DRAGONS OF A LOST STAR

©2002 Wizards of the Coast, Inc.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any
reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is
prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast, Inc.

Distributed in the United States by Holtzbrinck Publishing. Distributed in Canada by
Fenn Ltd.

Distributed to the hobby, toy, and comic trade in the United States and Canada by
regional distributors.

Distributed worldwide by Wizards of the Coast, Inc., and regional distributors.

DRAGONLANCE and the Wizards of the Coast logo are registered trademarks owned by
Wizards of the Coast, Inc., a subsidiary of Hasbro, Inc.

All Wizards of the Coast characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses
thereof are trademarks owned by Wizards of the Coast, Inc.

Made in the U.S.A.

The sale of this book without its cover has not been authorized by the publisher. If you
purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that neither the author nor the
publisher has received payment for this "stripped book."

Cover art by Matt Stawicki

Map by Dennis Kauth

First Printing: April 2001

First paperback edition: March 2002

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-190770

987654321

UK ISBN: 0-7869-2729-1
US ISBN: 0-7869-2706-2
620-88549-001-EN

U.S., CANADA,                                EUROPEAN HEADQUARTERS
ASIA, PACIFIC, & LATIN AMERICA                Wizards of the Coast, Belgium
Wizards of the Coast, Inc.                                            P.B. 2031
P.O. Box 707                                                   2600 Berchem
Renton, WA 98057-0707                                              Belgium
+1-800-324-64%                                              +32-70-23-32-77

Visit our web site at www.wlzards.coni/dragonlance

Dedication

To Laura Hickman

For her help, encouragement, and support over the years,
we dedicate this book with much love.

—Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman




I

AN AccouNtiNQ NiQlytMane




orham Targonne was having a bad day. His
accounts would not balance. The difference in
the totals was paltry, a matter of a few steel. He
could have made it up with the spare change from his
purse. But Targonne liked things to be neat, orderly.
His rows of figures should add up. There should be no
discrepancies. Yet here he was. He had the various
accounts of moneys coming into the knights' coffers. He
had the various accounts of moneys going out of the
Knights' coffers, and there was a difference of twenty-
seven steel, fourteen silver, and five coppers. Had it been
a major sum, he might have suspected embezzlement.
As it was, he was certain that some minor functionary
had made a simple miscalculation. Targonne would have
to go back through all the accounts, redo the calculations,
track down the error.

An uninformed observer, seeing Morham Targonne
seated at his desk, his fingers black with ink, his head
bent over his accounts, would have said that he was

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct?e ware of Souls

looking on a loyal and dedicated clerk. The uninformed
observer would have been wrong. Morham Targonne
was the leader of the Dark Knights of Neraka and thereby,
since the Dark Knights were in control of several major
nations on the continent of Ansalon, Morham Targonne
held the power of life and death over millions of people.
Yet here he was, working into the night, looking with the
diligence of the stodgiest clerk for twenty-seven steel,
fourteen silver, and five coppers.

But although he was concentrating on his work to the
extent that he had skipped supper to continue his perusal
of the accounts. Lord Targonne was not absorbed in his
work to the exclusion of all else. He had the ability to
focus a part of his mental powers on a task and, at the
same time, to be keenly alert, aware of what was going on
around him. His mind was a desk constructed of innu-
merable compartments into which he sorted and slotted
every occurrence, no matter how minor, placed it in its
proper hole, available for his use at some later time.

Targonne knew, for example, when his aide left to go
to his own supper, knew precisely how long the man was
away from his desk, knew when he returned. Knowing
approximately how long it would take a man to eat his
supper, Targonne was able to say that his aide had not lin-
gered over his tarbean tea but had returned to his work
with alacrity. Targonne would remember this in the aide's
favor someday, setting that against the opposite column
in which he posted minor infractions of duty.

The aide was staying at work late this night. He
would stay until Targonne discovered the twenty-seven
steel, fourteen silver, and five coppers, even if they were
both awake until the sun's rays crept through Targonne's
freshly cleaned window. The aide had his own work to
keep him occupied—Targonne saw to that. If there was
one thing he hated, it was to see a man idling. The two

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

worked late into the night, the aide sitting at a desk out-
side the office, trying to see by lamplight as he stifled his
yawns, and Targonne sitting inside his sparsely fur-
nished office, head bent over his bookkeeping, whisper-
ing the numbers to himself as he wrote them, a habit of
his of which he was completely unconscious.

The aide was himself slipping toward unconscious-
ness when, fortunately for him, a loud commotion in the
courtyard outside the fortress of the Dark Knights star-
tled him from a brief nap.

A blast of wind set the window panes rattling. Voices
shouted out harshly in irritation or warning. Booted feet
came running. The aide left his desk and went to see
what was happening at the same time as Targonne's
voice called from his office, demanding to know what
was going on and who in the Abyss was making all this
blasted racket.

The aide returned almost immediately.
"My lord, a dragonrider has arrived from—"
"What does the fool mean, landing in the courtyard?"
Hearing the noise, Targonne had actually left his
accounting long enough to turn to look out his window.
He was infuriated to see the large blue dragon flapping
about his courtyard. The large blue looked infuriated her-
self, for she had been forced to alight in an area that was
much too small and cramped for her bulk. She had just
missed a guard tower with her wing. Her tail had taken
out a small portion of the battlements. Other than that,
she had managed to land safely and now squatted in the
courtyard, her wings folded tight at her sides, her tail
twitching. She was hungry and thirsty. There were no
dragon stables close by nor any sign that she was going to
have anything to eat or drink anytime soon. She glared
balefully at Targonne through the window, as though she
blamed him for her troubles.

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct?e Wan oy Souls

"My lord/' said the aide, "the rider comes from Sil-
vanesti—"

"My lord!" The dragonrider, a tall man, stood behind
the aide, loomed over him. "Forgive the disruption, but
I bring news of such dire urgency and importance that I
felt I had to inform you immediately."

"Silvanesti." Targonnc snorted. Returning to his desk,
he continued writing. "Has the shield fallen?" he asked
sarcastically.

"Yes, my lord!" The dragonrider gasped, out of breath.

Targonne dropped his pen. Lifting his head, he stared
at the messenger in astonishment. "What? How?"

"The young officer named Mina—" The dragonrider
was forced to interrupt himself with a fit of coughing.
"Might I have something to drink, my lord? I have swal-
lowed a vast quantity of dust between here and Silvanesti."

Targonne made a motion with his hand, and his aide
left to fetch ale. While they waited, Targonne invited the
rider to be seated and rest himself.

