The War Of The Lance (29 page)

He stared at it. The jewel - Grizt realized - had ceased to glow.

The two draconians exchanged worried glances. “Prefect,” asked the sivak, “is there
something amiss?”

Stel did not answer. The dark cleric shook the gem, muttered some words under his breath,
and touched the crystal with his index finger.

Grizt dared a fleeting, hopeful smile.

One of the draconians, glancing at him, snarled, “What do YOU find so funny, human?”

He did not get the opportunity to reply.

“It's . . . it's dead . . .” Stel gasped. He shook the jewel again for good measure. “I do
not understand! It worked perfectly until it fell out of the clasp, but the lack of a
frame should only make the power a little less focused, unless . . . of course!” He
fumbled with the casing. “This is bone ivory! Part of the spell's matrix! The pendant must
be whole to function or it loses all power!”

Stel tried pressing the gem back into the casing, but it would not hold.

A massive wave shook the TAURON. Stel almost lost his footing. Captain Kruug shouted a
warning, but his words were overwhelmed by the violent surging of the

Blood Sea and a crash of thunder. “NOW what?” Stel snapped. “Prefect! The monster!”
shouted the draconians. Stel turned around and stared at the leviathan the

pendant had helped him summon. It was moving . . . and the TAURON lay directly in its

path. “Sargonnas take you, priest!” Kruug roared. "Listen to

me! Send that thing away or it will kill us all!“ ”Preposterous! It will do no such thing!
I am the one

who summoned it!" The minotaur snorted. Vandor Grizt, who was measuring the direction and

speed of the undead leviathan, turned to his draconian guards. “Listen to him! The captain
is right! Do something!”

“Be silent or I'll tear you in half!” the sivak hissed.

Undaunted, Vandor screamed at them. “Just look! Your master no longer controls it! It
comes for us!” Tentacles as thick as a man's body rose above the

water, reaching for the ship as the creature neared. “First rank! Axes!” Kruug roared.
Several massive

minotaurs abandoned what they were doing and rushed toward the steps leading into the
vessel's interior.

Through all of this, Stel had remained standing still staring at the oncoming behemoth. He
shook his head. “With the pendant, I could easily regain total control . . . but the
pendant... is broken and I don't ...” He eyed Vandor, who now regretted his attempts to
pulverize the jewel. Death appeared to be his fate no matter WHAT happened. “But I might
be able to use it to enhance my OWN power ... if I have a sufficient blood sacrifice to
Chemosh to feed the spell.”

SHINARE! WHY DOES EVERYTHING INVOLVE MY BLOOD? “But I am promised to the Sea Queen!” Grizt
protested. “If you use me for this, she might grow angry . . . angrier!”

“There will be enough blood to keep you alive . . . barely. She will understand.”

Stel, it seemed, believed in very understanding gods. Vandor Grizt thought that if he were
either Chemosh or the Sea Queen, he would be insulted by all of these shabby half-measures
and broken vows.

The TAURON had begun to list. The minotaurs had apparently lost control of the ship. Of
all those on board, only Vandor's ancestors - still in thrall to Stel - remained
unaffected by the terror. They stared blindly in the direction of Stel and, it seemed, at
their descendant who would soon be joining them in death.

Dagger in one hand and gem in the other, the cleric of Chemosh faced the undead leviathan
surging toward them. Stel appeared to have confidence in himself, if no one else did.
Raising the gem high, the black-robed cleric began to shout words of power. The hand with
the dagger rose over the chest of Vandor Grizt.

It was then that the world turned about. Vandor Grizt was not certain of the order of
events, but suddenly the storm burst into full fury, sending the ship keeling over in the
opposite direction. At least one minotaur was washed overboard by a massive wave. A bolt
of lightning struck one of the masts, cracking it in two. The burning wreckage crashed
down on the hapless crew.

More than a dozen tentacles wrapped around the TAURON and began to drag it under.

Stel stood frozen, disbelief registered in every bone of his body. He dropped the dagger,
much to the captive's relief, and clawed at the tiny skull pendant. As he pulled it free,
it CRUMBLED.

The TAURON was beginning to break up, as the tentacles threatened to crunch it. Captain
Kruug and several minotaurs rushed forward, attacking the creature with heavy axes. The
rotting skin of the behemoth gave way. It took the minotaurs only a few blows to sever the
one tentacle and only a couple more to cut a second in two.

Unfortunately, as Kruug and his men finished the second, a dozen more ensnared their ship.

