Margaret Weis - Dragons of a Lost Star

When devising his plan, King Gilthas had first thought of trying to pierce her hide with arrows, but he had discarded the idea. Beryl’s hide was thick, the scales strong. Arrows might bring her down but only if fired in massive numbers, and the elves did not have those numbers. Besides, she would expect such an attack and be prepared for it. They hoped she would not expect what she was about to get.

Dumat waited now only for the signal arrow that was to have been fired by the elf Kelevandros . . . Kelevandros . . . Dumat knew what had happened, knew it as well as if he had seen it himself. Kelevandros had avenged his brother. Medan was wounded . . . dead. Laurana was alone up there now. She had no one to fire the signal.

He saw her lift her arms.

The sun in this new sky might have seemed pale and strange to the people of Krynn, but perhaps they had managed to win its favor. As Dumat watched, the sun sent a ray of light, straight as an arrow to strike Laurana. In that moment, he thought she held a star.

White flame flared, a flame so brilliant and dazzling that Dumat had to squint his eyes against it and avert his gaze, as he might have done looking into the sun itself. This was the signal, he knew it more in his heart than his head.

With a wild shout, he reared up from among the tree branches and flung them aside. Around him, elves jumped to their feet, grabbed their slings and bows and took their places. Dumat looked to the other rooftops. He was not alone. He had no need to give another signal. Every one of the commanders had seen that flash of light and known it for what it was. Dumat did not hear Laurana’s shouted challenge because he was shouting a challenge of his own, as were the elves around him. Dumat gave the order, and the elves opened fire.

Soliasi Arath! Laurana shouted as she had shouted so many years before, challenging the dragons attacking the High Clerist’s Tower to fly to their deaths. She held the sword with the Lost Star above her, held it with her left hand. If the jewel failed, if the legends were wrong, if the magic of the sword had dwindled as much of the magic in the world had dwindled during the Age of Mortals, their plans and hopes and dreams would end in death.

The sun pierced the jewel and the jewel burst in white fire. Laurana whispered a blessing on the soul of Kalith Rian and on the soul of that unknown elven smith who had found the lost star glittering in the ashes of the forge fire.

Beryl stared at the sword with intense longing, for its magic was powerful, and she wanted it desperately. The jewel in the hilt was the most fabulous she had ever seen. She could not take her eyes from it. She must have it. Malys had nothing this valuable in her treasure trove. Beryl could not take her eyes from it. . . .

Beryl was caught.

Laurana realized the spell had worked when she saw the glow of the jewel burn in the dragon’s eyes, burn deep into the beast’s brain. She held the sword steady, held it high.

Enthralled, Beryl hung almost motionless in the air above Qualinost, her wings fanning gently to keep her aloft, her rapt gaze fixed upon the Lost Star.

The sword was heavy, and Laurana held it in an awkward position in her left hand, but she dared not give way to weakness, dared not drop the sword. She feared even to move, afraid that she might break the spell. Once freed from the enchantment, Beryl would attack in a violent rage. Laurana knew a moment’s despair as she waited in vain to hear some sign that the elves had launched the attack. Her plan had failed. Dumat was waiting for the signal arrow that would never come.

The cheering and shouted challenges rising up from the rooftops were sweeter than bards’ songs to her, gave her tired arm muscles renewed strength. Elves appeared on the bridges that spanned the borders of Qualinost. Elves and Knights could be seen bursting out from the treebranch rooftops, a blossom of deadly flowers. Ballistae that had been covered with vines were wheeled into position. The sling-throwers moved to the attack. A single shouted command begat hundreds of others. The elves launched the assault.

Spears fired from the ballistae streamed upward, flew in a graceful arc over Beryl’s body. Trailing behind the spears were long lengths of rope—

rope that had been formed of wedding gowns and baby clothes, cooks’

aprons and senators’ ceremonial robes. The hundreds of spears carried the ropes up and over Beryl. When the spears plummeted back down to the ground, the ropes settled over the dragon, falling across her body and her wings and her tail.

The sling-throwers launched their attack, sending lead missiles soaring into the air. Attached to the missiles were more ropes that sailed over the dragon. Reloaded, the ballistae fired again. The sling-throwers hurled their missiles again and yet again.

Elf wizards cast spells, not on the dragon, but on the ropes. They cast their spells not knowing if the erratic, wayward magic would work or not. They cast the spells more out of hope and despair than out of certainty. In some instances, the wizards cast spells as they had known them in the Fourth Age. In other instances they cast the spells of the wild magic of this new age. In all instances, the spells worked perfectly. The elf wizards were amazed—thrilled, but amazed.

Some spells strengthened the rope and made the cloth as strong as steel. Others caused the rope to burst into magical fire. The enchanted flames ran along the length of the cable, burning the dragon but not consuming the rope. Certain spells made the rope as sticky as cobweb. Adhering to the dragon’s scales, the rope stuck fast. Still other spells caused the rope to loop and spiral as if it were alive. The living rope wrapped around and around the dragon’s feet, trussed Beryl like a chicken going to market. Now some of the elves dropped their weapons and grabbed hold of the ends of the ropes, waiting for the final command. More and more rope filled the air until Beryl looked like an enormous moth caught in a web spun by many thousands of spiders.

Beryl could do nothing. The dragon was aware of what was happening to her. Laurana looked directly into the reptilian eyes and saw first amusement at the feeble efforts of these puny beings to ensnare her, then annoyance, as Beryl realized her movements were becoming increasingly hampered by the ropes. The annoyance altered very rapidly to fury, when she realized she could do nothing to help herself. She could do nothing but stare at the jewel.

The dragon’s body quivered in impotent rage. Saliva dripped from her jaws. Her neck muscles bulged and strained as she tried frantically to wrench her gaze from the jewel. Rope after rope fell over her body. Her wings were weighed down, her tail entangled. She could not move her hind feet. They were tied together. The horrid ropes were winding themselves around her forefeet. She could feel herself being hauled down out of the sky, and suddenly she was afraid. She was powerless to save herself.

It was at this moment, while Beryl was caught by the jewel and ensnared by the ropes, that Laurana had planned to attack with the dragonlance. She had intended to drive the lance into the dragon’s throat, prevent her from breathing her deadly fumes. She was to have wielded the lance. Medan was to have wielded the sword, used it to slay the dragon. A good plan, but Medan was dead. Laurana was alone. To wield the lance, she would have to drop the sword, free the dragon from the enchantment. This was the moment of peril.

Laurana began to edge backward, still holding the sword, still keeping it steady, though her tired arm muscles quivered with the strain. Step by step, she moved back to the wall where she had placed the dragonlance to have it ready within reach. She groped behind her with her right hand, feeling for the lance, for she did not dare take her eyes off Beryl. At first, Laurana could not find the lance, and fear seized her. Then her fingers touched the metal, warm in the sunshine. Her hand closed over it, and she sighed deeply.