"Order your thoughts," Targonne instructed, and as
the Knight did just that, Targonne used his powers as a
mentalist to probe the Knight's mind, to eavesdrop on
those thoughts, see what the Knight had seen, hear what
the Knight had heard.

The images bombarded Targonne. For the first time
in his career, he found himself at a loss to know what to
think. Too much was happening too fast for him to com-
prehend. What was overwhelmingly clear to Morham
Targonne was that too much of it was happening without
his knowledge and outside his control. He was so dis-
turbed by this that he actually for the moment forgot the
twenty-seven steel, fourteen silver, and five coppers,
although he wasn't so rattled but that he made a note to
himself when he closed his books as to where he left off
in his calculations.

4

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

The aide returned with a mug of cold ale. The Knight
drank deeply and, by that time, Targonne had managed
to compose himself to listen with every appearance of
outward calm. Inside, he was seething.

"Tell me everything," Targonne instructed.

The Knight complied.

"My lord, the young Knight officer known as Mina
was able, as we reported to you earlier, to penetrate the
magical shield that had been raised around Silvanesti—"

"But not lower the shield," Targonne interrupted,
seeking clarification.

"No, my lord. In fact, she used the shield to fend off
pursuing ogres, who were unable to break the enchant-
ment. Mina led her small force of Knights and foot sol-
diers into Silvanesti with the apparent design of attacking
the capital, Silvanost."

Targonne sniffed in derision.

"They were intercepted by a large force of elves and
were handily defeated. Mina was captured during the
battle and made prisoner. The elves planned to execute
her the following morning. However, just prior to her
execution, Mina attacked the green dragon Cyan Blood-
bane, who had, as you were no doubt aware, my lord,
been masquerading as an elf."

Targonne had not known that, nor did he see how he
should have known it, since not even he could have seen
through the cursed magical shield the elves had raised
over their land. He made no comment, however. He
never minded appearing omniscient.

"Her attack forced Cyan to reveal to the elves the fact that
he was a dragon. The elves were terrified. Cyan would have
slaughtered thousands of them, but this Mina roused the
elven army and ordered them to attack the green dragon."

"Help me understand the situation," said Targonne,
who was starting to feel an aching behind his right temple.

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl)€ WBR Of SOUlS

"One of our own officers rallied the army of our most
bitter enemy, who in turn slew one of the mightiest of
our green dragons?"

"Yes, my lord," said the Knight. "You see, my lord,
as it turned out, it was the dragon Cyan Bloodbane who
had raised the magical shield that had been keeping
our armies out of Silvanesti. The shield, as it turns out,
was killing the elves."

"Ah," said Targonne and rubbed his temple with a fore-
finger. He hadn't known that either. But he might have
been able to deduce it, had he given it much thought. The
green dragon Cyan Bloodbane, terrified of Malystryx,
vengeful toward the elves, built a shield that protected
him from one enemy and helped destroy another. Inge-
nious. Flawed, but ingenious. "Proceed."

The Knight hesitated. "What happened after that is
rather confused, my lord. General Dogah had received
your orders to halt his march to Sanction and proceed
instead to Silvanesti."

Targonne had given no such orders, but he had
already observed Dogah's march from the Knight's mental
processes and let this comment pass unremarked. He
would deal with that later.

"General Dogah arrived to find the shield prohibited
him from entering. He was furious, thinking he'd been
sent on a kender's errand. The land around the shield is a
terrible place, my lord, filled with dead trees and animal
corpses. The air is fetid and foul to breathe. The men were
upset, claiming the place was haunted and that we our-
selves would die from being so near it, when, suddenly,
with the rising of the sun, the shield shattered. I was with
General Dogah, and I saw it with my own eyes."

"Describe it," Targonne ordered, eyeing the man intently.

"I have been thinking about how to do so, my lord.
Once when I was a child, I stepped on an ice-covered

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

pond. The ice beneath my feet began to crack. The cracks
spread across the ice with a snapping sound, then the ice
gave way, and I plunged into the black water. This was
much the same. I saw the shield shimmering like ice in
the sunshine, and then it seemed to me that I saw a mil-
lion, million infinitesimal cracks, as thin as the strands of
a cobweb, spread across the shield with lightning speed.
There was a shivering, tinkling sound as of a thousand
glass goblets crashing onto a stone floor, and the shield
was gone.

"We could not believe our senses. At first. General
Dogah dared not enter the shield, fearing a cunning
elven trap. Perhaps, he said, we shall march across and
the shield will crash down behind us, and we will end
up facing an army of ten thousand elves, yet have
nowhere to go. Suddenly there appeared among us, as if
by magic, one of Mina's Knights. Through the power of
the One God, he came to tell us that the shield had
indeed fallen, brought down by the elven king himself,
Silvanoshei, son of Alhana—"

"Yes, yes," said Targonne impatiently. "I know the
whelp's pedigree. Dogah believed this chit, and he and
his troops crossed the border."

"Yes, my lord. General Dogah ordered me to take my
blue dragon and fly back to report to you that he is now
marching on Silvanost, the capital."

"What of the ten-thousand-man elven army?" Tar-
gonne asked dryly.

"As to the army, my lord, they have not attacked us.
According to Mina, the king, Silvanoshei, has told them
that Mina has come to save the Silvanesti nation in the
name of the One God. I must say, my lord, that the elves
are in pitiable condition. When our advance troops entered
an elven fishing village near the shield, we observed that
most of the elves were sick or dying from the cursed

DRAQONLANCE T:I)C Wan Of Souls

magic of the shield. We thought to slay the wretches, but
Mina forbade it. She performed miracles of healing on
the dying elves and restored them to life. When we left, the
elves were singing her praises and blessing the One God
and vowing to worship this god in Mina's name.

"Yet not all elves trust her. Mina warned us that we
might be attacked by those who call themselves 'the
kirath.' But, according to her, their numbers are few, and
they are disorganized. Alhana Starbreeze has forces on
the border, but Mina does not fear them. She does not
appear to fear anything," the Knight added with an
admiration he could not conceal.

The One God! Ha! Targonne thought to himself,
seeing far more in the messenger's mind than he was
saying. Sorcery. This Mina is a witch. She has everyone
ensorcelled—the elves, Dogah, and my Knights included.
They are as smitten with this upstart chippy as the elves.
What is she after?

The answer was obvious to Targonne.

She is after my position, of course. She is subverting
the loyalty of my officers and winning the admiration of
my troops. She plots against me. A dangerous game for
such a little girl.

He mused, forgetting the weary messenger. Outside
the room came the thud of booted feet and a loud voice
demanding to see the Lord of the Night.

