The War Of The Lance (39 page)

So there we were, in a snow cave, slowly freezing to death (did I mention that?) and we
couldn't move, not a muscle, for fear the dragon would hear us. Fizban couldn't work his
magic because he didn't have his hat. Owen didn't look like he knew what to do, and I
guess I couldn't blame him because he'd probably never come across a dragon before now. So
we didn't do anything except stand there and breathe and we didn't even do much of that.
Just what we had to.

“Go on with your report,” said the dragon.

“Yes, 0 Master.” The draconian sounded a lot more respectful, probably not wanting to make
the dragon nervous. “I scouted the village, like you said. It's fat - lots of food laid in
for the winter. One of those (the draconian said a bad word here) Solamnic Knights has a
manor near it, but he's off on some sort of errand.”

“Has he left behind men-at-arms to guard his manor?”

The draconian made a rude noise. “This knight's poor as dirt, Master. He can't afford to
keep men-at-arms. The manor's empty, except for his wife and kid.”

Owen's face lost some of its color at this. I felt sorry for him because I knew he must be
thinking of his own wife and child.

“The villagers?”

“Peasants!” The draconian spit. “They'll fall down and wet themselves when our raiding
parties attack. It'll be easy pickings.”

“Excellent. We will store the food here, to be used when the main force arrives to take
the High Clerist's Tower. Are there more villages beyond this?”

“Yes, O Master. I will show you on the map. Glendower is here. And then beyond that there
are - ”

But I didn't hear anymore because I was afraid suddenly that Owen Glendower was going to
fall over. His face had gone whiter than the snow and he shook so that his armor rattled.

“My family!” he groaned, and I saw his knees start to buckle.

I can move awfully quietly when I have to and I figured that this was one time I had to. I
crept over to him, put my arm around him, and propped him up until he quit shaking.

He was grateful, I think, because he held onto me very tightly, uncomfortably tightly (did
I mention he was really strong) and my breath almost left me again before he relaxed and
let loose.

By now some blood had come back into his cheeks and he didn't look sick anymore. He looked
grim and determined and resolved, and I knew then and there what he was planning to do. It
was not conducive to a long life.

The dragon and draconian had gone into a rather heated discussion over which village they
should burn and pillage and loot next after Glendower.

I took advantage of the noise they were making to whisper to Owen, “Have you ever seen a
dragon?”

He shook his head. He was tightening buckles on his armor and pulling at straps and things
and, having seen Sturm do this before a battle, I knew what it meant.

“They're huge,” I said, feeling a snuffle coming on, “and extremely big. And enormous. And
they have terrible sharp teeth and they're magical. More magical than Fizban. More magical
than Raistlin, even, only you don't know him, so I guess that doesn't mean much. And the
white dragons can kill you by just breathing on you. I know because I met one in Ice Wall.
They can turn you into ice harder than this mountain and kill you dead.”

I said all this, but it didn't seem to make any impression on Owen Glendower. He just kept
buckling and tightening and his face got more and more cold and determined until I begin
to think that it might not make much difference if the white dragon breathed a cone of
frost on the knight because he looked already frozen to me.

“Oh, Fizban 1” I'm afraid I may have whimpered a bit here, but I truly didn't want to see
Owen turned into part of this mountain. “Make him stop!”

But Fizban was no help. The wizard got that crafty, cunning look on his face that makes me
feel squirmy, and he said, real soft, “He can do it. He has the dragonlances!”

Owen lit up. He stood tall and straight and his eyes shone bright green, fueled from
inside by a beautiful, awful, radiant light.

“Yes,” he said in a reverent voice, like he was praying. “Paladine sent the lances to my
hand and then sent me here, to save my family. This is Paladine's work.”

Well, I felt like telling him, No, it wasn't Paladine. It was just an old, skinny, and
occasionally fuddled wizard who got us into this by falling into a hole. But I didn't. I
had more important things on my mind.

Like the dragonlances.

I looked at them lying in the snow, and I could hear Theros's voice in my head. And I
looked at Owen, standing so tall and handsome, and I thought about the painting of his
wife and child and how sad they'd be if he was dead. Then I thought that if he was dead
they'd be dead, too. And I heard Theros's voice again in my head.