“All hands to battle!” roared the captain. Minotaurs all over the TAURON abandoned their
stations and joined the fight against the beast.

Another wave washed over the front of the ship. Van- dor's left arm was nearly torn from
its socket and something like an army of blades tore at his flesh. He was being flayed. In
desperation, he lifted one foot and kicked. His boot struck something solid. He kicked
again.

The blades pulled free of his flesh. Only when the

first shock subsided did he realize that the sivak draconian - the cursed shapechanger -
was no longer holding him. He looked around but saw no sign of the foul reptile. The
draconian had been washed overboard. At least he had succeeded in avenging himself on the
creature that had killed his friend and captured him.

A brief satisfaction was all he was allowed. Then, it was a matter of struggling for his
own life. Another wave washed over the ship. The other draconian released Vandor and fled,
slipping and sliding, for the TAURON'S interior, choosing self-survival over the orders of
the cleric.

Stel had moved to one side and was holding onto the rail, eyes wild. He was shouting
something at the leviathan but his words were having no effect. Desperate, the gaunt
priest whirled on the silent figures of the merchant's ancestors and made a sign.

The undead shuffled forward, forming a half-circle around the cleric.

Struggling to maintain his own hold on the rail, Vandor Grizt sought some sort of escape.
To stay aboard the ship was folly in his opinion, but the Blood Sea offered the only other
option.

“Shinare,” he whispered, “is there ANYTHING I can offer you?”

Kruug, axe covered in a brown, thick muck, was trying to get his crew's attention.

“Prepare to abandon ship!” Kruug glanced around and spotted Vandor. Grimacing, the
minotaur called, “I'll not leave even you to this, manling! Get over to the - ”

A tentacle struck the captain. Kruug flew over the other side of the ship and, as Vandor
watched helplessly, the beastman dropped into the water and vanished beneath.

The TAURON began to shudder and crack. THIS IS THE END FOR ALL OF US! Vandor thought. His
undead ancestors had formed a tighter ring around

the cleric. No longer were they the blindly obedient slaves that Stel had summoned. They
had the prefect pinned against the rail and were closing the circle around him.

CHEMOSH WILL UNDERSTAND. . . Stel had said that over and over. Chemosh - Lord of the
Undead - had not been as understanding as his servant imagined.

One of the wraiths, the skeleton in armor, reached out and tore the mask from the cleric's
face. The skeletal hand closed over Stel's throat. Stel screamed horribly. The other
undead closed around him.

A gigantic wave swamped the TAURON.

Vandor Grizt lost his hold, falling overboard. The sea took him. He could no longer see
the TAURON and for all he knew it had been pulled under after the last wave. Water was all
there was in the world. It surrounded him; it filled him.

Then he saw a woman, a beautiful but fiery creature of the depths. She was reaching for
him, but something ... no SOMEONE - another woman . . . was pulling him away from her.

Vandor Grizt smiled vaguely at the first woman, regretting that their liaison was not
possible.

Then, he was no more. *****

Vandor Grizt discovered he did not like the taste of sand.

Raising his head, an act that strained to the limit what few resources he had left, he
spat out a grainy mouthful.

Vandor kept his eyes closed. He was not at all certain he wanted to know where he was.
After all, if he were dead, he might be in the domain of Zeboim ... or worse.

Curiosity got the better of him.

All he saw was a beach. Daytime. Brilliant light nearly blinded him. Closing his eyes, he
restarted the process, allowing himself only a narrow gap of vision at first.

He allowed that gap to widen when he saw the feet in front of him. They were not human
feet.

“So you survived,” rumbled a horribly familiar voice. “Some god truly watches over you,
human . . .”

Vandor Grizt rolled over, the best he could do at the moment, and stared at the looming
bestial countenance of Captain Kruug. After a moment, Vandor became aware of the presence
of three other minotaurs, one of whom leaned heavily on another.

Vandor tried to speak, coughed and spit up sea water. Kruug snorted. He looked tired. Very
tired. "Save

your words, human. I've no interest in you. Anyone who survived that folly . . . and I'm
amazed there are any of us ... deserves some peace.“ The minotaurs started to turn away,
but the captain held back long enough to add, ”If you'll take my advice, you'll go inland.
DEEP inland. If I see your ugly face again, I might remember how I lost my ship because of
you."

Although he had a somewhat different perspective on the recent events, Grizt did not think
it wise to argue. He watched in silence as the battered foursome stumbled off.

