Маргарет Уэйс - Dragons of Spring Dawning

“You’ve never ridden a dragon before in your life!” Tasslehoff said indignantly. “And—ouch!”

“Just that I’ve had more important things on my mind lately,” Flint said loudly, punching Tas in the ribs, “and it may take me a while to get the hang of it again.”

“Certainly, Sire,” Khirsah said without the ghost of a smile. “May I call you Flint?”

“You may,” said the dwarf gruffly.

“And I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said the kender, extending his small hand. “Flint never goes anywhere without me. Oh, I guess you haven’t any hand to shake with. Never mind. What’s your name?”

“My name to mortals is Fireflash.” The dragon gracefully bowed his head. “And now, Sir Flint, if you will instruct your squire, the kender—”

“Squire!” Tas repeated, shocked. But the dragon ignored him.

“Instruct your squire to come up here, I will help him prepare the saddle and the lance for you.”

Flint stroked his beard thoughtfully. Then, he made a grand gesture.

“You, squire,” he said to Tas, who was staring at him with his mouth open, “get up there and do as you’re told.”

“I—you—we—” Tas stuttered. But the kender never finished what he had been about to say because the dragon had lifted him off the ground again. Teeth clamped firmly in the kender’s fur vest, Khirsah raised him up and plopped him back onto the saddle that was strapped to the dragon’s bronze body.

So enchanted was Tas with the idea of actually being atop a dragon that he hushed up, which is just what Khirsah had intended.

“Now, Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said the dragon, “you were trying to boost your master up into the saddle backwards. The correct position is the one you are in now. The metal lance mounting must be on the front right side of the rider, sitting squarely forward of my right wing joint and above my right fore-shoulder. Do you see?”

“Yes, I see!” called Tas in high excitement.

“The shield, which you see on the ground, will protect you from most forms of dragonbreath—”

“Whoa!” shouted the dwarf, crossing his arms and looking stubborn once more. “What do you mean most forms? And how am I supposed to fly and hold a lance and a shield all at the same time? Not to mention the fact that the blasted shield’s bigger than me and the kender put together—”

“I thought you had done this before, Sir Flint!” Tas yelled.

The dwarf’s face went red with rage and he let out a bellow, but Khirsah cut in smoothly.

“Sir Flint probably isn’t accustomed to this newer model, Squire Burrfoot. The shield fits over the lance. The lance itself fits through that hole and the shield rests on the saddle and slides from side to side on the track. When attacked, you simply duck behind it.”

“Hand me the shield, Sir Flint!” the kender yelled.

Grumbling, the dwarf stumped over to where the huge shield lay on the ground. Groaning with the weight, he managed to lift it up and haul it over to the dragon’s side. With the dragon’s help, the dwarf and the kender between them managed to get the shield mounted. Then Flint went back for the dragonlance. Lugging it back, he thrust the tip of the lance up to Tas, who caught hold of it and—after nearly losing his balance and tumbling overboard—pushed the lance through the hole in the shield. When the pivot locked into position, the lance was counterbalanced and swung lightly and easily, guided by the kender’s small hand.

“This is great!” Tas said, experimenting. “Wham! There goes one dragon! Wham! There goes another. I—oh!” Tas stood up on the dragon’s back, balanced lightly as the lance itself. “Flint! Hurry! They’re getting ready to leave. I can see Laurana! She’s riding that big silver dragon and she’s flying this way, checking the line. They’re going to be signaling in a minute! Hurry, Flint!” Tas began jumping up and down in excitement.

“First, Sir Flint,” said Khirsah, “you must put on the padded vest. There... that’s right. Put the strap through that buckle. No, not that one. The other—there, you have it.”

“You look like a woolly mammoth I saw once.” Tas giggled. “Did I ever tell you that story? I—”

“Confound it!” Flint roared, barely able to walk, engulfed in the heavy, fur-lined vest. “This is no time for any of your harebrained stories.” The dwarf came nose-tip to nose-tip with the dragon. “Very well, beast! How do I get up? And mind you—don’t you dare lay a tooth on me!”

“Certainly not, Sire,” Khirsah said in deep respect. Bowing his head, the dragon extended one bronze wing full length upon the ground.

“Well, that’s more like it!” Flint said. Smoothing his beard with pride, he shot a smug glance at the stunned kender. Then, solemnly mounting the dragon’s wing, Flint ascended, regally taking his place at the front of the saddle.

“There’s the signal!” Tas shrieked, leaping back into the saddle behind Flint. Kicking his heels against the dragon’s flanks, he yelled, “Let’s go! Let’s go!”

“Not so fast,” said Flint, coolly testing the workings of the dragonlance. “Hey! How do I steer?”

“You indicate which direction you want me to turn by pulling on the reins,” Khirsah said, watching for the signal. There it was.

“Ah, I see,” said Flint, reaching down. “After all, I am in charge—ulp!”

“Certainly, Sire!” Khirsah leaped into the air, spreading his great wings to catch the rising currents of air that floated up the face of the small cliff they stood upon.

“Wait, the reins—” Flint cried, grasping at them as they slid out of his reach.

Smiling to himself, Khirsah pretended not to hear.

The good dragons and the knights who rode them were gathered on the rolling foothills east of the Vingaard Mountains. Here, the chill winter winds had given way to warm breezes from the north, melting the frost from the ground. The rich smell of growth and renewal perfumed the air as the dragons rose in flashing arcs to take their places in formation.

It was a sight that took the breath away. Tasslehoff knew he would remember it forever—and maybe even beyond that. Bronze and silver, brass and copper wings flared in the morning light. The Greater Dragonlances, mounted on the saddles, glittered in the sun. The knights’ armor shone brilliantly. The Kingfisher flag with its golden thread sparkled against the blue sky.

The past few weeks had been glorious. As Flint said, it seemed the tide of war was finally flowing in their direction.

The Golden General, as Laurana came to be called by her troops, had forged an army seemingly out of nothing. The Palanthians, caught up in the excitement, rallied to her cause. She won the respect of the Knights of Solamnia with her bold ideas and firm, decisive actions. Laurana’s ground forces surged out of Palanthas, flowing across the plain, pressing the unorganized armies of the Dragon Highlord, known as the Dark Lady, into panic-stricken Flight.

Now, with victory after victory behind them and the dragonarmies fleeing before them, the men considered the war as good as won.

But Laurana knew better. They had yet to fight the dragons of the Highlord. Where these were and why they had not fought before was something Laurana and her officers couldn’t figure out. Day after day, she held the knights and their mounts in readiness, prepared to take to the air. And now that day had come. The dragons had been sighted—flights of blues and reds reportedly heading westward to stop the insolent general and her rag-tag army.

In a shimmering chain of silver and bronze, the Dragons of Whitestone, as they were called, soared across the Solamnic Plain. Although all the dragon-mounted knights had been trained in flight as much as time allowed (with the exception of the dwarf who steadfastly refused), this world of wispy, low-hanging clouds and rushing air was still new and foreign to them.