Owen reached down and picked up one of the dragonlances and before I could stop it, a yell
burst out of me.

“No! Owen! You can't use the dragonlances I” I cried, grabbing hold of his arm and hanging
on. “They don't work!”

Well, at that moment, a whole lot of things happened at once. I'll try to keep them
straight for you, but it was all pretty confusing and I may put some things not in quite
the right order.

Owen Glendower stared at me and said, “What?”

Fizban glared at me and snapped, “You fool kender! Keep your mouth shut!”

The draconian probably would have stared at me if it could have seen me through the wall
of snow and it said, “I heard that!”

The dragon shifted its big body around (we could

hear it scraping against the walls) and said, “So did I! And I smell warm blood! Spies!
You, draco! Go warn the others! I'll deal with these!”

WHAM!

That was the dragon's head, butting the ice wall that separated us. (Apparently, the wall
was much thicker and stronger than I'd first supposed. For which we were all grateful.)
The mountain shook and more snow fell down on top of us. The hole at the top grew larger -
not that this was much help at the moment, since we couldn't get up there.

Owen Glendower was holding the dragonlance and staring at me. “What do you mean - the
lances don't work!”

I looked helplessly at Fizban, who scowled at me so fiercely that I was afraid his
eyebrows would slide right off his face and down his nose.

WHAM! That was the dragon's head again. “I have to tell him, Fizban!” I wailed. And I
spoke as

quickly as I could because I could see that I wasn't going to have time to go into a lot
of detail. “We overheard Theros Ironfeld say to Flint that the lances aren't special or
magical or anything - they're plain ordinary steel and when Theros threw one against the
wall it broke - I saw it!”

I stopped to suck in a big breath, having used up the one I'd taken to get all that out.

And then I used the next breath to shout, “Fizban! There's your hat!”

The dragon's head-whamming had knocked over a snow bank and there lay Fizban's hat,
looking sort of dirty and crumpled and nibbled on and not at all magical. I made a dive
for it, brought it up and waved it at him.

“Here it is! Now we can escape! C'mon, Owen!” And I tugged on the knight's arm.

WHAM! WHAM! That was the dragon's head twice.

Owen looked from the shaking wall (We could hear the dragon shrieking “Spies!” on the
other side.) to me, to the lance, to Fizban.

“What do you know about this, Wizard?” he asked, and he was pale and breathing kind of
funny.

“Maybe the lance is ordinary. Maybe it is blessed. Maybe it is flawed. Maybe you are the
one with the flaw!”

Fizban jabbed a finger at Owen. The knight flushed deeply, and put his hand to his

shaven moustaches. WHAM! A crack shivered up the wall and part of a

huge dragon snout that was white as bleached bone shoved through the crack. But the dragon
couldn't get its whole mouth through and so it left off and started butting the ice again.
(That ice was much, much stronger than I'd first thought. Very odd.)

Owen stood holding the dragonlance and staring at it, hard, as if he was trying to find
cracks in it. Well, I could have told him there wouldn't be any, because Theros was a
master blacksmith, even if he was working with ordinary steel, but there wasn't time. I
shoved Fizban's hat into the wizard's hand.

“Quick!” I cried. “Let's go! C'mon, Owen! Please!”

“Well, Sir Knight?” said Fizban, taking his hat. “Are you coming with us?”

Owen dropped the dragonlance. He drew his sword. “You go,” he said. “Take the kender. I
will stay.”

“You, ninny!” Fizban snorted. “You can't fight a dragon with a sword!”

“Run, Wizard!” Owen snarled. “Leave while you still can!” He looked at me and his eyes
shimmered. “You have the painting,” he said softly. “Take it to them. Tell them - ”

Well, I never found out what I was supposed to tell them because at that moment the
dragon's head punched right smack through the ice wall.

The cave we were trapped in was smallish compared to the dragon, and the wyrm could only
get its head inside. Its chin scraped along the floor and its snaky eyes glared at us
horribly. It was so huge and awful and wonderful that I'm afraid I forgot all about its
not being conducive to long life and mine would have ended then and there except Fizban
grabbed hold of me by the collar and dragged me against the far wall.