"My lord!" His aide hastened into the room, inter-
rupting Targonne's dark thoughts. "Another messenger
has arrived."

A second messenger entered the room, glanced askance
at the first.

"Yes, what is your news?" Targonne demanded of the *
second.

"I have been contacted by Four the Red, our agent in
the service of the great green dragon overlord Beryl.

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

The red reports that she and a host of dragons bearing
draconian soldiers have been ordered to undertake an
assault on the Citadel of Light."

"The citadel?" Targonne struck his fist on the desk,
causing a neatly stacked pile of steel coins to topple. "Is
that green bitch of a dragon insane? What does she mean,
attacking the citadel?"

"According to the red. Beryl has sent a messenger to
tell you and her cousin Malystryx that this is a private
quarrel and that there is no need for Malys to get
involved. Beryl seeks a sorcerer who sneaked into her
lands and stole a valuable magical artifact. She learned
that the sorcerer fled for safety to the dtadel, and she has
gone to fetch him. Once she has him and the artifact, she
will withdraw."

"Magic!" Targonne swore viciously. "Beryl is obsessed
with magic. She thinks of nothing else. I have gray-robed
wizards who spend all their time hunting for some
blamed magical Tower just to placate that bloated lizard.
Assaulting the dtadel! What of the pact of the dragons?
'Cousin Malystryx' will most certainly see this as a threat
from Beryl. This could mean all-out war, and that would
wreck the economy."

Targonne rose to his feet. He was about to give an
order to have messengers standing by, ready to carry this
news to Malys, who must certainly hear of this from him,
when he heard more shouting in the hallway.

"Urgent message for the Lord of the Night."

Targonne's aide, looking slightly frazzled, entered
the room.

"What is it now?" Targonne growled.

"A messenger brings word from Marshal Medan in
Qualinost that Beryl's forces have crossed the border into
Qualinesti, pillaging and looting as they march. Medan
urgently requests orders. He believes that Beryl intends

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl)e Wan of Souls

to destroy Qualinesti, bum the forests to the ground, tear
down the cities, and exterminate the elves."

"Dead elves pay me no tribute!" Targonne exclaimed,
cursing Beryl with all his heart and soul. He began to
pace behind his desk. "I cannot cut timber in a bumed-
out forest. Beryl attacks Qualinesti and the dtadel. She is
lying to me and to Malys. Beryl intends to break the pact.
She plans war against Malys and against the Knighthood.
I must find some way to stop her. Leave me! All of you,"
he ordered peremptorily. "I have work to do."

The first messenger bowed and left to eat and take
what rest he could before the return flight. The second
left to await orders. The aide departed to dispatch run-
ners to wake other messengers and alert the blue drag-
ons who would carry them.

After the aide and the messengers had gone, Targonne
continued to pace the room. He was angry, infuriated, frus-
trated. Only a few moments before, he had been working
on his accounts, content in the knowledge that the world
was going as it should, that he had everything under con-
trol. True, the dragon overlords imagined that they were
the ones in charge, but Targonne knew better. Bloated,
enormous, they were—or had been—content to slumber in
their lairs, allowing the Dark Knights of Neraka to rule in
their names. The Dark Knights controlled Palanthas and
Qualinost, two of the wealthiest cities on the continent.
They would soon break the siege of Sanction and seize that
seaport city, giving them access to New Sea. They had
taken Haven, and he was even now drawing up plans to
attack the prosperous crossroads town of Solace.

Now, he watched his plans topple in a heap like the
stack of steel coins. Returning to his desk, Targonne laid
out several sheets of foolscap. He dipped his pen into the
ink and, after several more moments of profound thought,
began to write.

10

DRBOONS of a Lost Stan

General Dogah

Congratulations on your victory over the Silvanesti elves.
These people have defied us for many years. However, I must warn
you, do not trust them. I have no need to tell you that we do not
haw the manpower to hold Suvanesti if the elves decide to rise up
in a body and rebel against us. I understand that they are sick and
weakened, their population decimated, Imt they are tricky. Espe-
cially this king of theirs—Silvanoshei. He is the son of a cunning,
treacherous mother and an outlawed father. He is undoubtedly in
league with them. I want you to I/ring to me fur interrogation any
elves you believe might be able to provide me with information
regarding any subversive plots of the elves. Be discreet in this,
Dogah. I do not want to rouse the elves' suspicions.

Lord of the Night,

Targonne

He read over this letter, dusted the wet ink with sand
to hasten the drying process, and set it aside. After a
moment's thought, he set about composing the next.

To Dragon Overlord Malystryx, Your Most Exalted Majesty
etc., etc.

It is with great pleasure that I make known to Your Most
Illustrious Majesty that the elven people of Silvanesti, who
have long defied us, have been utterly vanquished by the
armies of the Dark Knights ofNeraka. Tribute from these rich
lands will soon be flowing into your coffers. The Knights of
Neraka will, as usual, handle all the financial dealings to
relieve you of such a mundane burden.

During the battle, the green dragon. Cyan Bloodbane, was
discovered to have been hiding in Silvanesti. Fearing your
wrath, he sided with the elves. Indeed, it was he who raised the
magical shield that has so long kept us out of that land. He
was slain during the battle. If possible, I will have his head
found and delivered to Your Grace.

11

DRAQONLANCE 'CDe Wan of Souls

You may hear certain wild rumors that your cousin, Beryl-
linthranox, has broken the pact of the dragons by attacking the
Citadel of Light and marching her armies into Qualinesti. I
hasten to assure Your Grace that such is not the case. Beryllin-
thranox is acting under my orders. We have evidence that the
Mystics of the Citadel of Light have been causing our own
Mystics to fail in their magic. I deemed these Mystics a threat,
and Beryllinthranox graciously offered to destroy them for
me. As to Qualinesti, Beryllinthranox's armies are marching
in order to join up with the forces of Marshal Medan. His
orders are to destroy the rebels under the leadership of an elf
known as the Lioness, who has harassed our troops and dis-
rupted the flow of tribute.

As you see, I have everything under control. You need have
no cause for alarm.

Lord of the Night,

Morham Targonne

He dusted sand on that letter and immediately
launched into the next, which was easier to write due to
the fact that there was some truth to this one.

To Khellendros the Blue Dragon, Most Esteemed, etc., etc.

