Douglas Niles - The Dragons

The red dragon was a tangled, snaky coil gathered along a narrow ledge above the lake of lava. Crematia’s back and wings rested against the cliff wall, and the double lids remained closed over her eyes. The long tail curled back over her feet to end just before her wide nostrils. Those twin apertures flared slightly in a gradual cadence, the only clear proof that the mighty creature still lived.

Soot and ash had settled over the serpentine shape over the course of a long hibernation. The stuff was a sticky goo that gummed Crematia’s eyelids and encumbered her wings. Yet even that murk couldn’t conceal the vibrant crimson of the dragon’s scales or the blood-red flaps of her massive, folded wings.

She slept as she had slumbered for hundreds of years. Perhaps it was the lethal heat that drove her into this lethargy, but more likely her evil spirit needed time to restore itself following the wretched conclusion of her initial campaign. While she slumbered, her body healed the wounds inflicted by the mighty gold dragon, and even at her ancient age, she continued to grow.

She knew that the other chromatic dragons were gone from Krynn, their souls swallowed by the gems of life-trapping. Certainly Crematia had vivid dreams while she lay all-unknowing, and there is no doubt but that in those dreams she saw, and feared, a gleaming serpent of gold. Her enemy spewed breath as fiery as her own, attacking with power and skill-the deadliest foe she had ever known. She recalled her queen’s command… find her strongest enemy and kill him.

And Crematia knew she had failed.

Frequently the red body quivered in a sense of betrayal, an outrage at the fact that she had found such potent magic in the hands of her enemies. Sorcery was to have been her domain; the queen herself had promised this. And though Crematia had seen the three moons and knew that the gods who had given magic to the dragons of metal had been punished, the knowledge did nothing to soothe her hatred-or her desire for vengeance.

But when finally the scarlet serpent stirred, it was not in response to any dream. Though no sound could penetrate to the depths of her fiery lair, there came a deep and inaudible message, a summons on a purely magical level. She lifted her head slowly, blinking a film of dust and soot from her eyes. When she could see, the hot illumination of the cavern reminded her instantly of where she was.

Her first thought was of Aurican, and with that memory came a renewed pumping of her heart, a taut eagerness stiffening her body and her wings. These recollections came with a full measure of hatred, and when she was fueled by hatred, Crematia came truly, completely alive.

The red dragon’s tail uncurled with a whiplike crack, lashing back and forth as she rose to stand, stiff-legged, at the brink of the ledge. A reflexive pounce hurled her into the air, wings spread wide to catch the updrafts raging from the lava lake below. These rising currents lifted her as she glided effortlessly around the vast chamber, and without stroking her wings, she was soon carried near to the ceiling. She veered easily between down-jutting spikes of rock, relishing the vibrant energy of returning vitality.

She banked and dived, delighting in the dizzying speed, the onrush of molten rock as she plunged toward the crimson liquid. Bubbles expanded and burst in the thick surface, and the serpent relished the spattering of lava as droplets flew into the air. At the last moment, she pulled out of her dive, skimming low over the roiling lake, arching her back to rise toward the ceiling again.

Once more she rode the fast-rising updrafts, but this time she helped herself as well, climbing with powerful strokes, angling toward a black slit in the ceiling of the cavern. She knew that, once within the chimney, she wouldn’t have the space to turn around, so she drove herself with increasing urgency, making an arrow of her body-an arrow with large, very powerful wings.

Then the stone walls were close beside her, the rush of venting air roaring in her ears, bearing her higher and higher. Still she flew, straining for altitude, reaching for greater lift and pushing down with relentless strength. Her momentum slowed, the walls of the shaft visible now as more than a blurred backdrop, but she also saw a gap overhead, sensed that the darkness churning beyond was the ash-laden sky of the Khalkists.

Belatedly Crematia thought of magic-she could easily levitate out of this deep lair-but she cast aside the notion in the instant it arose. She would do this with her strength, and with her hatred. Again she thought of Aurican, imagining the gold dragon winging through the mountainous skies beyond, relishing the picture of his surprise when his crimson nemesis suddenly appeared. Her wings pulsed, driving through the air, and she exploded upward with renewed speed.

Abruptly the chimney walls gave way to a breathtaking expanse of air-she was free again, soaring into the skies over Krynn. Banking, sideslipping away from the venting gases, she plunged crazily along the steeply descending slope of the volcano that had sheltered her for so long. Darklady Mountain was a massive peak, and she couldn’t help but see her queen’s majesty reflected in the vast conical summit. She shrieked a cry of fierce exultation, skimming through a pass between the great mountain and a lesser neighbor, rocketing into the chilly air of an eternally shadowed gorge.

In the depths, she flew above a roiling river, watching the brown waters churn into whitecaps, thunder through rapids, steadily erode a deeper and deeper channel. Again she roared, the sound of her voice forceful enough to break rocks loose from the overhanging cliffs, bringing miniature landslides cascading into the torrent.

Upward she flew again, working hard now, relishing her own labors as she cut from realm of spray and shadow into the gusty heights. Veering back and forth like a wyrmling, she dodged through the smoke and ash that streamed from the smoldering summits in long plumes. A hundred great mountains were visible from this high vantage, but all the peaks except Darklady herself were far below. She banked regally, gliding with the serene arrogance of one who is mistress of everything in her sight.

A swift reconnaissance showed her a deep valley where several caves lined the walls. Tiny beings scuttled between these caves or worked their way up and down the steep trails leading to the stream at the foot of the plunging mountainsides. Crematia wheeled into the murk of the clouds, unseen from the ground, content for now to know that ogres still dwelt in these mountains. She would make herself known to them soon enough, but first she had an even more urgent task.

Flying above a treeless but well-watered swale, she observed several spots of whiteness on the green grass of the high tundra. She swept closer with silent, deliberate speed, and before the mountain sheep knew they were under attack, she had crushed a plump ewe to the soft ground. The blood was sweet on her tongue, the scent intoxicating in her nostrils, and she tore off the head of her prey, swallowing the morsel in one convulsive gulp. The rest of the mutton was fresh and warm in her claws, but she would not eat further at the moment.

Instead, she clutched the carcass and took to the air again, winging with renewed purpose, a crimson arrow flying straight toward a specific destination. Crematia curved from her path only when a looming crag rose high enough to block her flight, but after each digression, she returned to the course she marked from ancient memory, reacquainting herself with the highest reaches of the Khalkists. Flying toward another great volcano, one almost massive enough to vie with Darklady for mastery of the range, she set her sights upon the lofty summit. In fact, her target was an even more specific location, a specific spot on the high cliff. Closer now, she banked slightly, making a direct line toward the magically enchanted place on the mountainside.