Douglas Niles: The Puppet King

Aerensianic saw the silver-feathered griffon perish in the grasp of the blazing serpent, and the green dragon was filled with a rage as powerful as it was inexplicable. He flew into the battle with a roar, ignoring the pain as his talons and fangs ripped through the fire dragon. He wanted to avenge the elven prince, to hurt this Chaos dragon who had slain the enemy that Aeren had once tried, and failed, to kill.

Toxyria flew at his side, and she, too, slashed at the wyrm of flame. The creature, lethally torn, tumbled lifelessly to the ground.

Two more fire dragons dived from above, and Aeren bellowed in fear as he saw the female vanish in a cloud of boiling, churning flame. With a white dragon flying at his side, he flew against the diving pair, and in moments both wyrms fell, their flames permanently doused by the violent attacks of the vengeful chromatics.

But it was too late for Toxy. Her wings charred to ash, she tumbled from the sky. Her yellow eyes fastened one last time upon Aerensianic. In bleak and helpless horror, he watched her smash into the ground with bone-crushing force.

He plummeted after, coming to rest beside her shattered form. She lay broken and battered, sprawled across a wide street, and he nuzzled her neck, her nostrils, desperate for some hint of breath, of vitality.

But he was too late. She was already dead.

Charging humans and elves swept forward, and the last of the shadows vanished under magical steel. At last Gilthas looked at a sky that was vacant of fiery serpents. A final daemon warrior wailed, pierced by lance and sword, and then the creatures of Chaos were gone.

Humans and elves gasped for breath and looked at each other as if mystified by the end of the battle. Griffons began to land all around them, and even dragons of green and white came to rest in the city of the elves. Those serpents, Gilthas saw, were gathered around a motionless green shape that had tumbled to the ground about a block away.

Of Porthios Solostaran, there was no sign.

A few minutes later Samar landed. His dragonlance was seared and scorched but, like the elven warrior-mage himself, intact.

“The prince apparently fell into the stream in the bed of the ravine,” he said grimly. “I fear that his body was washed away.”

Alhana pressed a hand to her mouth but made no sound. Laurana wrapped her arms around her brother’s widow, pulling her close, and for long moments, the two women stared wordlessly at the sky, at the expanse of the ruined city.

“He died for us all,” said the queen.

“And he will be remembered as a hero of elvenkind,” Laurana added, “who sacrificed his life in our darkest hour.”

The Dark Knight lord came over to the elves, stopping to face Gilthas.

“We have won—the day is ours,” Salladac said, placing a hand on the elf’s shoulder. “You are a hero of Krynn. Word of your deeds this day shall be carried to Lord Ariakan at once.”

“Perhaps our battle, and the loss of Porthios and all those brave warriors, will not be in vain. Perhaps the Storms of Chaos have been halted, held at bay.”

“No doubt my lord will send word about matters in the rest of Krynn,” agreed Salladac.

“Your Lord... Ariakan. He still fancies himself the master of Qualinesti, no doubt,” Gilthas replied.

“Fancies himself, and is that master in fact,” Salladac said. “We have a treaty, you may recall.”

Gilthas gestured to the ruins that lay scattered about the base of the Tower of the Sun. “A treaty signed by a senate that no longer exists,” he observed.

“But a treaty signed, nonetheless,” declared the lord, still calm. His dark eyes remained focused, unblinking, on the Speaker of the Sun.

In contrast, the young elf felt his temper slipping. They were surrounded by hundreds of elves and only a fraction that many Dark Knights, and he couldn’t abide this man talking to him as if Qualinesti was still a conquered realm. “Perhaps this is the time to overthrow the invaders,” he said, trying to bluster.

Salladac sighed. He, too, made a gesture, one that encompassed the green and white dragons who lolled, licking their wounds but still an obvious presence, up the street. “They, as well as we humble knights, are servants of her Dark Majesty. Would you care to ignite another battle so soon on the heels of the last?”

“Please, man and elf,” said Laurana, quietly advancing to take her son’s arm. “This is not the time for starting a new war. Look around you, at the devastation and the death. Look even to the sky.”

Gilthas did, and he saw that the scorching sun had barely begun to inch its way toward the horizon.

“Can’t you see?” Laurana continued. “Krynn is entering a new age. Would you have the histories record that you two welcomed that age with an act of war? Our survival has been attained because you worked and fought together. Surely you can continue that cooperation, make it your legacy for the future!”

The Speaker of the Sun looked at the human lord and heard his mother’s words. There would be room for both of them in Qualinesti, he saw. There would have to be, for he could not bring his nation into another war.

Salladac, too, felt the same, for he extended his hand in a gesture of peace.

Gilthas reached forward and took that hand, and the new age of the world began.

“It is time I returned to my homeland,” Alhana said. She bore the baby in the tai-thall . She and Samar were prepared to mount their griffons as the animals pranced restlessly on the outskirts of the city.

“If we find Porthios... his remains, I mean,” Laurana said tenderly, “he will be buried with honors, and we’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Sister.” Alhana sighed. “Silvanesti will be suffering under Konnal, I fear. With my husband dead, there remains nothing for me here—and it may be that I can do some good in the land of my birth.”

“I bid you farewell, my queen,” Gilthas said.

“And may good fortune greet you in the land of your father,” Laurana added.

The two watched the griffons as they soared into the sky, finally vanishing into the east. Kerian’s arm tightened around Gilthas, and he turned toward the city and his new life as the king of the elves.

The wild elf warrior found the charred body in the stream. Aided by the poultices prepared by his wife, he carried the badly injured prince back to a streamside cave. For long weeks, he tended him, nursing him first to consciousness, and then to the point where the elven prince could move.

“My face,” groaned the prince, staring with horror at his reflection in the stream. “I am a freak, a monster.”

“Come,” Dallatar said, helping Porthios to make his way onto the winding, shaded trail. “Your home is in the forest now.”

“And I turned my back on that world and came here to live out my life in solitude and peace,” Aeren said. “I crept into my cave and slept”—he looked at Samar with narrowed eyes—“and slept well, until you poked me with that accursed spear.”

“We shall leave you to that peace, dragon,” said Silvanoshei. “I thank you for your story.”

He reached forward and touched a talon of the great foot. “I am sorry for the loss of Toxyria,” he added quietly .

“I, too,” said Aeren, lowering his head .

Only after a long pause, many heartbeats of reflection, did the two elves rise and make their way out of the cavern, back to the world of sun and sky and sea .