dragon with a malevolent

wisdom. She sensed something unnatural about this storm, and it

made her uneasy. Grumbling and muttering to herself, she en-

tered the Chamber of the Totem. Here, on an outcropping of black

rock, Malys had piled the skulls of all the lesser dragons she had

consumed when she first came to the world. Silver skulls and

gold, red skulls and blue stood one atop the other, a monument

to her greatness. Malys was comforted by the sight of the skulls.

Each brought a memory of a battle won, a foe defeated and de-

voured. The rain could not penetrate this far down in her moun-

tain home. She could not hear the wind howl. The flashes of

lightning did not disturb her slumbers.

Malys gazed ~pon the empty eyes of the skulls with pleasure,

and perhaps she dozed, because suddenly it seemed to her that

the eyes of skulls were alive and they were watching her. She

snorted, reared her head. She stared closely at the skulls, at the

eyes. The lava pool at the heart of the mountain cast a lurid light

upon the skulls, sent shadows winking and blinking in the empty

eye sockets. Berating herself for an overactive imagination, Malys

coiled her body comfortably around the totem and fell asleep.

Another of the great dragons, a Green known grandiosely as

Beryllinthranox was also not able to sleep through the storm.

Beryl's lair was formed of living trees-ironwoods and red-

woods-and enormous, twining vines. The vines and branches of

the trees were so thickly interwoven that no raindrop had ever

managed to wriggle its way through. But the rain that fell from

the roiling black clouds of this storm seemed to make it a personal

mission to find a way to penetrate the leaves. Once one had man-

aged to sneak inside, it opened the way for thousands of its fel-

lows. Beryl woke in surprise at the unaccustomed feel of water

splashing on her nose. One of the great redwoods that formed a

pillar of her lair was struck by a lightning bolt. The tree burst into

flames, flames that spread quickly, feeding on rainwater as if it

were lamp oil.

Beryl's roar of alarm brought her minions scrambling to

douse the flames. Dragons, Reds and Blues who had joined Beryl

rather than be consumed by her, dared the flames to pluck out the

burning trees and cast them into the sea. Draconians pulled down

blazing vines, smothered the flames with dirt and mud. Hostages

and prisoners were put to work fighting the fires. Many died

doing so, but eventually Beryl's lair was saved. She was in a ter-

rible humor for days afterward, however, convincing herself that

the storm had been an attack waged magically by her cousin

Malys. Beryl meant to rule someday in Malys's stead. Using her

magic to rebuild-a magical power that had lately been dwin-

dling, something else Beryl blamed on Malys-the Green nursed

her wrongs and plotted revenge.

Khellendros the Blue (he had abandoned the name Skie for

this more magnificent title, which meant Storm over Ansalon),

was one of the few of the dragons native to Krynn to have

emerged from the Dragon Purge. He was now ruler of Solamnia

and all its environs. He was overseer of Schallsea and the Citadel

of Light, which he allowed to remain because-according to

him-he found it amusing to watch the petty humans struggle fu-

tilely against the growing darkness. In truth, the real reason he

permitted the citadel to thrive in safety was the citadel's

guardian, a silver dragon named Mirror. Mirror and Skie were

longtime foes and now, in their mutual detestation of the new,

great dragons from afar who had killed so many of their brethren,

they had become not friends, but not quite enemies either.

Khellendros was bothered by the storm far more than either

of the great dragons, although-strangely enough-the storm did

not do his lair much damage. He paced restively about his enor-

mous cave high in the Vingaard mountains, watched the light-

ning warriors strike viciously at the ramparts of the High Clerist's

Tower, and he thought he heard a voice in the wind, a voice that

sang of death. Khellendros did not sleep but watched the storm

to its end.

The storm lost none of its power as it roared down upon the

ancient elven kingdom of Silvanesti. The elves had erected a mag-

ical shield over their kingdom, a shield that had thus far kept the

marauding dragons from conquering their lands, a shield that

also kept out all other races. The elves had finally succeeded in

their historic goal of isolating themselves from the troubles of the

rest of the world. But the shield did not keep out the thunder and

rain, wind and lightning.

Trees burned, houses were torn apart by the fierce winds.

The Than-thalas River flooded, sending those who lived on its

banks scrambling to reach higher ground. Water seeped into the

palace garden, the Garden of Astarin, where grew the magical

tree that was, many believed, responsible for keeping the shield

in place. The tree's magic kept it safe. Indeed, when the storm

was ended, the soil around the tree was found to be bone dry.

Everything else in the garden was drowned or washed away.

The elf gardeners and Woodshapers, who bore for their plants

and flowers, ornamental trees, herbs, and rose bushes the same

love they bore their own children, were heartbroken, devastated

to view the destruction.

They replanted after the storm, bringing plants from their

own gardens to fill the once wondrous Garden of Astarin. Ever

since the raising of the shield, the plants in the garden had not

done well, and now they rotted in the muddy soil which could

never, it seemed, soak up enough sunlight to dry out.

The strange and terrible storm eventually left the continent,

marched away from the war, a victorious army abandoning the

field of battle, leaving devastation and destruction behind. The

next morning, the people of Ansalon would go dazedly to view

the damage, to comfort the bereaved, to bury the dead, and to

wonder at the dreadful night's ominolls portent.

