Margaret Weis - Dragons of a Lost Star

When the dwarves felt the first shudderings of the ground beneath their feet, they gave a cheer that echoed up and down the tunnels, for they hoped that meant that the elven strategy was working. The dragon had been hauled out of the skies and was lying helpless on the ground, enmeshed in magical rope from which she could not escape.

“What’s going on?” Torvald bellowed up at the scout, who was hunkered down near the entrance, his head poking up through the branches of a lilac bush.

“They got her,” was the scout’s laconic answer. “She’s not moving. She’s a goner.”

The dwarves cheered again. Torvald nodded and was about to give the order for his men to start to climb the ladder when a fierce roar proved the scout wrong. The ground shook beneath Torvald’s feet, the tremor so severe that the beams shoring up the walls creaked ominously. Dirt rained down on their heads.

“What the—” Torvald started to holler at the scout, then changed his mind. He began to climb the ladder to see for himself.

Another quake rumbled through the ground. The tunnel’s ceiling split wide open. Dazzling sunlight streamed down through the gaping hole, half-blinding the dwarves. The horrified Torvald saw the blazing red eye of the infuriated dragon glaring down at him, and then the beams holding up the tunnel’s roof cracked, the ladder splintered. The eye vanished amidst a huge cloud of dust and debris. The roof of the tunnel collapsed. The world fell on top of Torvald, knocking him from the ladder. The horrifying screams of his dying comrades rose above the rending bones of Krynn, the last sounds he heard as tons of rock smashed down on him, crushing his skull and shattering his chest.

Stone, long trusted by the dwarves to shelter and to guard them against their enemies, became their enemy. Their killer. Their tomb. Rangold of Balifor, now forty years old, had been a mercenary since he was fourteen. He fought for one reason and one alone— plunder. He had no other loyalties, knew nothing of politics, would switch sides in the middle of battle if someone made it worth his while. He had joined Beryl’s army because he had heard they were going to be march on Qualinost. He had long anticipated the looting and sacking of the elven city. A man of foresight, Rangold had brought with him several large burlap bags in which he intended to carry home his fortune.

Rangold stood on the riverbank, eating stale bread and munching on dried beef, waiting his turn to cross the river. The blasted elves had cut the bridges. The ropes dangled far above them, for the banks were steep, the river low this time of year. Their scouts kept watch but reported seeing no elves. The first units had started across, some carrying their packs over their heads, others carrying their weapons. Those who could not swim were clearly uncomfortable as they waded deeper and deeper into the water that swirled around them. The water was cold, but ran calmly this time of year. In the spring, fed by the melting snows, the river would have been impassable.

Occasionally a red dragon could be seen circling high above the army, keeping watch. The men did not like the red dragons, did not trust them, even though they were on the same side, and kept glancing upward, hoping that the beast would fly away. Rangold didn’t care anything about dragons. He shivered when the dragonfear was on him, shrugged it off when it was past and continued to eat his food. The thought of slaughtering elves and stealing their riches gave a fine, sharp edge to this appetite.

His first twinge of unease came when the ground suddenly lurched beneath his feet, throwing Rangold off balance and causing him to drop his sandwich. A limb fell with a shattering crash. A tree toppled. The river water heaved and surged, splashing up onto the bank. Rangold clung to the tree and stared around, trying to figure out what was happening. Overhead, the red dragon spread her wings and flew low over the woods, shouting out what sounded like warnings, but no one could make out what she was screaming.

The tremors continued, grew more severe. An enormous cloud of debris roiled into the air, so thick that it obliterated the light of the sun. Those crossing the river lost their footing, tumbled into the water. Those on the bank began hollering and running this way and that in confusion and panic, as the ground continued to heave and buckle beneath their feet.

“What are your orders?” a captain shouted.

“Hold your ground,” his superior, a Knight of Neraka, answered tersely.

“That’s easier said than done,” the captain returned angrily, staggering to keep his balance. “I think we should get the hell out of here!”

“You have your orders, Captain,” the Knight shouted. “This will stop in a—”

With an ear-splitting crack, an enormous tree limb broke loose and fell with a thundering crash, burying the Knight and the captain beneath its branches. Cries and moans came from the wreckage, pleas for help, pleas that Rangold ignored. He didn’t know what the rest of the army planned to do, and he didn’t care. As the captain had suggested, Rangold was going to get the hell out of here.

He started to scramble up the bank, but at that moment he heard an ominous, rolling, thunderous rumble. Turning to find the source of the sound, he saw a horrifying sight. A wall of water, bubbling and foaming, rushed down on them. The quakes caused the banks of the White-rage River to crumble. Fissures split open the rock ravines through which the river ran. Freed of its confinement, driven into tumult by the repeated tremors, the river went on a wild rampage.

The water uprooted trees, tore huge chunks of rock from the cliff faces through which it thundered, carried the rock and debris before it. Rangold stared, appalled, and then turned and began to run. Behind him, those trapped in the water shrieked for help, but the rising river swiftly drowned their cries, as it swept them downstream. Rangold tried to clamber up the bank, but the sides were steep and slippery. He knew a moment’s horrible fear, and then the water crashed into him with a force that shattered his breastbone and stopped his heartbeat. His body, limp and bloody, became just one more bit of debris the river carried downstream. Bellowing and shrieking in rage, Beryl sank deeper and deeper as the ground gave way. The earth cracked beneath her weight. The cracks spread and radiated outward. Buildings, trees and homes collapsed and slid into the widening fissures. The headquarters of the Knights of Neraka, that squat, ugly building, fell in upon itself with booming crash. Debris rained down upon the dragon, striking her in the head, puncturing her wings. The castle of the king, built of living aspen trees, was destroyed, the trees uprooted, limbs shattered, huge trunks twisted and snapped. The elves of Qualinost, who had remained to defend their homeland, died in the rubble of the homes they had wrought with such care, died in the gardens they had loved. Though they knew death was imminent and that there was no escape, they continued to fight their enemy, stabbing at Beryl with spear and sword until the pavement split asunder, gave way beneath their feet. The elves died with hope, for though they had perished, they believed that their city would survive and rise again from the ruins. It was well they died, before they knew the truth.

Beryl realized suddenly that she was not going to survive, that she could not escape. The knowledge bewildered her. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to end. She—the mightiest force to have ever been seen on Krynn—was going to die an ignominious death in a hole in the ground. How could this have happened? What had gone wrong? She didn’t understand. . . .

Boulders rained down on her, cracking her skull and breaking her spine. Splintered trees ripped holes in her wings, falling rocks snapped the tendons. Sharp, jagged stones slashed open her belly. Blood spurted from beneath her scales. Pain wrenched her and twisted, her and she screamed for death to come to release her. The monster who had slain so many moaned and writhed in agony as rocks and trees and crumbling buildings pummeled her. The immense, misshapen head sank lower and lower. The red eyes rolled back. The broken wings, the thrashing tail grew still. With a last sigh, a bitter curse, Beryl died.