“You're lucky, Vandor Grizt,” he said as he lay there trying to regain enough strength to
move on. “The bull- man must be right: some god does smile on me!” The thought comforted
him. If that was true - and it certainly seemed so - then it might be a wise time to begin
a new life.

Grizt started to rise, but felt something under his left hand. He dug the object out of
the sand and stared long at it.

It was the upper portion of Stel's skull mask - an eyehole and part of the cheek. Vandor
smiled. His ancestor had bequeathed him a present.

Vandor dropped the battered mask and, finding new strength, rose to his feet. He looked
around and saw that the minotaurs were still within sight, their pace slowed by the
injured member.

Vandor Grizt ran after them, calling out in order to get their attention. Kruug turned
around, his fists balled tight. When he saw who it was, his anger was replaced by
annoyance.

“What do you want? I thought I told you - ”

“Please!” Vandor Grizt put up both hands in placation. “Just a question of directions.
That is all I ask. You know this region much better than I.”

“All right. Where is it you want to go?”

Trying not to sound too anxious, Vandor asked, “Would you happen to know the way to the
nearest temple of Shinare?”

FROM the Research of Foryth Teel, Senior Scribe in the service of Astinus, Master
Lorekeeper of Krynn.

Most Gracious Historian, you do me too much honor! To think of this task - the study of
the greatest military campaign in the post-Cataclysm history of Krynn - and to realize
that you have selected ME to prepare the documents! I am honored, humbled. But, as always,
I shall endeavor to do my best, so that the truth can be recorded and saved.

Thank you too, Excellency, for your concern about my health following my previous mission.
My nerves have settled and the tremors have almost disappeared from my hands. Also, I am
able to sleep for several hours at a time without suffering the recurrence of nightmares.

As always, a return to my work seems to promise the most complete cure - and in this
assignment, Your Grace, you could not have provided a more perfect medicine. The tale of
the Vingaard Campaign! The very phrase strikes a martial note in my soul! I hear the clash
of steel, the thunder of hooves and the strident call of the battle trumpet! I imagine the
wings of dragons, good and evil, blotting out the sky. I picture the blasts of powerful
magicks, the gallant charge of the knights!

But forgive me. I have not forgotten that the historian is a dispassionate reporter of the
truth. Such flights of fancy are for poets, not scholars such as I. I shall try to control
my emotions. Nevertheless, as I relate the exciting story of a young elven princess who
changed the face of Krynn in a few short weeks - the sharp, dangerous attacks that baffled
her foes, the fast marches across the plains placing her miles from her supposed location,
and of course, her epic victory at Margaard Ford - I trust that Your Excellency will
forgive an occasional exclamatory aside.

In studies, I will examine the topic primarily from the viewpoint of the Army of Solamnia.
The records of the dragonarmies were relatively well kept, and have been researched by
many scribes. The campaigns from the Golden General's side, on the other hand, have only
been discussed in the histories of the Knights of Solamnia. To read them, one might think
that the contributions of the good dragons to these battles was merely to fan the
battlefield with their wings, cooling the sweat from the brows of the hard-riding knights
to whom the laurels

really belonged! In my own reports, I shall strive for a greater degree of objectivity -
as befits a proper historian.

I now commence my task in the musty library of the High Clerist's Tower at Westgate Pass.
Extensive records from a variety of sources have yielded themselves to my diligence.
Gunthar Uth Wistan's account, formulated on the distant island of Ergoth from reports
received by that venerable captain from his knights in the field, proves surprisingly
complete - and accurate. (He does a remarkable job, Excellency, of separating the wheat
from the chaff as regards the reports received from his enthusiastic warriors!) The
records of the interviews conducted with the captured dragonarmy general Bakaris also shed
a good light on the campaign. Also, I have been afforded the aid of a hitherto unknown
source: a young human female named Mellison (no surname, apparently), self-appointed
servant of the general. I have found the tattered remnants of a diary she kept during the
short period of the campaign (it is amazing in the extreme to think that this sweeping
series of battles lasted a mere twenty days!).

Mellison had been born and raised in a small village on the Plains of Solamnia. When the
dragons came, her community was scorched, and her parents slain (or, perhaps, taken as
slaves). Mellison, alone from the village, managed to escape to the shelter of the High
Clerist's Tower and, eventually, Palanthas.

I do not know how she met the elf woman who would become the Golden General - those pages,
at the start of Mellison's diary, have been destroyed. However, by the time Laurana had
been appointed by Gunthar Uth Wistan, Grand Master of Solamnia, to command the knights and
the army of Palanthas, the human girl had attached herself to the elf woman.