Owen staggered backward, sword in hand, leaving the dragonlances in the snow. I could tell
that the knight was fairly well floored at the immensity and sheer terribleness of the
dragon. It must have been obvious to him right then that what Fizban said was right. You
can't fight a dragon with a sword.

“Work some magic, Wizard!” Owen shouted. “Distract it!”

“Distract it! Right!” Fizban muttered and, with a great deal of courage, I thought, the
old wizard leaned out from around me (I was in front of him again) and waved his hat in
the dragon's general direction.

“Shoo!” he said.

I don't know if you're aware of this or not, but dragons don't shoo. In fact, being shooed
seems to have an irritating effect on them. This one's eyes blazed until the snow started
melting around my shoes. It began to suck in a deep, deep, deep breath and I knew that
when it let that breath out we'd all be permanently frozen statues down here beneath the
mountain forever and ever.

The wind whistled and snow whirled around us from the dragon's sucking up all the air. And
then, suddenly, the dragon went “Ulp!” and got an extremely startled and amazed look in it
eyes.

It had sucked up Fizban's hat.

Fizban had been waving his hat at the dragon, you see, and when the dragon started sucking
up air it sucked the hat right out of Fizban's hand. The hat whipped through the air and
in between the dragon's fangs and the “Ulp!” was the hat getting stuck in the dragon's
throat.

“My hat!” wailed Fizban, and he swelled up until I thought he was going to burst.

The dragon was tossing its head around, choking and wheezing and coughing and trying to
dislodge the hat. Owen dashed forward, not bothering to take the time to give the knight's
salute to an enemy, which I thought was sensible of him, and stuck his sword (or tried to
stick it) in the dragon's throat.

The sword's blade shivered and then shattered. The dragon lashed out at Owen, but it
couldn't do much except try to thump him on the head since it was still trying to breathe
around the hat. Owen stumbled away and slipped and fell in the snow. His hand landed on
the dragonlance.

It was the only weapon we had except for my hoopak, and I would have offered him the
hoopak at the time only I forgot I had it. This was all so thrilling.

“Save my hat!” Fizban was shrieking and hopping up and down. “Save my hat!”

PHUEY!

The dragon spit out the hat. It flew across the cave and hit Fizban in the face and
flattened him but good. Owen leapt to his feet. He was shaking all over, his armor
rattled, but he lifted the dragonlance and threw with all his might.

The dragonlance struck the dragon's scaly hide and broke into about a million pieces.

The dragon was sucking in its breath again. Owen slumped. He looked all defeated and
hurting. He knew he was going to die, but I could tell that didn't matter to him. It was
the thought that his wife and little boy and maybe all those villagers too were going to
die that was like a spear in his heart.

And then it seemed to me that I heard a voice. It was Flint's voice, and it sounded so
close that I looked all around, more than half-expecting to see him come dashing at me,
all red in the face and bellowing.

“You doorknob of a kender 1 Didn't you hear anything I said? Tell him what I told Theros!”

I tried to remember it and then I did remember it and I began to babble, “When you throw
the lance, it will be the strength of your faith and the power of your arm and the vision
of your eye that will guide the lances into the evil dragon's dark heart. That's what
Flint said, sort of, Owen, except I changed it a little. Maybe I was wrong!” I shouted.
“Try the other lance!”

I don't know whether he heard me or not. The dragon was making a lot of noise and snow was
falling and swirling around us. Either Owen did hear me and took my advice (and Flint's)
or else he could see as plain as the hat on Fizban's face that the lance was our last and
only hope. He picked it up and this time he didn't throw it. This time he ran with it,
straight at the dragon, and with all his strength and might and muscle he drove the lance
right into the dragon's throat.

Blood spurted out, staining the white snow red. The dragon gave a horrible yell and flung
its head from side to side, screaming in pain and fury. Owen hung onto the lance, stabbing
it deeper and deeper into the dragon. The lance didn't break, but held straight and true.

Blood was all over the place and all over Owen and the dragon's shrieks were deafening.
Then it made a terrible kind of gurgling sound. The head sank down onto

the bloody snow, shuddered, and lay still. None of us moved - Fizban because he was
unconscious

and Owen because he'd been battered about quite a bit by the dragon's thrashing, and me
because I just didn't feel quite like moving at the time. The dragon didn't move, either,
and it was then I realized it was dead.

