Margaret Weis - Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Caramon followed Sturm out of the ruined library and found himself in a wide corridor. This part of the fortress had escaped the worst effects of the blast. The only damages were cracks in the walls and floors and some chunks of the ceiling that had crashed down into the corridor. The dragon’s roars sounded as though they were coming from the far end. The bellowings grew louder and more terrifying.

The voices of those battling the beast were growing louder as well. Caramon could not make out the words, but it sounded as if they were jeering their foe and spurring each other on. Sturm was running forward. He had not looked back; he had no idea if Caramon was coming or not. Caramon advanced more cautiously. Something about this battle struck him as odd. He wished his twin would join him.

Half-turning, Caramon called softly, “Raist, hurry up!”

A hand closed over Caramon’s arm, and a voice whispered from the darkness, “I am here, my brother.”

Caramon gave a violent start.

“Damn, Raist! Don’t creep up on me like that!”

“We must make haste,” Raistlin said grimly, “prevent the knight from getting himself burnt to a cinder.”

The two of them hurried forward, following the light of Sturm’s torch and the bright gleam of his sword.

“I don’t like this,” Caramon said.

“I can’t think why,” Raistlin returned caustically. “The three of us marching boldly to our deaths…”

Caramon shook his head. “It’s not that. Listen to those voices, Raist. I’ve heard them or something like them before.”

Raistlin glanced at his twin and saw that Caramon was serious. The two had served together as mercenaries for years, and Raistlin had come to respect his brother’s skill and his warrior instincts. Raistlin drew back the folds of his cowl in order to better hear the voices. He looked at Caramon and gave a nod.

“You’re right. We have heard those voices before. Fool knight!” Raistlin added bitterly. “We have to stop him before he gets himself killed! You go on. I’ll catch up.” Caramon dashed on ahead.

“ Shirak ,” Raistlin spoke the word of magic, and the light of his staff flared. He noted in passing the remnants of a gigantic iron stair rail spiraling downward.

“That leads to my chambers,” he said to himself.

Focused on his spellcasting, he did not realize what he was saying.

“Sturm! Wait up!” Caramon called out when he thought the knight could hear him over the clash of arms.

Sturm halted and turned around. “Well, what is it?” he said impatiently.

“Those voices!” Caramon gasped, huffing from the exertion. “They’re draconian. No, listen!” He gripped his friend’s arm.

Sturm did listen, his brow furrowing. He lowered his sword. “Why would draconians attack a dragon?”

“Maybe they had a falling out,” Caramon said, trying to catch his breath. “Evil turns on its own.”

“I am not so certain,” said Raistlin, coming up to them. He looked from the knight to his twin.

“Do either of you sense the debilitating fear that we have felt before around these beasts?”

“No,” Sturm replied, “but the dragon cannot see us.”

“That shouldn’t make a difference. Back in camp, we felt the terror of the red dragon long before it came into view.”

“It’s all very strange,” Sturm muttered, frowning.

“The one thing we do know is this,” said Raistlin. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend’.”

“True,” said Sturm, smiling slightly. “In that case, we should help the dragon.”

“Help the dragon!” Caramon goggled. “Have you both gone crazy?” Both had, apparently, for Sturm was once more running toward the fight and Raistlin was hastening alongside. Shaking his head, Caramon dashed after his brother and the knight. The sounds of battle intensified. The draconians’ hissing and their guttural voices, could be heard clearly now. They spoke their own language but with a mixture of Common thrown in, so that Caramon could understand about every fourth word. The dragon’s roaring diminished, growing weaker. Light flared from the armory, shining into the corridor.

Sturm had flattened himself against a wall. Edging near the door, he risked a glance into the chamber. What he saw amazed him so he could not move but stood transfixed, staring. Caramon yanked him back.

“Well?” he demanded.

“There is a dragon,” said Sturm, awed, “like none I have ever seen or heard of. It is beautiful.” He shook himself, came back to reality. “And it is badly hurt.”

Caramon went to see for himself.

Sturm was right. The dragon was not like any other dragon Caramon had ever encountered. He had seen dragons with scales that were black as the Dark Queen’s heart, dragons with scales red as searing flame, dragons with scales the color of a cobolt sky. This one was different. It was smaller than most and it was beautiful, as Sturm has said. Its scales gleamed like polished brass.

“What sort of dragon is it?” Caramon turned back to his twin.

“That’s what we must find out,” said Raistlin, “which means we can’t let it die.”

“There are four draconians,” Sturm reported. “One is badly wounded. The other three are on their feet. They have their backs to us. They’re concentrating on finishing off the dragon. They are armed with bows. They’ve been loosing arrows at it. We can take them from behind.”

“Let me see what I can do,” said Raistlin. “Perhaps I can save us time and trouble.” Raistlin drew something from his pouch, crushed it beneath his fingers, spoke the words of magic, and made a motion with his hand.

A ball of blazing fire flew from his fingertips, hurtled across the room, and struck one of the draconians in the back. The magical fire burst on the draconian’s scaly skin. The draconian gave a hideous yell and collapsed onto the floor, rolling about in agony as the flames blackened his scales and charred his flesh. His companions scrambled to get away from him, for the flames were spreading, licking at their heels.

“Remember, you two!” Raistlin warned, as Sturm and Caramon charged inside. “Draconians are as dangerous dead as they are alive!”

Sturm shouted his battle-cry, “ Arras, Solamni ! Arise, Solamnia!” The draconian started at the yell and was about to turn to face this new foe, just as Sturm’s sword slid through its entrails. Sturm yanked his blade out swiftly, before the draconian’s corpse could freeze into stone, trapping his weapon. Caramon was taking no chances. Wrapping his fist around his sword’s hilt, he bashed his draconian on the back of the neck. The draconian’s neck cracked and it fell to the floor, stiff as marble.

“Three dead!” Caramon reported, sucking on bruised knuckles. He hurried over to finish off the wounded draconian, only to find that it had died. The body crumbled to dust as he approached it.

“Four dead,” he amended.

The battle ended, Sturm hastened over to the dragon. The great beast lay sprawled on the floor, its shining brass scales smeared with blood. Raistlin walked over to the dragon as fast as he was able. The magic always took its toll on his body. He felt as weary as though he’d been in battle for three days, instead of three minutes.

“Keep watch on the corridor,” he ordered Caramon, as he passed his twin. “There were other draconians in this room. These four were left to finish the job.”

Caramon looked about at the vast number of spent arrows lying on the floor and nodded his head in grim agreement. He glanced back at the dragon and his heart smote him. The beast was so beautiful, so magnificent. No matter that it was a dragon, it should not be suffering like this. He left to keep a lookout at the door.