Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Tas did as he was told, craning his neck and peering up into the sky, nearly tumbling over backward in the process.

“I see a white cloud that looks like a rabbit. There, do you see it, Caramon? It has long ears and a puffy tail and—”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Raistlin snarled, giving Tas a shake that snapped his head back. “Keep looking!”

“It might help if I knew what I was looking for,” Tas pointed out meekly.

“That mage shivers my skin,” said Flint, scowling and rubbing his arms.

“It’s not him,” said Tanis. “I feel it, too. Sturm!” he called, looking about for the knight. Sturm had been standing in the shadows of an oak, keeping himself apart from the others, especially Raistlin. The serious-minded knight, who lived by the code, Est Sularas est Mithos , “My honor is my life,” had grown up with Raistlin and his brother, and though Sturm liked Caramon, the knight had never liked nor trusted his twin.

“I sense it as well,” Sturm said.

An uneasy silence had fallen over the crowd. People turned this way and that, searching for the cause of the pricklings of fear that tingled in their arms and raised goose bumps on their flesh. The Plainspeople had halted and were gazing skyward. Riverwind had his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“This reminds me of something!” Tanis said suddenly.

“Xak Tsaroth,” Sturm murmured.

“There!” Tasslehoff cried, pointing. “A dragon!”

It flew far above them, so high that the huge monster was reduced in size to a child’s toy—a deadly toy. As the people watched in terror, the dragon dipped its wings and began to descend, winding downward in slow, lazy circles. The morning sun flashed off red scales and shone through the thin membrane of red wings. The fear that is part of a dragon’s arsenal swept over the crowd. Primal fear from a memory of time’s beginning. Deep-rooted fear that wrung the heart and made the soul shudder.

“Run!” Hederick shrieked. “Run for your lives!”

Tanis understood the terror. He felt the desire to flee, to run anywhere and nowhere in a desperate, panicked need to escape the horror, but he could see that running was the last thing they should do. Most of the people were standing beneath the trees, concealed from the dragon’s sight by the overspreading branches.

“Don’t move!” he managed to shout, though he had to struggle to breathe through the suffocating fear. “If no one moves, the dragon might not see us—”

“Too late,” said Sturm. He gazed upward at the beast. “The dragon has seen all there is to see, and so has the rider.”

The dragon had flown closer to them. They could all see the rider accoutered in heavy armor and a helm decorated with horns. The rider sat at his ease in a specially designed saddle on the dragon’s back, between the wings.

Pandemonium broke out. Some people went racing for the caves. Others collapsed weeping and shivering, onto the grass.

Tanis couldn’t move. He could not take his eyes from the rider. The man was huge with muscular arms that were bare, despite the cold. His helm covered his face, yet Tanis had no trouble recognizing him.

“Verminaard!” Tanis gasped, forcing out the name through clenched teeth.

“That’s impossible!” Sturm said. “He’s dead!”

“Look for yourself!” Tanis returned.

“He was dead, I tell you,” Sturm insisted, yet he sounded shaken. “No man could survive such wounds!”

“Well, this one did, apparently,” Flint said grimly.

“Remember that he himself was a powerful cleric, serving an all powerful goddess,” said Raistlin. “Takhisis might well have restored him to life.”

Someone barreled straight into Tanis, nearly knocking him down. The person shoved Tanis aside and kept on running.

Panic had seized hold of nearly everyone. People went haring off in every direction. Women screamed, men shouted, and children wailed. The dragon flew lower and lower.

“They’ve all gone mad!” Caramon shouted, trying to make himself heard above the chaos.

“Someone has to do something!”

“Someone is,” said Tanis.

Elistan stood firm, his hand on the medallion of faith he wore around his neck. Surrounding him were twenty of his followers and they were pale but composed, listening carefully to Elistan’s instructions. Laurana was among these. She seemed to sense Tanis’s gaze, for she turned her head and flashed him a quick, cool glance. Then she and the other followers of Paladine went among the crowd, taking firm hold of those who were in hysterics and ministering to those who had fallen or been knocked down or trampled.

The Plainsmen were also taking action against the dragon. They stood with bows and arrows ready. The dragon was still too far away for a good shot, but the archers were prepared in case the beast should try to harm those on the ground. Riverwind was giving orders. Standing beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, was Gilthanas. The elf had his bow and arrow aimed and ready. Tanis had not thought to bring his bow, but he wore his sword, the magical sword of the elven king, Kith-Kanan. He drew his weapon, thinking, as he did so that it would do little good against the enormous red dragon. Caramon had his sword drawn. Raistlin’s eyes were closed. He was chanting softly to himself, readying a magical spell. Flint had his battle-axe in his hand. Tasslehoff drew his own small sword that he had named Rabbitslayer, following Caramon’s remark that the small blade would be useful only if Tas were attacked by a ferocious rabbit. Tas claimed the dagger was magic, but thus far the only magic Tanis had seen was the fact that the scatter-brained kender had not yet managed to lose it.

Armed and ready for a battle they could not hope to win, the companions stood waiting in the shadow of the trees for the dragon to start the slaughter.

The Dragon Highlord, mounted on the red’s back, raised his arm in a mocking salute. Even from this distance, they could hear his deep voice rumbling orders to the dragon. The red gave an easy flap of its massive wings and sailed upward. It soared over the heads of the archers, who loosed off a volley of arrows. Almost all found their mark, but none did any damage. Striking the dragon’s scales, the arrows clattered off, falling to the ground. The Dragon Highlord extended his hand and pointed straight at the grove.

The dragon let out its breath in a gust of fire. The trees exploded into flames. A wave of scorching heat swept over Tanis and the rest. Thick black smoke choked the air. Sturm caught hold of Tasslehoff, who was staring at the dragon in open-mouthed excitement, and hoisted the kender off his feet and flung him over his shoulder. Caramon and Raistlin were already running for safety, as was Flint. Tanis peered into the smoke to see if anyone was trapped inside the burning grove.

The trees burned fiercely. Blazing branches fell down all around him. The thick smoke stung his eyes, choking him. The heat from the raging fire was causing his skin to blister. If people were still in there, they were doomed.

Tanis wondered grimly if Verminaard planned to set fire to the entire valley, but apparently the Dragon Highlord was content with simply terrifying them. The dragon lifted its head and flapped its wings and soared into the sky, flying with ponderous grace up and over the mountains. Dragon and rider were soon lost to sight.

The grove of oak, maple, and fir burned white hot, belching smoke that rolled into the sky and hung on the still air above what had once been a peaceful valley, a safe haven.

For several hours following the dragon’s attack, all was chaos. Families had lost track of each other during the mad stampede; children separated from their parents, husbands from their wives. Tanis and his friends worked to calm everyone, shepherding them back up into the caves where they would be safe if the dragon should come again. Goldmoon and the other clerics of Mishakal treated the frightened and the wounded. Elistan helped to restore calm and order, and by afternoon, all of the lost had been found; families were back together again. No one had died, which Tanis held to be a miracle.