Mellison proved very useful to the general, preparing Laurana's tent for those nights when
the general was able to steal a few hours' sleep; and Mellison always fanned a blaze into
light for her mistress's predawn awakenings. Though the young woman participated in none
of the battles, her observations of Laurana's campfire councils have provided us with key
insights into the development of the campaign.

The first of these discussions occurred on the field

below this very tower, and it is here that Mellison gives us a picture of Laurana's
council of war. Present were the elf woman, the two Knights of the Crown - Sirs Patrick
and Markham - who served as her chief lieutenants, and two unnamed knights of the other
orders. Mellison refers to them, in her childlike hand, as “Lord Sword” and “Sir Rose.”
Gilthanas - Laurana's brother and proud prince of the Qualinesti elves - also attended.

(Incidentally, Your Grace, the letters sent by Gilthanas to his brother Porthios provide
us an additional primary source on this campaign, especially as it was seen from an elven
point of view.)

Of course, the context of the meeting is well known: the dragonarmy known as the Blue Wing
had been blunted (but not destroyed) in the Battle of the High Clerist's Tower. These
troops, under the command of the Dark Lady - the Highlord Kitiara - and her general,
Bakaris, had fallen back upon Dargaard Keep, where they represented a significant threat.
The good dragons had arrived here following that battle, on the day preceding Laurana's
council of war. These mighty serpents, of gold and silver, brass, copper and bronze, had
at last ended their exile from the war. Brought to Palanthas by Gilthanas and the great
silver dragon called Silvara, they were anxious to exact vengeance against their evil
cousins.

Though the numbers of dragons and troops in Laurana's force equaled a mere fraction of the
total evil forces, she had the advantage of concentration - all of her forces were here,
in the pass, while those of the enemy - the Red Wing, portions of the Green and White
Wings, and the remnants of the Blue Wing - were scattered over Solamnia from Vingaard and
Caergoth to Kalaman and Neraka. Also, a huge reserve army under the command of Emperor
Ariakus himself had spent the winter encamped in Sanction. Recent rumors placed the
dragonarmy on the march, however, though Laurana and her captains had no idea of its
location or destination.

The time was night, a council fire flared high. Mellison reports that its light was
reflected in gold and silver gleams from the massive dragons crouched just beyond the
human commanders.

“We can hold them here forever!” stated Sir Rose, opening the council. "With the dragons
and the men of

Palanthas to back us up, the knights will form an unbreakable wall!"

“Hold them, indeed,” agreed Sir Patrick. “If they dare to attack again, we'll butcher them
to the last scale-faced draconian! Don't you agree, general?” Grudgingly he turned to
Laurana for confirmation. Of the Crown Knights, he had been most reluctant to accept her
leadership - yet the orders of Gunthar Uth Wistan had thus far proven sufficient to steel
him to his duty.

“I have no intention of holding them here, or anywhere!” declared Laurana, with that shake
of her head that set her golden hair flowing about her shoulders.

“What is your plan?” inquired Markham, with his easy grin that somewhat lightened the
tension.

“We attack.” Laurana spoke the two words, and then paused to fix her eyes on each of her
listeners. She seemed to grow in stature as the firelight flared across her fair skin, her
almond-shaped eyes. “The Army of Solamnia will advance under the wings of the good
dragons, seek out the dragonarmies, and destroy them!”

“Leave the pass unguarded?” sputtered Sir Rose. “After this great victory, you risk
throwing everything ... the lives, the - ”

Laurana's reply was sharp and bitter. “I know very well the cost in lives!” she snapped
with enough force to shut the mouth of the grizzled veteran. For a moment she closed her
eyes. Mellison saw the sharp pain of memory etched across Laurana's face. Gilthanas placed
a comforting hand on his sister's arm, but she shrugged it away. She took a breath and
continued.

“Nothing could be more wasteful of those lives than for us to cower here, behind these
walls, and give the dragonarmies time to concentrate their scattered forces. No, my
captains, we won't wait for them to act. It is time this war came back against those who
began it!”

“Where do we go, then?” inquired Sir Rose. “Do we advance south, toward Solanthus? Or
eastward, to threaten the occupation forces at Vingaard? Both of these courses allow us
this fortress as a base. Too, they keep the Vingaard River as a strong barrier between us
and the bulk of the enemy - the option to fall back in the event of . . .” He did not
complete his speculation; something in the general's eyes silenced him.