You have undoubtedly heard that the great green dragon
Beryllinthranox has launched an attack against the Citadel of
Light. Fearing that you may misunderstand this incursion into
lands so close to your territory, I hasten to reassure your lord-
ship that Beryllinthranox is acting under my orders in this.
The Mystics of the Citadel of Light have been discovered to be
the cause of the failure of our Mystics in their magic. I would
have made the request of you, Magnificent Khellendros, but I
know that you must be keeping a close eye on the gathering of
accursed Solamnic Knights in the city ofSolanthus. Not want-
ing to call you away at this critical time, I requested that
Beryllinthranox deal with the problem.

12

DRBOONS of a Lost Stare

Lord of the Night,
Morham Targonne

Postscript: You are aware of the gathering of Solamnic
Knights at Solanthns, are you not. Exalted One?

His last letter was easier sdll and took him very little
thought.

Marshal Medan,

You are hereby ordered to hand over the capital city of
Qualinost intact and undamaged to tier Grace, Beryllin-
thranox. You ivill arrest all members of the elven royal family,
including King Gilthas and the Queen Mother, Laura-no..
They are to be given alive to Beryllinthranox, who may do
with them what she pleases. In return for this, you will make
clear to Beryllinthranox that her forces are to immediately
cease their wanton destruction of forests, farms, buildings,
etc. You will impress upon Beryllinthranox that although
she, in her magnificence, does not need money, we poor
unfortunate worms of mortals do. You have leave to make the
following offer: Every human soldier in her army will he
granted a gift of elven land, including all buildings and
structures on the land. All high-ranking human officers in
her armies will be given fine homes in Qualinost. This should
curb tlie looting and destruction. Once matters have returned
to normal, I will see to it that human settlers are moved in to
take over the remainder of elven lands.

Lord of the Night,

Morham Targonne

Postscript 1: Tins offer of land does not apply to goblins, hob-
goblins, minotaurs, or draconians. Promise tliem the equivalent
value in steel, to be paid at a later date. I trust you will see to it

13

DRAQONLANCE 'Cf?e wan OF Souls

that these creatures are in the vanguard of the army and that
they will take the heaviest casualties.

Postscript 2: As to the elven residents of Qualinesti, it is
probable that they mil refuse to give up their ownership of their
lands and property. Since by so doing they defy a direct order of
the Knights ofNeraka, they have broken the law and are hereby
sentenced to death. Your soldiers are ordered to carry out the
sentence on the spot.

Once the ink had dried, Targonne affixed his seal to
each letter and, summoning his aide, dispatched them.
As dawn broke, four blue dragonriders took to the skies.

This done, Targonne considered going to his bed. He
knew, however, that he would not be able to rest with
the specter of that accounting mistake haunting his oth-
erwise pleasant dreams of neat charts and columns. He
sat down doggedly to work, and as often happens when
one has left a task upon which one has concentrated, he
found the error almost immediately. The twenty-seven
steel, fourteen silver, and five coppers were accounted
for at last. Targonne made the correction with a precise
pen stroke.

Pleased, he closed the book, tidied his desk, and left
for a brief nap, confident that all was once more well
with the world.

14

2

Attack ON tl7€ Citaoel of LiQW

§817! and her dragon minions flew over the
Citadel of Light. The dragonfear they generated
crashed down upon the inhabitants, a tidal wave
that drowned courage in despair and terror. Four large
red dragons flew overhead. The black shadows cast by
their wings were darker than the deepest night, and
every person the shadow touched felt his heart wither
and his blood chill.




Beryllinthranox was an enormous green dragon who
had appeared on Krynn shortly after the Chaos War; no
one knew how or from where. Upon arrival, she and
other dragons of her kind—most notably her cousin
Malystryx—had attacked the dragons inhabiting Krynn,
metallic and chromatic alike, waging war upon their own
kind. Her body bloated from feeding off the dragons she
had killed. Beryl circled high in the sky, far above the
reds, who were her minions and her subjects, observing,
watching. She was pleased with what she saw, pleased
with the progress of the battle.

15

DRAQONLANCE O^e Ware Of Soute

The citadel was defenseless against her. Had the
great silver dragon. Mirror, been present, he might have
dared defy her, but he was gone, mysteriously vanished.
The Solamnic Knights, who had a fortress on Schallsea
Isle, would make an heroic stand, but their numbers
were few, and they could not hope to survive a concen-
trated attack from Beryl and her followers. The great
green dragon would never have to fly within range of
their arrows. She had only to breathe on them. A single
poisonous blast from Beryl would kill every defender
in the fort.

The Solamnic Knights were not going lie down and
die. She could count on them to give her servants a lively
battle. Their archers lined the battlements as their com-
manders strove to keep up their courage, even as the
dragonfear unmanned many and left them weak and
trembling. Knights rode with haste through island vil-
lages and towns, trying to quell the panic of the inhabi-
tants and help them flee inland to the caves that were
stocked and provisioned against just such an attack.

In the citadel itself, the Citadel Guards had always
planned to use their mystical powers to defend them-
selves against a dragon attack. These powers had mys-
teriously waned over the past year, and thus the Mystics
were forced to flee their beautiful crystal buildings and
leave them to the ravages of the dragons. The first to be
evacuated were the orphans. The children were fright-
ened and cried for Goldmoon, for she was much loved
by the children, but she did not come to them. Students
and masters lifted the smallest children in their arms
and soothed them, as they hastened to carry them to
safety, telling them that Goldmoon would certainly come
to them, but that she was now busy and that they must
be brave and make her proud of them. As they spoke,
the Mystics glanced at each other in sorrow and dismay.

16

DRBQONS of a Lost Stall

Goldmoon had fled the citadel with the dawning. She
had fled like one mad or possessed. None of the Mystics
knew where she had gone.

The residents of Schallsea Isle left their homes and
streamed inland, those debilitated by dragonfear urged
and guided by those who had managed to overcome it.
In the hills in the center of the island were large caves.
The people had fondly believed that they would be safe
from the ravages of the dragons inside these caves, but
now that the attack had come, many were starting to
realize how foolish such plans had been. The flames of
the red dragons would destroy the forests and the
buildings. As flames ravaged the surface, the noxious
breath of the huge green would poison the air and the
water. Nothing could survive. Schallsea would be an
isle of corpses.

The people waited in terror for the attack to begin,
waited for the flames to melt the crystal domes and the
rock walls of the fortress, waited for the cloud of poison
to choke the life from them. But the dragons did not
attack. The reds circled overhead, watching the panic
on the ground with gleeful satisfaction but making no
move to kill. The people wondered what they were
waiting for. Some of the foolish took hope, thinking that
this might be nothing more than intimidation and that
the dragons, having terrified everyone, would depart.
The wise knew better.

