Douglas Niles: The Dragons

Answering bellows resounded in the air until the sky shook as though from the force of a thunderstorm. Blues and reds tipped forward and dived, while dragons of copper and silver labored upward, striving for the altitude to meet the foe in level flight. Lance tips sparkled like diamonds, and knightly armor gleamed as bright as the dragons’ silver scales.

The two forces converged in sudden silence as the dragons ceased their roaring, concentrating on the grim business now close at hand. Lightning flashed suddenly, a premature blast from an overeager blue dragon. The crackling bolt was met by a spume of acid, scornfully spat by a copper, and the lingering cloud of brackish gas spread a sharp, acrid stink through the air.

Flames roared in Lectral’s ears as the first rank of the charging wyrms swept past. Allsar Dane twisted and jabbed with the lethal lance, gutting a blue that tried to fly too close. Lectral’s own breath joined the frosty clouds of the others of his clan, mingling as well with the streaming acid of the coppers, until the stench of corrosive gas, exploding lightning, and sooty flame were all mingled into a thick stew of pollution.

Red wings careened past, and Lectral pulled upward, scraping with his talons, tearing away a section of crimson membrane. Lightning from a nearby dragon of blue jarred him, ripping scales from his belly in a painful wound, but the ancient silver was able to tuck and dive, allowing the lancer to pierce the lightning-spitting blue with a fatal stab to the neck.

Another red, this one nearly as big as Tombfyre, dived toward them from above. Lectral cast a spell, the useful incantation of mirror image that created multiple images of his actual self. He twisted away, the magical duplicates diving in opposite directions, and the red’s fire billowed harmlessly into the midst of the spell.

The ancient silver turned back then, casting a spell of slowness that seemed to mire his crippled opponent in thick, oily air. The chromatic dragon labored to turn, moaning desperately in the grip of agonizing delay, sensing the doom that swept closer on silver wings. With a barrage of rending talons and crushing jaws, Lectral ripped into his enemy, and seconds later a torn and lifeless red corpse dropped toward the plains far below.

For a long time, the great forces of dragons clashed in the sky, wheeling in a savage circle. Mighty serpents flying alone or in pairs and trios dived away from the fight and then climbed back, a relentless cycle of attack and flight, each side straining to gain the advantage. Ariakas seemed to sense that this was his last chance to win a great battle, for he threw every reserve, every immature wyrmling and naive young lancer that he could find, into the fight. Many perished on both sides, blasted from the air by lethal attacks of dragonbreath or lance or sword or claw.

Often a dragon was not slain outright, but was crippled by a blow against a wing, a wound that would prove as certainly lethal as a thrust through the heart. Lectral watched many serpents and their hapless riders spiral frantically downward, one good wing stroking the air, trying unsuccessfully to restore some grace to the doomed flight. In a moment of calm and clarity, the ancient silver reflected that, if he were stricken, he would prefer the utter lifelessness of an instantly fatal wound to the helpless struggles that gave so many of the falling dragons such pathetic final moments. And the doom awaiting at the end was the same, regardless of how quickly or prolonged the suffering of the dying.

Lectral found himself in a battle with a monstrous blue, a dragon of wily skill with a deadly swordsman mounted on his back. Through a long series of dives and strikes, they dodged back and forth. Finally, attacking with the aid of haste magic, the blue twisted Lectral about in the air, sending the silver tumbling into a frantic dive, forcing a desperate try to pull out of the headlong descent. Allsar Dane hung on without a murmur, his knees pressed tightly against Lectral’s flanks as he clung hard to the leather strap of reins.

Finally the silver dragon recovered his balance, pulling out of the dive with a sudden loop that took his pursuer completely by surprise. Allsar Dane stabbed the dragonlance through the back of the blue’s rider, then into the wyrm’s flesh, driving it deep between the azure dragon’s shoulders. With a shriek that rapidly faded into a moan, the serpent died, falling from the sky with its lifeless rider toppling from the saddle to tumble limply at the dragon’s side.

But before Lectral could start to gain altitude again a great crimson shadow spread overhead and Tombfyre was there. The silver twisted, trying to dive away, but Ariakas struck, and Lectral felt Allsar Dane’s blood warming the scales of his back. The dragonlance hung limply by the silver dragon’s side, and the man didn’t respond when the mighty serpent repeatedly called out to him.

Tombfyre veered away, bearing the shouting Ariakas toward the eastern skies. With a backward look, Lectral saw that the battling dragons had dwindled away, and now the mighty red seemed bent upon making a complete escape.

Roaring, Lectral plunged after him, driving his silver wings through the air, striving to overtake the hateful red. The aerial battlefield vanished to the rear as the pursued and pursuing dragons flew over the foothills of the Khalkists. The Emperor of Ansalon fled on a course that would take him well north of Sanction, as if he had a purpose, a destination in mind other than mere escape.

The ancient silver came steadily after the red. Now Lectral forgot about the stiffness and the other infirmities of age; his wings, his whole body, felt young again, as if he were a powerful serpent in the prime of his life. For a long time, the two dragons raced through the skies, leaving the battlefield far behind, until at last the eastern horizon before them had darkened and, to the rear, the sun had slipped past the jagged teeth of the foothills.

A great temple loomed in the distance, a place that the maps had marked as “Neraka.” It was a dark and dolorous place, and Lectral understood that this was his enemy’s destination. The spiraling of great dragons, dozens of them, cut colorful swaths through the air above the Dark Queen’s fortress. They roared, swarming forward, ready to protect their stronghold against this impudent silver.

Knowing it was certain death to pursue any farther, Lectral could only wheel downward in frustration, watching the red dragon and his arrogant rider disappear over the next mountain ridge, winging steadily toward the twisted, distorted edifice.

352 AC

The ghastly fortress rose from murk and shadow, shrouded by dark fog, a twisted monument to the Queen of Darkness thrusting high into the war-torn skies of Ansalon. Tombfyre, bearing the grimly silent Ariakas, flew onward through turgid air, watching the grotesque shape emerge into clearer view. The red dragon seethed with fury and resentment.

“Find your strongest enemy and kill him!” This ancient dictum, the command of Crematia and Deathfyre through the ages, rang through his mind, demanding that he turn back and fight. And yet his rider, his “master,” had ordered him to flee from the battle.

“You will land there, in front of the temple,” declared the Emperor of Ansalon flatly.

Without reply, Tombfyre dived, scrutinizing the awful edifice. At one time-and in another place-this might have been a grand temple, with sweeping balustrades connecting a ring of supporting towers to the vast central monolith. High walls encircled a broad courtyard, and many balconies, bridges, and ramparts marked the interior surfaces. Yet some of the outer towers leaned chaotically beyond the fortress wall, and the central pillar itself rose more like a diseased and warped trunk of cypress than a construct of stone and mortar.