Margaret Weis - Dragons of the Highlord Skies

Laurana hurried to the kender and put her arms around him. Tas burst into tears and collapsed into a sodden and blood-covered heap on the ice.

Derek had a gash on his face and claw marks on his hands and arms. One of the sleeves of his fur coat hung in tatters. Blood oozed from a bite on his thigh. He gazed down at the bodies of Aran and Brian with a slight frown, as if trying to recollect where he’d seen them before.

“I’m going into the dragon’s lair to find the orb,” he said at last. “Brightblade, stand guard. Don’t let anyone come after me, especially the elves.”

“Gilthanas and Laurana probably saved your life, Derek,” said Sturm hoarsely, his throat raw.

“Just do as you’re ordered, Brightblade,” Derek said coldly.

He limped out of the chamber, heading for the dragon’s lair.

“The gods go with him,” Laurana murmured.

“Hah! Good riddance to bad rubbish is what I say,” said Flint, patting the hiccupping kender on the back.

The dragon orb was pleased. All was going better than hoped. The powerful archmage who had kept the orb prisoner—kept it safe, too, though the orb now gave no thought to that—was dead. Over the centuries, the orb had come to hate Feal-Thas. The orb had repeatedly tried to lure the wizard into using it, hoping to bring the wizard under its control. Feal-Thas had been too smart for that and the orb had seethed and schemed, seeking a way out of this godforsaken place.

Then the place was no longer godforsaken. Takhisis returned and spoke sweet words of blood, fire, and victory, and the orb heard her blandishments and longed to be a part of her new world. But Feal-Thas would not let the orb go. He was so powerful, with his own powerful advocate among the gods, that the wizard could turn a deaf ear to Takhisis.

Then Ariakas came up with a scheme to use the orb to bring about the downfall of the Solamnics. Kitiara came to set his plan in motion. She killed the guardian, and Feal-Thas was forced to hand over the orb to the care of an obtuse and thick-skulled dragon. More, in his arrogance, the wizard was foolish enough to use the orb to lure his enemies into an ambush. The orb had not taken an active role in the destruction of Feal-Thas, but it was pleased to think that it had, in some small way, been of use.

Now the victorious knight was coming to claim his prize. The essences of the five dragons trapped inside the orb roiled and writhed in anticipation. The orb glowed with a hideous light that sank to nothing the moment the knight set foot in the chamber. The orb went clear as a crystal lake on a fine midsummer’s day. Not a ripple disturbed its placid surface. Pure and innocent-seeming, benign, harmless, it sat upon its pedestal and waited.

The knight entered the lair in naive glory and total ignorance. He limped in, moving slowly and cautiously. Sword drawn, he looked about for the dragon or any other guardians. He would find none. The lair was empty, except for Sleet’s victims—dead bodies encased in ice to be thawed and eaten when she, the lazy beast, did not feel like hunting.

The knight found the orb immediately. The dragon minds inside could both see and feel his yearning. He proceeded warily, however, advancing at a crawl, constantly looking over his shoulder, fearful of something sneaking up behind him. The orb waited patiently.

At last, certain he was alone in this chamber, the knight sheathed his sword and limped toward the orb. He took from his belt a sack made of deer hide. He looked at the orb, looked at the sack, and frowned slightly. The orb was too large. It would not fit inside.

A sound came from behind him and the knight dropped the sack, drew his sword, and turned around. Instantly, the orb shrank itself down, becoming just the right size. The sound was not repeated and the knight turned back. He was startled to see the orb appeared to be smaller. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. He fell back a step.

The orb sat on its pedestal, blandly innocent.

The knight shook his head. He was wounded, bleeding, exhausted. He’d been mistaken. He again sheathed his sword, picked up the sack and spread it on the icy floor, ready to receive the orb. He reached out his hands and placed them on the crystal orb, prepared to lift it off its stand and put it in the sack.

Oh, the things about magic the knight did not know, but which he would soon find out!

To his everlasting sorrow.

There are magical words that must be spoken by the person who touches the orb. These words would not assure the orb would come under the person’s control, but they would weaken the will of the dragons caught within. The person placing his hands upon the orb should have a strong and powerful will and should be ready to seize hold and dominate the essence of the trapped dragons. He must be ready to meet the hands that will reach out, grab hold, and try to drag him down.

The knight thought he had only to pick up a globe of clear crystal. He was suddenly and terrifyingly disabused of this notion. Light flared from the globe and struck him directly in the eyes. He closed his eyes against the blinding glare and did not see the colors start to swirl and dance. He did not see the hands that reached out and grabbed hold of his.

The knight gasped. He tried to free himself, but he was not strong enough. His will wavered. He was ignorant, confused, and horribly afraid. He did not understand what was happening and the orb had an easy time of it. It dragged him down and dragged him under, held him fast until he ceased to struggle.

The dragons began to whisper to him, words of despair, meant to destroy hope.

When they were finished with the knight, they let him go.

Pleased with himself, never realizing that forever and always he would hear the voices whispering doom to him in the night, Derek Crownguard bore the dragon orb out of Ice Wall Castle.

The wolves had fled, but the danger had not. Derek had gone off to the dragon’s lair to find the orb. Laurana and the others remained in the tunnels beneath a castle under siege. Sounds of fighting echoed faintly down the tunnels. The Ice Folk had managed to fight their way inside the castle and were battling the enemy within its walls. Their day was not finished. The wizard was dead, but those who served him were not.

Sturm sheathed his sword and knelt down to compose the bodies of his comrades. He shut the staring eyes and covered Aran’s ghastly face with his own cloak. He washed the blood from Brian’s face with handfuls of snow.

Laurana had feared Gilthanas would rush off after Derek, perhaps even fight him for the dragon orb. Gilthanas did not leave. He stared at the bodies of the two knights, remembering that only last night they had been alive, laughing, talking, smiling, and singing. He bowed his head, his eyes filled with tears. Laurana stood at his side. He put his arm around her, and together they knelt in the snow to pay their respects to the dead. Flint made a swipe at his eyes and cleared his throat. Tasslehoff smeared blood over his face as he blew his nose on Caramon’s handkerchief.

The dead lay in some semblance of peace, their arms crossed over their breasts, their swords clasped in their still hands.

Sturm raised his eyes skyward and prayed quietly, “‘Return this man to Huma’s breast, beyond the wild, impartial skies; grant to him a warrior’s rest, and set the last spark—’”

“Time for that later,” Derek interrupted.

He came from the dragon’s lair and he held a leather sack in his hand tied with a drawstring. “I have the dragon orb. We must get out of here before we are discovered.”

He glanced down at Aran and Brian, lying on the blood-stained ice, and a spasm passed over his face. His eyes dimmed; his lips trembled. He pressed his lips tightly together. His eyes cleared.