Margaret Weis: Dragons of Winter Night

Preparations for the journey gave him plenty to think about. He was able to tell himself he didn’t care that Laurana avoided him. And, at the beginning, the journey itself was enjoyable. It seemed as if they were back in the early days of fall instead of the beginning of winter. The sun shone, warming the air. Only Raistlin wore his heaviest cloak.

Conversation as the companions walked through the northern part of the Plains was light-hearted and merry, filled with teasing and bantering and reminding each other of the fun they had shared in earlier, happier days in Solace. No one spoke of the dark and evil things they had seen in the recent past. It was as if, in the contemplation of a brighter future, they willed these things never to have existed.

At night, Elistan explained to them what he was learning of the ancient gods from the Disks of Mishakal, which he carried with him. His stories filled their souls with peace and reinforced their faith. Even Tanis—who had spent a lifetime searching for something to believe in and now that they had found it viewed it with skepticism—felt deep in his soul that he could believe in this if he believed in anything. He wanted to believe in it, but something held him back, and every time he looked at Laurana, he knew what it was. Until he could resolve his own inner turmoil, the raging division between the elven and human inside of him, he would never know peace.

Only Raistlin did not share in the conversations, the merriment, the pranks and jokes, the campfire talks. The mage spent his days studying his spellbook. If interrupted, he would answer with a snarl. After dinner, of which he ate little, he sat by himself, his eyes on the night sky, staring at the two gaping black holes that were mirrored in the mage’s black hourglass-shaped pupils.

It was only after several days that spirits began to flag. The sun was obscured by clouds and the wind blew chill from the north. Snow fell so thickly that one day they could not travel at all but were forced to seek shelter in a cave until the blizzard blew itself out. They set double watch at night, though no one could say exactly why, only that they felt a growing sense of threat and menace. Riverwind stared uneasily at the trail they left in the snow behind them. As Flint said, a blind gully dwarf could follow it. The sense of menace grew, the sense of eyes watching and ears listening.

Yet who could it be, out here in the Plains of Dust where nothing and no one had lived for three hundred years?

The dragon sighed, flexed his huge wings, and lifted his ponderous body from the warm, soothing maters of the hot springs. Ernerging from a billowing cloud of vapor, he braced himself to step into the chill air. The clear winter air stung his delicate nostrils and bit into his throat. Swallowing painfully, he firmly resisted the temptation to return do the warm pools and began to climb to the high rocky ledge above him.

The dragon stamped irritably upon rocks slick with ice from the hot springs’ vapor, which cooled almost instantly in the freezing air. The stones cracked and broke beneath his clawed feet, bounding and tumbling down into the valley below.

Once he slipped, causing him momentarily to lose his balance. Spreading his great wings, he recovered easily, but the incident only served to increase his irritation further.

The morning sun lit the mountain peaks, touching the dragon, causing his blue scales to shimmer golden in the clear light but doing little to warm his blood. The dragon shivered again, stamping his feet upon the chill ground. Winter was not for the blue dragons, nor was travel in this abysmal country. With that thought in mind, as it had been in his mind all the long, bitter night, Skie looked about for his master.

He found the Dragon Highlord standing upon an outcropping of rock, an imposing figure in horned dragonhelm and blue dragon-scale armor. The Highlord, cape whipping in the chill wind, was gazing with intense interest across the great flat plain far below.

‘Come, Lord, return to your tent.’ And let me return to the hot springs, Skie added mentally. ‘This chill wind cuts to the bone. Why are you out here anyway?’

Skie might have supposed the Highlord was reconnoitering, planning the disposition of troops, the attacks of the dragonflights. But that was not the case. The occupation of Tarsis had long been planned—planned, in fact, by another Dragon Highlord, for this land was under the command of the red dragons.

The blue dragons and their Dragon Highlords controlled the north, yet here I stand, in these frigid southlands, Skie thought irritably. And behind me is an entire flight of blue dragons. He turned his head slightly, looking down upon his fellows beating their wings in the early morning, grateful for the hot springs’ warmth which took the chill from their tendons.

Fools, Skie thought scornfully. All they’re waiting for is a signal from the Highlord to attack. To light the skies and burn the cities with their deadly bolts of lightning are all they care about. Their faith in the Dragon Highlord is implicit. As well it might be, Skie admitted—their master had led them to victory after victory in the north, and they had not lost one of their number.

They leave it to me to ask the questions—because I am the Highlord’s mount, because I am closest to the Highlord. Well, so be it. We understand each other, the Highlord and I.

‘We have no reason to be in Tarsis.’ Skie spoke his feelings plainly. He did not fear the Highlord. Unlike many of the dragons in Krynn, who served their masters with grudging reluctance, knowing themselves to be the true rulers, Skie served his master out of respect—and love. ‘The reds don’t want us here, that’s certain. And we’re not needed. That soft city that beckons you so strangely will fall easily. No army. They swallowed the bait and marched off to the frontier.’

‘We are here because my spies tell me they are here—or will be shortly,’ was the Highlord’s answer. The voice was low but carried even over the biting wind.

‘They...they...’ grumbled the dragon, shivering and moving restlessly along the ridge. ‘We leave the war in the north, waste valuable time, lose a fortune in steel. And for what—a handful of itinerant adventurers.’

‘The wealth is nothing to me, you know that. I could buy Tarsis if it pleased me.’ The Dragon Highlord stroked the dragon’s neck with an ice-caked leather glove that creaked with the powerful movements. ‘The war in the north is going well. Lord Ariakas did not mind my leaving. Bakaris is a skilled young commander and knows my armies nearly as well as I do. And do not forget, Skie, these are more than vagabonds. These “itinerant adventurers” killed Verminaard.’

‘Bah! The man had already dug his own grave. He was obsessed, lost sight of the true purpose.’ The dragon flicked a glance at his master. ‘The same might be said of others.’

‘Obsessed? Yes, Verminaard was obsessed, and there are those who should be taking that obsession more seriously. He was a cleric, he knew what damage the knowledge of the true gods, once spread among the people, can do us,’ answered the Highlord. ‘Now, according to reports, the people have a leader in this human called Elistan, who has become a cleric of Paladine. Worshipers of Mishakal bring true healing back to the land. No, Verminaard was farseeing. There is great danger here. We should recognize and move to stop it—not scoff at it.’

The dragon snorted derisively. ‘This priest—Elistan—doesn’t lead the people . He leads eight hundred wretched humans, former slaves of Verminaard’s in Pax Tharkas. Now they’re holed up in Southgate with the mountain dwarves.’ The dragon settled down on the rock, feeling the morning sun finally bringing a modicum of warmth to his scaled skin. ‘Besides, our spies report they are traveling to Tarsis even as we speak. By tonight, this Elistan will be ours and that will be that. So much for the servant of Paladine!’