Margaret Weis: Dragons of The Dwarven Depths

Joseph Campbell charts the course of the epic myth as a circle.

It begins at the comforts of the hero’s home—the top of the circle, if you will—and the Call of the Adventure. From those safe and familiar surroundings, he sets off, perhaps urged along by a Helper character, and encounters the Threshold of Adventure. There, passing the obstacles of the Guardians that protect the way, he then crosses into the Realms of Power. In that wondrous new land he encounters both more helpers to support him on his journey, and tests and adversaries that seek to deter him from the path. He obtains the great prize—Sacred Marriage, Father Atonement, Apotheosis, or Elixir Theft. Yet having attained his goal, the hero is only halfway through his true journey. Then comes the flight from the realms of power, the crossing back over the threshold into the mundane world, and, like Odysseus of old, the return to home, where he started—only to find that either home has changed in his absence—or that his absence has changed him.

The journeys of Tanis, Laurana, Flint, Tasslehoff, Raistlin, Caramon, Sturm, and Tika—our Heroes of the Lance—began in similar fashion over twenty years ago. They, too, were motivated to leave their home, forge a path into mysterious, powerful, and unknown realms, so that they, too, might gain a great prize—though not without tremendous cost. And they might have come home to a place changed irreparably, as they, too, were changed.

So it was with Margaret and I as we set out on our own epic path over two decades ago. We forged into unknown realms far from the security of our familiar lives. There were many helpers along the way; we remember and honor you all. So, too, were there many trials that stood to dissuade us from our course. These came in many shapes and forms. Each cost us—sometimes dearly—and still we pressed on.

Now, we find ourselves returning again to that home from which we started on our adventure, all those many years ago.

We fear to find it changed: we remember it as it was when it was wild and unexplored—before so many thousands of words described so much of this world.

We fear to find ourselves changed: we vaguely recall how young we were, how we could not conceive of failure in those days, and how raw our craft, then, seemed to us. Yet, as we stand here on the hillside, the sunrise illuminates the Vallenwood Trees one more time. The brass fixtures gleam again on the Inn of the Last Home, restored magically to its previous glory. The clock and calendar have rewound here in Krynn. We have returned to find the world truly as it was in the beginning—our heroes are as yet unproven, innocent yet filled with strength and hope. Here, through the eye of our memory, the world is reborn. And we, for a time, are young again.

by Michael Williams

Standing over the bloody body of the fallen Dragon Highlord Verminaard, the aurak draconian, Dray-yan, saw his destiny flare before him.

The brilliant flash hit him with the force of a comet falling from the sky, burning his blood and sending a tingling sensation throughout his scaly body down to his clawed fingers. After the initial burst, a cascade of more ideas followed, showering down on him. His entire plan formed in seconds.

Dray-yan whipped off his ornate cloak and dropped it over the body of the Dragon Highlord, hiding the corpse and the large pool of blood beneath it from view. The aurak draconian was panicked, or so it must appear to those watching. Shouting furiously for help, he grabbed several baaz (draconians of lowly stature, notable for their obtuse gullibility) and ordered them to fetch a litter.

“Make haste! Lord Verminaard is grievously wounded! We must carry Lord Verminaard to his chambers! Swiftly! Swiftly, before his lordship succumbs to his wounds.” Fortunately for Dray-yan, the situation inside the fortress of Pax Tharkas was chaotic: escaping slaves, two red dragons battling each other, the sudden thunderous fall of tons of rocks blocking the pass and crushing a vast number of soldiers. No one was paying any attention to the fallen Highlord being carried inside the fortress or to the aurak who was accompanying him. When Verminaard’s corpse was safely inside his chambers, Dray-yan shut the doors, posted the baaz draconians who had carried the litter outside as guards, and gave orders that no one was to enter.

Dray-yan then helped himself to a bottle of Verminaard’s finest wine and sat down at Verminaard’s desk and began to go through Verminaard’s secret papers. What Dray-yan read intrigued and impressed him. He sipped the wine, studied the situation, and went over his plans in his mind. Occasionally someone would come to the door demanding orders. Dray-yan would shout that his lordship was not to be disturbed. Hours passed and then, when night had fallen, Dray-yan opened the door a crack.

“Tell Commander Grag that he is wanted in Lord Verminaard’s chambers.” It took some time before the large bozak commander arrived. During the interval, Dray-yan pondered whether or not to take Grag into his confidence. His instinct was to trust no one, particularly a draconian Dray-yan considered inferior to himself. Dray-yan was forced to concede, however, that he could not do this alone. He was going to need help, and though he held Grag in disdain, he had to admit that Grag was not as stupid or incompetent as most other bozaks Dray-yan had encountered. Grag was, in fact, quite intelligent, an excellent military commander. If Grag had been in charge of Pax Tharkas instead of that muscle-bound, muscleheaded human Verminaard, there would have been no slave uprising. This disaster would have never happened.