Douglas Niles - The Dragons

“Can that be true?” he murmured softly, intrigued and amazed by the thought.

“I beg your pardon, Mighty One?” wondered the knight.

“What? Oh… I had heard of a great body of water to the south of here, dividing the middle of the Kharolis Range. Do you know of such a thing?”

“Indeed. It’s called the Newsea, though many generations of my people have lived since its creation during the Cataclysm. Perhaps you can remember what it was like before then.”

“A thousand years before.”

The knight was silent, regarding the dragon with a calm and appraising gaze.

“Perhaps we will fly there and see this ocean,” Lectral suggested.

“The fishing is said to be quite good,” Allsar Dane informed him.

“That’s intriguing news, I admit.” Lectral felt a little better about this man and was ready to fly. He looked around, saw the fluttering of metallic wings, lances upraised as the knights and dragons filled the plaza before the city.

Palanthas, of course, had seemed pretty much the same as ever to Lectral-that is to say, boring. It was a place keenly conscious of history and fate and magic, and naturally the gold dragons had always felt very much at home there. Yet to Lectral and his silver clan, it had always seemed to be one of the more staid and aloof of the human realms. Generally he had favored livelier places, such as Xak Tsaroth, Tarsis, or even Sanction, to the serene placidity of Palanthas.

Just a few days earlier, that fabled city had been the site of the arrival of the metallic dragons on Ansalon, a homecoming that was accompanied by great celebrations and optimism on the part of the inhabitants. As soon as they had overcome their initial terror, the humans had poured forth and gathered around, until every one of the metallic dragons had been draped with garlands and fed many draughts of fine wine.

In the wake of that spontaneous celebration, Lauralanthalasa, Princess of Qualinesti and sister to the elven prince Gilthanas, had been appointed general of the newly created Army of Whitestone. And for the first time in this bitter strife, the forces resisting the Dark Queen would go to war sheltered by the wings of Paladine’s mighty serpents of metal.

“Dragons, make ready to fly!”

The speaker was golden Quallathan, who had been granted the honor of carrying the army’s general, Laurana. Lectral had always thought highly of the mature and steadfast gold, and it pleased him that the humans and elves had honored him thus. Looking around, the ancient dragon saw his two scions nearby, each mounted by a lance-bearing knight. Dargentan flapped his wings, ready to fly, while Darlant stretched his neck in visible anticipation. He, too, was ready to hurl himself into the skies.

Mighty Cymbol, the venerable copper, was also prepared to join the flight to battle. He carried a grim-faced elf in his saddle, a silver-armored lancer who looked like a heavier version of Gilthanas. The copper had barely contained his fury, and now the desire for vengeance burned like a fire in his glaring eyes. Clearly he was ready to exact his price in blood. Brass Kirsah sat just beyond, trying to coax an interesting pair of riders into the saddle. One, a dwarf, seemed to be assisted, sort of, by an energetic kender.

Then came the melodious cry from Quallathan, and the dragons of Paladine took flight. Silvers, bronze, and brass formed a great wing to the left, while the golds and coppers arrayed themselves to the right, until the sparkling of metal wings formed a great swath across the sky. The man on his shoulders was a good weight, and Lectral’s flight was as strong and steady as ever.

“Never before have my kin-dragons flown in such a great wing as this,” Lectral admitted in wonder.

“And never has the Dark Queen had such good cause to fear,” added Allsar Dane.

The Vingaard plains were a blur of uniform brown viewed through the puffs of clouds. The flight of dragons flew onward soundlessly, lofty and aloof, over the High Clerist’s tower and the pass where the enemy armies had met their first setback.

“It’s beautiful!” Allsar Dane declared, his voice a whisper of awe. “You can see all the way to the Vingaard River.”

Lectral was silent, remembering the glories of Ansalon as if he had departed here only a season or two ago. He relished the long-forgotten sight of an entire continent sprawling to the horizons below him.

“Look there!” came a cry from the right, and several dragons bellowed cries of alarm.

Immediately all eyes were riveted on the spots of color emerging from the southern sky. The tiny shapes grew, soon becoming tinted with emerald brightness. These were green dragons, and their own riders, with a masked lord in the lead, guided them in a tight wedge of attack. Flying high, they came on in a long double rank, one line flying just above and before the other.

Quallathon brayed his challenge in response, the mighty golden wyrm diving into the fray with tucked wings and arrow-straight neck. Laurana crouched on his back like a veteran lancer, her long-shafted weapon pointed forward and down. Sunlight brightened the tip in a reflective staccato, like sparks trailing away from the razor edge of steel.

Lectral flew swiftly, not at all uncomfortable with the weight of a human rider. Allsar Dane held his lance with the poise of long experience, though this was his first time in the air, and his knees gripped the silver’s neck firmly. Lectral tried to convince himself that the man would actually remain mounted if he were forced to dive, roll, or perform some other aerobatic maneuver. But at best he could only hope. He was surprised to realize that if the man came to harm, the silver dragon would feel profound regret.

Beside him, Dargentan and Darlant flew with strong, steady strokes, each with his rider crouched and ready, Dragonlance pointing boldly toward the foe. The green shapes grew larger, each defining itself into a dragon and a masked, armored rider. Lectral led the contingent of silvers toward an optimal attack position, sideslipping to make an oblique approach against the greens, then tilting forward to commence a savage rushing dive.

The silvery spear jutted proudly past Lectral’s shoulder, gleaming in the sun, tilting with lethal purpose toward the nearest of the emerald serpents. That dragon swept closer, the green jaws locked into a grimace of pure hatred. The rider of the Dark Queen’s wyrm also bore a lance, though the weapon had a shaft of wood and a smaller, less brilliant tip.

“Now!” Allsar Dane urged, and Lectral sensed his rider’s intent. With a violent shift, the silver body curled away, and the tip of the Dragonlance tore through the green scales of the enemy wyrm’s belly.

The courageous rider crouched behind his dragon-scale shield as a blast of green gas billowed into the air. Lectral felt the stuff sting his nostrils, but he cleared the cloud away, killing another green in midflight with a powerful exhalation of deadly frost.

“Hold on,” growled the ancient silver, lifting his right wing and dipping his left. Allsar Dane’s knees tightened, but otherwise Lectral paid his rider scant attention. The man would have to hold on for himself if the pair were to have any chance of making it through the battle.

Lectral veered toward a green that was looping around below, but before the silver jaws could blast their frost, the lance tilted, sending the barbed head tearing through the emerald scales of the enemy dragon’s shoulder. Lectral raked his claws through the green wing, but that was a mere aftereffect as, fatally pierced by the deadly lance, the wyrm of Takhisis plunged toward the ground.

Now Lectral pulled out of his dive, curling his neck and tail to help him arc through a level glide, then smoothly soared skyward again. The crushing force of the maneuver pressed the human rider heavily into his saddle, but the man made no complaint as the ground once again fell away below. Lectral reached with broad wings and stroked downward, straining toward higher altitude and the battle that swirled and raged through the skies overhead.