“Vingaard,” Laurana announced. “But not as a threat - 1 mean to liberate it. As to the
river, I want this entire army across it within a week.”

“BEYOND the Vingaard?” Patrick was shocked, but his eyes measured the elf woman with
surprise and new appraisal. “Into the heart of the dragonrealms?”

“The dragonarmies will meet us there, in force,” Markham said cautiously. “Do you intend
to draw them into a battle? Destroy them on the field?”

“That will be an historic moment!” Lord Sword declared, his face flushing and his long
mustaches bobbing at the prospect. A fierce light entered his eyes. “To drive our lances
into the faces of those beasts, for once - instead of merely standing our ground!”

Laurana smiled, too, but it was a grim expression to Mellison. She thought it made the elf
woman look much older. “Yes - I will draw them into battle. The first of many. Once we've
crossed the river, I don't intend to rest until we reach the gates of Kalaman!”

“Kalaman!” Sir Rose sputtered so much that his mustaches floated out from his mouth. They
all knew that the distant city was in desperate straits, following a long winter of
isolation and siege. Still, hundreds of miles of enemy territory lay between themselves
and Kalaman.

“You're mad!” barked Patrick.

Laurana allowed the insult to pass, but this time her brother stepped forward. “The good
dragons give us a striking force that you knights can't begin to imagine!” countered the
tall elf. “We cannot waste them!”

“What about Dargaard?” asked Markham, turning to Laurana. “That's a powerful bastion
across your path - the Dark Lady is there in force, together with the dragons of her Blue
Wing. The ogres of Throtl are supported by green dragons, and they're certain to mass
against your south flank.”

“I intend to ignore Dargaard, for the time being. The ogres we'll meet, and defeat.”

“They'll have the Green Wing to support them. And Emperor Ariakus has sent the Red Wing
from Neraka as a reinforcement. Too, we don't have any idea where the reserve army has
gone,” argued Sir Rose.

“We have dragonlances,” cried Gilthanas. “We can meet these serpents in the skies,
finally, and defeat them!”

“The weapon, so far, has only proven itself in the closed confines of the tower!” Patrick
growled back.

“That is true,” Laurana agreed. “But I don't intend to fight all the dragons at once.
That's why it's so important that we MOVE!”

“But a major river crossing!” objected Patrick. “You can't imagine the difficulties! And
if we're caught with the army divided - ”

“Our dragons will screen the crossing. And I intend to reach the Vingaard too quickly for
anything but a token force to stand in our way.”

“But there's the fortress itself - Vingaard Keep has a massive garrison!” persisted
Patrick. “Anywhere we cross puts us in easy reach of a counterattack!”

“That brings me to the next part of the plan,” Laurana announced, pausing to make sure she
had the attention of all the men. “Vingaard will be liberated - TOMORROW.”

The knights, to a man, stared at the general in amazement. All knew that Vingaard Keep was
three days' ride by horse.

At this point, the Council's voices grew hushed and confidential, so the rest of the
conversation is lost to Mellison's diary - and to history. The results of this historic
and clandestine conversation are known.

The following dawn, the skies over the High Clerist's Tower were filled with dragons -
their metallic colors dappling the ground with moving reflections of the brilliant
sunrise. Laurana, astride the huge gold dragon Quallathon, led the way. A wing of griffon
cavalry, mounted with elven bowmen and lancers - lately arrived from Southern Ergoth -
flew beside the great serpents. Altogether, two hundred of the half-hawk, half-lion beasts
accompanied an equal number of dragons soaring southeast toward Vingaard - eighty miles
away across the flat plain. Their bodies blackened the sky.

At the same time, the army moved out. Led by the knights on horseback, accompanied by the
blue-garbed troops of Palanthas and a large and growing force of irregulars recruited from
Solamnia and Ergoth, the soldiers of Laurana's command marched to the northeast. The
diverging paths were obvious to all. The flying army was on its own, the battle would be
won or lost long before the troops on the ground could arrive.

Gilthanas, in an extensive letter to Porthios, gives us a vivid picture of this assault -
the first time the good dragons took the offensive in the war.

"Within four hours our dragons drew within sight of mighty Vingaard Keep, standing on the
near bank of the river that bears the same name.

"For more than a year, the dragonarmies had held the fortress, and their presence formed a
bleak shroud around the once-grand castle. Layers of soot clouded the walls, and
rubble-strewn fields surrounded the high towers, where once thrived lush crops of grain.