In his room located high in the Lyceum, the main
building of the crystal-domed Citadel of Light, Palin
Majere watched through the enormous window—actually
a wall of crystal—the coming of the dragons. He kept
watch on the dragons while he desperately attempted to
put back together the broken pieces of the magical arti-
fact that was to have transported himself and Tasslehoff
to the safety of Solace.

17

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctie Ware oy Souls

"Look at it this way," said Tas, with maddening kender
cheerfulness, "at least the dragon won't get her claws on
the artifact."

"No," said Palin shortly, "she'll get her claws on us."

"Maybe not," Tas argued, ferreting out a piece of the
device that had rolled under the bed. "With the Device of
Time Journeying being broken and its magic all gone—"
He paused and sat up. "I guess its magic ;'s all gone, isn't
it, Palin?"

Palin didn't answer. He barely heard the kender's
voice. He could see no way out of this. Fear shook him,
despair gnawed at him until he was weak and limp. He
was too exhausted to fight to stay alive, and why should
he bother? It was the dead who were stealing the
magic, siphoning it off for some unknown reason. He
shivered, reminded of the feeling of those cold lips
pressed against his flesh, of the voices crying, begging,
pleading for the magic. They had taken it... and the
Device of Time Journeying was now a hodgepodge of
wheels, gears, rods, and sparkling jewels, lying scattered
on the rug.

"As I was saying, with the magic gone"—Tas was still
prattling—"Beryl won't be able to find us because she
won't have the magic to guide her to us."

Palin lifted his head, looked at the kender.

"What did you say?"

"I said a lot of things. About the dragon not having
the artifact and maybe not having us because if the
magic is gone—"

"You may be right," Palin said.

"I am?" Tas was no end astonished.

"Hand me that," Palin instructed, pointing.

Appropriating one of the kender's pouches, Palin
dumped out its contents and began to hastily gather up the
bits and pieces of the artifact, stuffing them into the pouch.

18

DnaeoNS of a Lost Stan

"The guards will be evacuating people into the hills.
We'll lose ourselves in the crowd. No, don't touch that!"
he ordered sharply, slapping the kender's small hand that
was reaching for the jeweled faceplate. "I must keep all
the pieces together."

"I just wanted a memento," Tas explained, sucking on
his red knuckles. "Something to remember Caramon by.
Especially since I won't be using the artifact to go back in
time now."

Palin grunted. His hands shook, and it was difficult
for his twisted fingers to grasp some of the smaller pieces.

"I don't know why you want that old thing anyhow,"
Tas observed. "I doubt you can fix it. I doubt anyone can
fix it. It looks to be extremely broken."

Palin shot the kender a baleful glance. "You said you
had decided to use it to return to the past."

"That was then," said Tas. "Before things got really
interesting here. What with Goldmoon sailing off in the
gnome's submersible and now being attacked by drag-
ons. Not to mention the dead people," he added, as an
afterthought.

Palin didn't like the reminder. "Make yourself useful
at least. Go out in the hallway and find out what's
going on."

Tas did as he was told, heading for the door, although
he continued to talk over his shoulder. "I told you about
seeing the dead people. Right when the artifact busted.
Didn't I? They were all over you, like leeches."

"Do you see any of them now?" Palin asked.

Tas glanced around. "No, not a one. But then," he
pointed out helpfully, "the magic's gone, isn't it?"

"Yes." Palin snapped tight the strings on the bag that
held the broken pieces. 'The magic is gone."

Tas was reaching for the handle when a thundering
knock nearly staved in the door.

19

DRAQONLANCE T:l7e Wan of Souls

"Master Majere!" a voice called. "Are you inside?"

"We're here!" Tasslehoff called.

"The citadel is under attack from Beryl and a host of
red dragons/' the voice said. "Master, you must make
haste!"

Palin knew very well they were under attack. He
expected death at any moment. He wanted nothing more
than to run, and yet he remained on his knees, sweeping
his broken hands over the rug, anxious to ascertain that
he had not overlooked a single tiny jewel or small mech-
anism of the broken Device of Time Journeying.

Finding nothing, he rose to his feet as Lady Camilla,
leader of the Solamnic Knights on Schallsea, strode into
the room. She was a veteran with a veteran's calmness,
thinking clearly and matter-of-factly. Her business was
not to fight dragons. She could rely on her soldiers at
the fortress to undertake that charge. Her business in the
dtadel was to safely evacuate as many people as possible.
Like most Solamnics, Lady Camilla was highly suspi-
cious of magic-users, and she regarded Palin with a grim
look, as if she did not put it past him to be in league with
the dragons.

"Master Majere, someone said they thought you were
still here. Do you know what is happening outside?"

Palin looked out the window to see the dragons cir-
cling above them, the shadows of their wings floating
over the surface of the flat, oily sea.

"I could not very well miss it," he answered coolly. He,
for his part, did not much like Lady Camilla.

"What have you been doing?" Lady Camilla demanded
angrily. "We need your help! I expected to find you work-
ing your magic to fight against these monsters, but one of
the guards said he thought you were still in your room.
I could not believe it, yet here you are, playing with a ...
a gewgaw!"

20

OnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

Palin wondered what Lady Camilla would say if she
knew that the reason the dragons were attacking in the
first place was to try to steal the "gewgaw."

"We were just leaving," Palin said, reaching out to
grab the excited kender. "Come along, Tas."

"He's telling the truth. Lady Camilla," said Tasslehoff,
noting the Knight's skepticism. "We were just leaving. We
were heading for Solace but the magical device we were
going to use for our escape broke—"

"That's enough, Tas." Palin shoved the kender out
the door.

"Escape!" Lady Camilla repeated, her voice shaking in
fury. "You planned to escape and leave the rest of us to die?
I don't believe such cowardice. Not even of a wizard."

Palin kept firm hold of Tasslehoff's shoulder, pushed
him roughly down the hallway toward the stairs.

'The kender is right. Lady Camilla," he said in caus-
tic tones. "We were planning to escape. Something any
sensible person would do in this situation, be he wizard
or knight. As it turns out, we can't. We are stuck here
with the rest of you. We will be heading for the hills
with the rest of you. Or heading to our deaths, whichever
the dragons decide. Move along, Tas! This is no time for
your chatter!"

"But your magic—" Lady Camilla persisted.

Palin rounded on her. "I have no magic!" he said sav-
agely. "I have no more power to fight these monsters than
this kender! Less, perhaps, for his body is whole, whereas
mine is broken."