Owen crouched on his hands and knees, breathing heavily and wiping blood out of his face
and eyes. Fizban was stirring and groaning and mumbling something about his hat, so I knew
he was all right. I hurried over to help Owen.

“Are you hurt?” I cried anxiously.

“No,” he managed and, leaning on me, he staggered to his feet. He took a stumbling step
backward, like he didn't mean to, and then caught himself, and stood gasping and staring
at the dragon.

Fizban woke up and peered around dazedly. When he saw the dragon's nose lying about a foot
from him, he let out a cry, jumped to his feet in a panic, and tried to climb backward
through a solid wall.

“Fizban,” I told him. “The dragon's dead.”

Fizban stared at it hard, eyes narrowed. Then, when it didn't move and its eyes didn't
blink, he walked over and kicked it on the snout.

“So there!” he said.

Owen could walk some better now, without using me for a crutch. Going over to the dragon,
he took hold of the dragonlance and jerked it out of the dragon's hide. That took some
doing. The lance had bit deep and he'd buried it almost to the hilt. He wiped the lance in
the snow, and we could all see that the tip was sharp and finely honed as ever, not a
notch or crack anywhere. Owen looked from the good dragonlance to the broken dragonlance,
lying in pieces underneath the dragon's chin.

“One broke and one did what no ordinary lance could do. What is the truth?” Owen looked
all puzzled and confused.

“That you killed the dragon,” said Fizban.

Owen looked back at the lances and shook his head. “But I don't understand . . .”

“And whoever said you would. Or were entitled to!” Fizban snorted. He picked up his hat
and sighed. The hat didn't even look like a hat anymore. It was all scrunched

and mushed and slimy. “Dragon slobber,” he said sadly. "And who'll pay for

the dry cleaning?" He glared round at us. I would have offered to pay for it, whatever it
was,

except I never seem to have much money. Besides neither Owen nor I were paying attention
to Fizban right then. Owen was polishing up the good dragonlance and when he was done with
that, he gathered up the pieces of the flawed dragonlance and studied them real carefully.
Then he shook his head again and did something that didn't make much sense to me. He very
reverently and gently put the pieces of the broken dragonlance all in a heap together, and
then wrapped them up in a bundle and tied it with a bit of leather that I found for him in
one of my pouches.

I gathered together all my stuff, that had gotten sort of spread out during the running
and jumping and hat-waving and dragon-fighting. By that time Owen was ready to go and I
was ready to go and Fizban was ready to go and it was then I realized we were all still
stuck down in the cave.

“Oh, bother,” muttered Fizban, and walking over to the back part of the cave, he kicked at
it a couple times with his foot, and the wall tumbled right down.

We were staring out into bright sunshine and blue sky and when we quit blinking we saw
that what we'd thought was a wall wasn't. It had only been a snow bank, and I guess we
could have walked out anytime at all if only we'd known it was there.

Well, Owen gave Fizban a really odd look.

Fizban didn't see it. He stuck his maltreated hat in a pocket of his robes, picked up his
staff, which had been lying in the snow waiting for him, I guess, and walked out into the
sun. Owen and I followed; Owen carrying the dragonlances and me carrying my most precious
possessions.

“Now,” said Fizban, "the kender and I have to travel to Lord Gunthar's, and you, Owen
Glendower, have to return to your village and prepare to face the draconian raiding party.
No, no, don't mind us. I'm a great and powerful wizard, you know. I'll just magic us to
Lord Gunthar's. You haven't got much time. The draconian ran off to alert its troops.
They'll move swiftly now. If you go back into the dragon's lair, you'll find that the cave
extends all the

way through to the other side of the mountain. Cut your distance in half and it will be
safe traveling, now that the dragon's dead.

“No, no, we'll be fine on our own. I know where Lord Gunthar's house is. Known all along.
We make a left at the pass instead of a right,” he said.

I was about to say that's what I'd said all along, only Owen was obviously real anxious to
get on his way.

He said good-bye and shook hands with me very formally and politely. And I gave him back
the painting and told him - rather sternly - that if he thought so much of it he should
take better care of it. And he smiled and promised he would. And then he shook hands with
Fizban, all the time looking at him in that odd way.