And yet, there was, after all, one person that night who en-

joyed himself. His name was Silvanoshei, a young elf, and he ex-

ulted in the storm. The clash of the lightning warriors, the bolts

that fell like sparks struck from swords of thunder, beat in his

blood like crashing drums. Silvanoshei did not seek shelter from

the storm but went out into it. He stood in a clearing in the forest,

his face raised to the tumult, the rain drenching him, cooling the

burning of vaguely felt wants and desires. He watched the daz-

zling display of lightning, marveled at the ground-shaking thun-

der, laughed at the blasts of wind that bent the great trees, making

them bow their proud heads.

Silvanoshei's father was Porthios, once proud ruler of the

Qualinesti, now cast out by them, termed a "dark elf," one cursed

to live outside the light of elven society. Silvanoshei's mother was

Alhana Starbreeze, exiled leader of the Silvanesti nation that had

cast her out too when she married Porthios. They had meant, by

their marriage, to at last reunite the two elven nations, bring them

together as one nation, a nation that would have probably been

strong enough to fight the cursed dragons and maintain itself in

freedom.

Instead, their marriage had only deepened the hatred and

mistrust. Now Beryl ruled Qualinesti, which was an occupied

land, held in subjugation by the Knights of Neraka. Silvanesti

was a land cut off, isolated, its inhabitants cowering under its

shield like children hiding beneath a blanket, hoping it will pro-

tect them from the monsters who lurk in the darkness.

Silvanoshei was the only child of Porthios and Alhana.

"Silvan was born the year of the Chaos War," Alhana was

wont to say. "His father and I were on the run, a target for every

elven assassin who wanted to ingratiate himself with either the

Qualinesti or the Silvanesti rulers. He was born the day they

buried two of the sons of Caramon Majere. Chaos was Silvan's

nursemaid, Death his midwife."

Silvan had been raised in an armed camp. Alhana's marriage

to Porthios had been a marriage of politics that had deepened to

one of love and friendship and utmost respect. Together she and

her husband had waged a ceaseless, thankless battle, first

against the Dark Knights who were now the overlords of Qua-

linest, then against the terrible domination of Beryl, the dragon

who had laid claim to the Qualinesti lands and who now de-

manded tribute from the Qualinesti elves in return for allowing

them to live.

When word had first reached Alhana and Porthios that the

elves of Silvanesti had managed to raise a magical shield over

their kingdom, a shield that would protect them from the ravages

of the dragons, both had seen this as a possible salvation for their

people. Alhana had traveled south with her own forces, leaving

Porthios to continue the fight for Qualinesti.

She had tried to send an emissary to the Silvanesti elves,

asking permission to pass through the shield. The emissary had

not even been able to enter. She attacked the shield with steel and

with magic, trying every way possible of breaking through it,

without success. The more she studied the shield, the more she

was appalled that her people could permit themselves to live

beneath it.

Whatever the shield touched died. Woodlands near the

shield's boundaries were filled with dead and dying trees.

Grasslands near the shield were gray and barren. Flowers

wilted, withered, decomposed into a fine gray dust that cov-

ered the dead like a shroud.

The shield's magic is responsible for this! Alhana had written to

her husband. The shield is not protecting the land. It is killing it!

The Silvanesti do not care, Porthios had written in reply. They are

subsumed by fear. Fear of the ogres, fear of the humans, fear of the drag-

ons,fear of terrors they can not even name. The shield is but the outward

manifestation of their fear. No wonder anything that comes in contact

with it withers and dies!

These were the last words she had heard from him. For years

Alhana had kept in contact with her husband through the mes- I

sages carried between them by the swift and tireless elven run-

ners. She knew of his increasingly futile efforts to defeat Beryl.

Then came the day the runner from her husband did not return.

She had sent another, and another vanished. Now weeks had

passed and still no word from Porthios. Finally, unable to expend

any more of her dwindling manpower, Alhana had ceased send-

ing the runners.

The storm had caught Alhana and her army in the woods near

the border of Silvanesti, after yet another futile attempt to pene-

trate the shield. Alhana took refuge from the storm in an ancient

burial mound near the border of Silvanesti. She had discovered

this mound long ago, when she had first begun her battle to wrest

control of her homeland from the hands of those who seemed

intent upon leading her people to disaster.

In other, happier circumstances, the elves would not have dis-

turbed the rest of the dead, but they were being pursued by ogres,

their ancient enemy, and were desperately seeking a defensible

position. Even so, Alhana had entered the mound with prayers of

propitiation, asking the spirits of the dead for understanding.

The elves had discovered the mound to be empty. They found

no mummified corpses, no bones, no indication that anyone had

ever been buried here. The elves who accompanied Alhana took

this for a sign that their cause was just. She did not argue, though

she felt the bitter irony that she--the true and rightful Queen of

the Silvanesti-was forced to take refuge in a hole in the ground

even the dead had abandoned.

The burial mound was now Alhana's headquarters. Her

knights, her own personal bodyguard, were inside with her. The

rest of the army was camped in the woods around her. A perime-

ter of elven runners kept watch for ogres, known to be rampag-

ing in this area. The runners, lightly armed, wearing no armor,

would not engage the enemy in battle, if they spotted them, but

would race back to the picket lines to alert the army of an enemy's

presence.

The elves of House Woodshaper had worked long to magi-

cally raise from the ground a barricade of thorn bushes sur-

rounding the burial mound. The bushes had wicked barbs that

could pierce even an ogre's tough hide. Within the barricade, the

soldiers of the elven army found what shelter they could when

the torrential storm came. Tents almost immediately collapsed,

leaving the elves to hunker down behind boulders or crawl into

ditches, avoiding, if possible, the tall trees-targets of the vicious

lightning.

Wet to the bone, chilled and awed by the storm, the likes of