He glared at her. She glared at him, her face pale and
chill. They had reached the stairs that wound through
the various levels of the Lyceum, stairs that had been
crowded with people but were now empty. The resi-
dents of the Lyceum had joined the throngs fleeing the
dragons, hoping to find shelter in the hills. Palin could

21

DRAQONLANCE 'cue ware of Souls

see them streaming toward the island's interior. If the
dragons attacked now and the reds breathed their
flames upon these terrified masses, the slaughter would
be horrific. Yet still the dragons circled above them,
watching, waiting.

He knew very well why they were waiting. Beryl was
trying to sense the artifact's magic. She was trying to
determine which of these puny creatures fleeing from her
carried the precious artifact. That is why she had not
ordered her minions to kill. Not yet. He'd be damned if
he was going to tell this to the Knight. She'd probably
hand him over to the dragon.

"\ assume you have duties elsewhere. Lady Camilla,"
Palin said, turning his back on her. "Do not concern your-
self with us."

'Trust me," she retorted, "I will not!"

Shoving past him, she ran down the stairs, her sword
clanking at her side, her armor raiding.

"Hurry up," Palin ordered Tas. "We'll lose ourselves in
the crowd."

Kilting the skirts of his robes, Palin ran down the
stairs. Tasslehoff followed, enjoying the excitement as
only a kender can. The two exited the building, the last
to do so. Just as Palin paused near the entryway to
catch his breath and to determine which was the best
way to go, one of the red dragons swooped low. People
flung themselves screaming onto the ground. Palin
shrank back against the crystal wall of the Lyceum,
dragging Tas with him. The dragon flew by with a rush
of wings, doing nothing except sending many running
mad with terror.

Thinking the dragon might have seen him, Palin
looked up into the sky, fearing the dragon might be
planning to make another pass. What he saw perplexed
and astonished him.

22

OnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

Large objects like enormous birds, filled the skies. At
first Palin thought they were birds and then he saw glints
of sunlight off metal.

"What in the Abyss is that?" he wondered.

Tasslehoff turned his face skyward, squinting against
the sun. Another red dragon made a low swoop over
the citadel.

"Draconian soldiers," said Tasslehoff calmly. "They're
dropping off the backs of the dragons. I saw them do that
in the War of the Lance." He gave an envious sigh. "I
really do wish I'd been bom a draconian sometimes."

"What did you say?" Palin gasped. "Draconians?"

"Oh, yes," said Tas. "Doesn't it look like fun? They
ride on the backs of the dragons and then they jump off
and—there, you can see them—see how they spread their
wings to break their fall. Wouldn't it be wonderful, Palin?
To be able to sail through the air like—"

"That's why Beryl hasn't let the dragons bum the place
down!" Palin exclaimed in a rush of dismayed under-
standing. "She plans to use the draconians to find the
magical artifact... to find us!"

Intelligent, strong, bom to battle and bred to fight, dra-
conians were the most feared of all the troops of the dragon
overlords. Created during the War of the Lance by evil
magicks from the eggs of metallic dragons, draconians are
enormous lizardlike creatures who walk upright on two
legs like humans. Draconians have wings, but these wings
are short and will not lift their large and well-muscled
bodies in sustained flight. The wings are suitable for allow-
ing the creatures to float through the air, as they were doing
now, enabling them to make a safe and gentile landing.

The moment the draconians hit the ground, they began
to form into ranks in response to the shouted commands
of their officers. The ranks of draconian soldiers spread
out, seizing any person they could catch.

23

DRAQONLANCE X3)e Wan of Souls

One group of draconians surrounded the Citadel
Guards, ordered them to surrender. Outnumbered, the
guards threw down their weapons. The draconians forced
them to kneel on the ground, then cast magic spells on
them, spells that entangled them in webs or sent them to
sleep. Palin made a mental note to himself that the draco-
nians were able to cast spells without apparent difficulty
when every other mage on Ansalon could barely find
enough magic to boil water. He found this fact ominous
and would have liked to have had time to think about it
further, but that didn't seem probable.

The draconians were not killing their prisoners. Not
yet. Not until the prisoners had been questioned. They
were left to lie where they had fallen, bound neatly in
magic cobwebs. The draconian soldiers moved on, while
other draconians began hauling the web-bound prisoners
into the abandoned Lyceum.

Again, a red dragon flew overhead, slicing the air
with its massive wings. Draconian troops leaped off the
dragon's back. Their objective was now clear to Palin.
The draconians were going to take and hold the Citadel
of Light, use it as their base of operations. Once estab-
lished, they would spread throughout the island,
rounding up all civilians. Another force was probably
attacking the Solamnic Knights, keeping them penned
up in their fortress.

Do they have a description of Tas and me? Palin asked
himself. Or have they been told to bring to Beryl any
magic-user and kender they come across? Not that it
matters, he realized bitterly. Either way, I'll soon be a
prisoner again. Tormented and tortured. Chained up in
the darkness, to rot in my own filth. I am helpless to save
myself. I have no way to fight them. If I try to use my
magic, the dead will siphon it off, take it for themselves,
whatever good it does them.

24

DRaqoNS of a Lost Stan

He stood in the shadows of the crystal wall, his mind
in turmoil, fear roiling inside him so that he was sick with
it, thought he might die of it. He was not afraid of death.
Dying was the easy part. Living as a prisoner... he could
not face that. Not again.

"Palin," said Tas urgently. "I think they've seen us."

A draconian officer had indeed seen them. He pointed
in their direction and issued orders. His troops started
toward them. Palin wondered where Lady Camilla was
and had a panicked notion to call for help. He discarded
that immediately. Wherever she was, she had enough to
do to help herself.

"Are we going to fight them?" Tas asked eagerly. "I
have my special knife. Rabbit Slayer." He began to nun-
mage inside his pouches, dumping out pieces of cutlery,
bootladngs, an old sock. "Caramon named it that, because
he said it would be good only for killing dangerous
rabbits. I never met a dangerous rabbit, but it works
pretty well against draconians. I just have to remember
where I put it—"

I'll dash back inside the building, Palin thought,
panic taking hold of him. I'll find a place to hide, any
place to hide. He had an image of the draconians dis-
covering him huddled, whimpering, in a closet. Dragging
him forth . . .

Bitter gall filled Palm's mouth. If he ran away this time
he would run away the next time and he would keep on
running, leaving others to die for him. He was finished
running. He would make his stand here.

I do not matter, Palin said to himself. I am expendable.
Tasslehoff is the one who matters. The kender must not
come to harm. Not in this time, not in this world. For if
the kender dies, if he dies in a place and a time he is not
meant to, the world and all of us on it—dragons, draconi-
ans, myself alike—will cease to exist.

