Jean Rabe - The Lake of Death

Cover art by Matt Stawicki

Map by Dennis Kauth

The dragon burst from the lake in a tremendous spray of water, midnight black and brilliant blue scales gleaming like perfect gems in the light of two full moons. It took to the sky and spread its wings, hanging above the steamiest land in Ansalon. The great beast seemed the sum of every dragon on Krynn, of every creature that lived in the primordial swamp. Elegant in form, it was at the same time breathtakingly beautiful and awe-inspiringly terrifying. Demonic and divine, repulsive and majestic—it was all of those things at once.

The creature dipped its head, drew its wings in close and dived. It became a stroke of glistening blue-black that arced down like lightning then rose at the very last instant to unfurl its wings before crashing. Beating them almost imperceptibly to keep itself a breath above the water, it glided forward. Dangling front talons, it brushed across the surface of the lake, heading toward the marshy shore. It settled, half on the bank and half in the shallows, stretching its neck into a row of young cypress trees that grew beyond the lake’s edge, its nostrils quivering, jaws opening, tongue snaking out to seek prey.

Suddenly the dragon clamped its teeth on a creature hiding in the small trees, a thing that looked like a cross between a man and a lizard. Called a bakali, the creature was thickly muscled and had the girth of an ogre. It carried a double-bladed poleaxe and boasted a mouthful of jagged teeth that added to its fierce countenance. To the dragon, the bakali scout was a nuisance, certainly not a threat, and was almost beneath its notice.

Almost.

The haft of the creature’s poleaxe splintered like a dry twig when the dragon slammed its jaws shut. The creature’s bones broke just as easily, and the dragon swallowed it in one gulp. Instantly the undergrowth sprang alive. A force of bakali had been quietly approaching behind the scout, each scaly soldier weighed down with weapons—axes, swords, spears, knives, and javelins. Now they rushed the dragon as one, whooping a long, hideous war cry, panicking parrots and egrets that flew screeching from the trees to add to the hellish cacophony.

The largest of the bakali barked orders over his shoulder as he closed in on the dragon, his commands a series of hisses and clicks. There were well more than a hundred bakali, and as the first wave reached the dragon—with spears and javelins thrusting forward— their war whoops turned to screams.

The dragon surged against the bakali, slamming them into the row of cypresses, snapping the trees and biting at the creatures, tossing its head back lustily as it swallowed bakali after bakali. At the same time it slashed with its front claws, cutting through the soldiers’ thick flesh, slicing several in two and causing blood to splatter and rain everywhere. Its huge tail whipped back and forth, batting away the ones who were splashing into the water and trying to come at it from the side, its rear claws pinning the nearest bakali beneath it, drowning them in the shallows. It lowered its head and skewered a few of the berserk creatures on its splendid horns, then with a flick tossed them yards away and began to spear more.

The sounds of the fight were deafening—the war cries from the still-attacking bakali, the death-screams of the closest victims, the cracking of weapon hafts and tree limbs and bakali bones, the ghastly crunching as the dragon continued to devour its foes, and now all of it was topped by a great whoosh of wind created by the dragon’s beating wings. The rush of air hurled many of the bakali to the ground. Those still on their feet fell victim to the dragon’s powerful jaws, but despite the carnage and their dwindling numbers, the bakali did not retreat.

The bank was slick with blood as the dragon crawled up onto higher ground, crushing a dozen bakali beneath its massive body. More than half the enemy were down, dying, or slaughtered, and the remaining creatures continued to press their hopeless onslaught as the dragon edged deeper into the trees. A barrel-chested bakali directed the soldiers to concentrate on the dragon’s front legs and to stay clear of its haunches, where its tail was proving especially lethal. Another ordered those in the second rank to hurl spears and knives at the dragon’s head. Seemingly oblivious, the dragon persisted in its wholesale butchering of the bakali until one clever foe stepped in close and shoved a javelin between a narrow gap in the scales on its chest. Black blood spurted from the wound. The valiant bakali hollered excitedly and again swung hard with his cutlass at the spot. This drew more blood and compelled the dragon’s attention, briefly giving it pause.

A claw swept in and snatched up the offending bakali, lifting him high while ignoring the frenzied blows of his comrades. The dragon brought the soldier up close, holding him even with its ink-black eyes and studying him intently for a moment before squishing him. Then the dragon dropped the pulpy mass and returned its focus to the bakali that were swarming around and trying to breach its armor-like scales. It growled horribly at them, the first sound it had uttered, then it did a surprising thing—it closed its eyes. Despite the chaos of the battle, the dragon was relaxing, releasing the tight control it had been maintaining over its innate fear aura. Liberated, the magical wave pulsed outward, sweeping over the surviving bakali soldiers and instantly filling them with bone-numbing fright. Most of them dropped their weapons and ran pell-mell, crashing through the foliage with no thought as to where they were going—as long as they got far away from the dragon. Only a mere handful were able to rally against the dragonfear and stand their ground, and these were dealt with swiftly.

In the span of only a few minutes all, of the scaly soldiers were slain or routed. The dragon plucked the javelin still sticking from its chest and tossed it into a bed of ferns as it watched the last few survivors flee deep into the swamp. It could smell their fear and their sweat even after they were lost from view, and something else—the coppery scent of blood—its own, and that of the fallen bakalis. Those acrid smells, coupled with the foul redolence of its own body, overpowered the richer and more pleasant odors of the fen, and therefore angered the dragon.

It roared its displeasure that the land near its precious lake had been sullied and the air tainted. Then it pushed aside a bakali corpse that had fallen too near a red chokeberry bush, a favorite plant of the dragon’s. It began to rake aside other bodies, then stopped and raised its head, nostrils quivering, picking up a new odor—the faint trace of sulfur evoking a blacksmith’s shop. It spun to face the source.

“That rout was impressive. Truly impressive.” The whispered words came from the base of a willow tree that reached high above the young cypresses. “I started running when I heard the commotion, fast as I could, but by the time I got here, it was all over.”

The speaker swept aside a veil of leaves and emerged, plodding toward the dragon, making his way around the bakali corpses and stopping to tug free a few coin pouches he spotted. The scent of sulfur grew stronger as he approached.

The newcomer was a sivak draconian, a scaled creature, manlike in form but far more powerful, birthed centuries past by the goddess Takhisis from the corrupted egg of a silver dragon. His kind usually had wings and, like the dragon, could soar above this swamp and any other land, but this particular sivak could not fly. Scarred, knobby patches of hide marked where his wings once were.