25

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctie Wan of Souls

"Tas," said Palin quietly, his voice steady, "I'm going
to draw off these draconians, and while I'm doing that,
you run into the hills. You'll be safe there. When the
dragons leave—and I think they will, once they have
captured me—I want you to go to Palanthas, find Jenna,
and have her take you to Dalamar. When I say the word,
you must run, Tas. Run as fast as ever you can."

The draconians were coming nearer. They were able
to see him clearly now, and they had begun to talk
loudly among themselves, pointing at him and jabber-
ing. Judging by their excitement, one of his questions
was answered. They had a description of him.

"I can't leave you, Palin!" Tas was protesting. "I admit
that I was mad at you because you were trying to kill me
by making me go back to be stepped on by a giant, but
I'm mostly over that now and—"

"Run, Tas!" Palin ordered, angry with desperation.
Opening the bag containing the pieces of the magical
device, he took the faceplate of the device in his hand.
"Run! My father was right. You must get to Dalamar! You
must tell him—"

"I know!" Tas cried. He hadn't been listening. "We'll
hide in the Hedge Maze. They'll never find us there.
C'mon, Palin! Quickly!"

The draconians were shouting and calling out. Other
draconians, hearing their yells, turned to look.

"Tas!" Palin rounded on him furiously. "Do as I tell
you! Go!"

"Not without you," Tas said stubbornly. "What would
Caramon say if he found out I left you here to die all by
yourself? They're moving awfully fast, Palin," he added.
"If we're going to try to make it to the Hedge Maze, I
think we better go now."

Palin brought out the faceplate. With the Device of
Time Journeying, his father had traveled back to the time

26

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

of the First Cataclysm to try to save Lady Crysania and
prevent his twin brother Raistlin from entering the
Abyss. With this device, Tasslehoff had traveled here,
bringing with him a mystery and a hope. With this
device, Palin had gone back in time to find that time
before the Second Cataclysm did not exist. The device
was one of the most powerful and wondrous ever cre-
ated by the wizards of Krynn. He was about to destroy it,
and by destroying it, perhaps he was destroying them
all. Yet, it was the only way.

He grasped the faceplate in his hand, gripped it so
hard that the metal edges cut into his flesh. Crying out
words of magic that he had not spoken since the gods
had departed with the end of the Fourth Age, Palin
hurled the faceplate at the advancing draconians. He
had no idea what he hoped to accomplish. His was an
act of despair.

Seeing the mage throwing something at them, the dra-
conians skidded warily to a halt.

The faceplate struck the ground at their feet.

The draconians scrambled back, arms raised to protect
their faces, expecting the device to explode.

The faceplate rolled on the ground, wobbled, and fell
over. Some of the draconians started to laugh.

The faceplate began to glow. A jet of brilliant, blinding
blue light streaked out, struck Palin in the chest.

The jolt shocked him, nearly stopping his heart. He
feared for a horrible moment that the device was pun-
ishing him, exacting revenge upon him. Then he felt his
body suffused with power. Magic, the old magic, burned
inside him. The magic bubbled in his blood, intoxicat-
ing, exhilarating. The magic sang in his soul and thrilled
his flesh. He cried out words to a spell, the first spell
that came to mind, and marveled that he still remem-
bered the words.

27

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctie Wan o<" Souls

Not such a marvel, after all. Hadn't he recited them
in a litany of grief, over and over to himself for all these
many years?

Balls of fire flashed from his fingertips and struck
the advancing draconians. The magic fire burned with
such ferocity that the lizard-men burst into flame,
became living torches. The blazing flames almost
immediately consumed them, leaving them a mass of
charred flesh, melted armor, piles of smoldering bones
and teeth.

"You did it!" Tasslehoff shouted gleefully. "It worked."

Daunted by the horrific fate of their comrades, the
other draconians were regarding Palin with hatred but
also new and wary respect.

"Now will you run?" Palin shouted in exasperation.

"Are you coming?" Tas asked, balancing on his toes.

"Yes, damn it! Yes!" Palin assured him, and Tas
dashed off.

Palin ran after him. He was a gray-headed, middle-
aged man, who had once been in shape, but had not per-
formed strenuous physical exertion like this in a long
time. Casting the magic spell had drained him. He could
already feel himself starting to weaken. He could not
keep up this pace for long.

Behind him, an officer shouted furious orders. Palin
glanced back to see the draconians once more in pursuit,
their clawed feet tearing up the grassy lawns, sending
divots of mud into the air. Draconians use their wings to
help them run, and they were taking to the air, skim-
ming over the ground at a rate that neither the middle-
aged Palin nor the short-legged kender could ever hope
to match.

The Hedge Maze was still some distance away.
Palin's breath was coming in painful gasps. He had a
sharp pain in his side, and his leg muscles burned. Tas

28

DRaqoNS of a Lost Stan

ran gamely, but he was no longer a young Render. He
stumbled and panted for air. The draconians were
steadily gaining on them.

Halting, Palin turned to once again face his enemy. He
sought the magic, felt it as a cold trickle in his blood, not a
raging torrent. Reaching into the bag, he took hold of
another piece of the Device of Time Journeying—the chain
that was supposed to wind up inside the artifact. Shouting
words that were more defiance than magic, Palin hurled
the chain at the flapping-winged draconians.

The chain transformed, growing, lengthening,
expanding until the links were as thick and strong as
those of a chain attached to a ship's heavy anchor. The
enormous chain struck the draconians in their midriffs.
Writhing like an iron snake, it wrapped itself around and
around the pursuing draconians. The links contracted,
holding the monsters fast.

Palin could not take time to marvel. Catching hold of
Tasslehoff's hand, he turned to run again, both of them
racing frantically to reach the Hedge Maze ahead of their
pursuers. For the moment the chase had ended. Wrapped
in the chain, the draconians howled in pain and strug-
gled desperately to escape its coils. No other draconians
dared come after him.

Palin was exalted, thinking he had defeated his foes,
then he caught movement out of the comer of his eyes.
His elation evaporated. Now he knew why those draco-
nians were not coming after him. They did not fear him.
They were merely leaving the task of his capture to
reinforcements, who were running to cut him off from
the front.

An armed squadron of fifteen draconian soldiers took
up positions between Palin, Tas, and the Hedge Maze.

"I hope ... there's more of that device ... left...." Tas
gasped with what breath he had available for talking.

29

DRAQONLANCE We Wan of Souls

Palm reached into the bag. His hand closed over a fist-
ful of jewels that had once adorned the device. He saw
the artifact again, saw its beauty and felt its power. His
heart almost refused, but the hesitation lasted only a
moment. He tossed the jewels at the draconians.

Sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and diamonds sparkled in
the air as they rained down over the heads of the aston-
ished draconians, falling around them like sand scattered
by children playing at magic. The jewels shone in the sun-
light. A few of the draconians, chortling in glee, bent to pick
them up.

The jewels exploded, forming a thick cloud of glitter-
ing jewel dust that surrounded the draconians. Shouts of
glee changed to curses and cries of pain as the gritty jewel
dust clogged the eyes of those who had bent to grab
them. Some had their mouths open, and the dust flew
up their snouts, choking them. The fine dust penetrated
beneath their scales, causing them to itch and scratch at
themselves, yelping and howling.

While the draconians staggered around blindly bump-
ing into each other, or rolled on the ground, or gasped for
air, Palin and Tasslehoff circled around them. Another
sprint and they both plunged into the green haven of the
Hedge Maze.

The Hedge Maze had been constructed by Qua-
linesti Woodshapers, a gift from Laurana. The maze
was designed to offer a place of beauty and solitude to
all who entered, a place where people could walk, rest,
meditate, study. A leafy embodiment of the maze that is
man's heart, the Hedge Maze could never be mapped,
as the gnome. Conundrum, had discovered to his
immense frustration. Those who successfully walked the
maze of their own hearts came at last to the Silver Stair
located at the heart of the Hedge Maze, the culmination
of the spiritual journey.

30

DnaooNS OF a Lost Stare

Palin did not have much hope that the draconians
would lose him in the maze, but he did hope that the
maze's own powerful magic would protect him and Tas,
perhaps hide them from the eyes of the monsters. His
hope was going to be put to the test. More draconians
had joined in the pursuit, driven now by anger and the
desire for revenge.

"Stop a moment," Palin said to Tas, who had no breath
left to answer. He nodded and gulped air.

The two had reached the first bend in the Hedge Maze.
No point in going farther unless Palin knew whether or
not the draconians were going to be able to come after
them. He turned to watch.

The first several draconians dashed inside the Hedge
Maze and almost immediately came to a stop. Branches
spread across the path, stems shot up from the ground.
Foliage grew at an astonishing rate. Within moments,
the path on which Palin and Tas had walked was over-
grown with shrubbery so thick the mage could no longer
see the draconians.

Palin breathed a sigh of relief. He had been right.
The magic of the Hedge Maze would keep out those
who entered with evil intent. He had a momentary
fear that the draconians might use their wings to lift
themselves over the maze, but, as he looked up, flow-
ering vines twined overhead to form a canopy that
would hide him from sight. For the moment, he and
Tas were safe.

"Whew! That was close!" said Tasslehoff happily. "I
thought we were goners there for a moment. You are a
really good wizard, Palin. I saw Raistlin cast lots of spells,
but I don't believe he ever caused draconians to sizzle up
like bacon before, though I once saw him summon the
Great Worm Catyrpelius. Did you ever hear about that
one? Raistlin—"

31

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl?e Wan of Soute

A roar and a blast of flame interrupted Tasslehoff's
tale. The bushes that had so recently grown to block the
draconians burst into bright orange flame.

"The dragons!" Palin said with a bitter curse, cough-
ing as the intense heat seared his lungs. "They're going to
try to smoke us out."

In his elation at defeating the draconians, he had for-
gotten the dragons. The Hedge Maze could withstand
almost all other attacks, but apparently it was not imper-
vious to dragon fire. Another red breathed its fiery breath
on the maze. Flames crackled, smoke filled the air. The
way out was blocked off by a wall of flame. They had no
choice but to run deeper into the maze.

Palin led the way down the aisle of green, made a
right turn, and came to a halt when the hedgerow at the
end of the path erupted up in a blaze of flame and
smoke. Choking, Palin covered his mouth with his sleeve
and searched for a way out. Another pathway opened in
front of him, the bushes parting to let him and Tas
through. They had only made it a short distance when,
again, flames blocked their path. Still another path
opened. Though the Hedge Maze itself was dying, it
sought a way to save them. He had the impression that
they were being led somewhere specific, but he had no
idea where. The smoke made him dizzy and disoriented.
His strength was starting to ebb. He staggered, more
than ran. Tasslehoff, too, was falling prey to fatigue. His
shoulders slumped, his breathing was ragged. His very
topknot seemed to droop.

The red dragon that was attacking the maze did not
want to kill them. The dragon could have done that long
ago. The red was driving them like sheep, using fire to
dog their footsteps, nip at their heels, try to force them
out in the open. Still, the maze itself urged them on,
revealing yet another path when their way was blocked.

32

OnaooNS of a Lost Stare

Smoke swirled around them. Palin could barely see
the kender right beside him. He coughed until his
throat was raw, coughed until he retched. Whenever
one of the hedge ways opened up, a flow of air would
refresh him, but almost immediately the air became
tainted with smoke and the smell of brimstone. They
stumbled on.

A wall of flame burst in front of them. Palin fell back,
looked frantically to the left to see another wall of flame.
He turned to the right, and the maze crackled with fire.
Heat seared his lungs. He could not breathe. Smoke
swirled, sdnging his eyes.

"Palin!" Tas pointed. 'The stair!"

Palin wiped away the tears to see silver steps spiraling
upward, vanishing in the smoke.

"Lefs climb it!" Tas urged.

Palin shook his head. "It won't help. The stair doesn't
lead anywhere, Tas," he croaked, his throat raw and
bleeding, as a fit of coughing seized him.

"Yes, it does," Tas argued. "I'm not sure where, but
I climbed it the last time I was here, when I decided
that I should really go back and be stepped on by the
giant. A decision I have since rethought," he added
hastily. "Anyway I saw— Oh, look! There's Caramon!
Hullo, Caramon!"

Palin raised his head, peered through the smoke. He
was sick and faint, and when he saw his father, standing
at the top of the Silver Stair, he did not wonder at the sight.
Caramon had come to his son once before, in the Citadel
of Light, come to him to urge him not to send Tasslehoff
back to die. Caramon looked now as he had looked to his
son before his death, old but still hearty and hale. His
father's face was different, though. Caramon's face had
always been quick to laughter, quick to smile. The eyes
that had seen much sorrow and known much pain had

33

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct}e Wan of Souls

always been light with hope. Caramon had changed. Now
the eyes were different, lost, searching.

Tasslehoff was already clambering up the stairs, jabber-
ing exdtedly to Caramon, who said no word. There had
been only a few stairs, when Tasslehoff began to climb. He
was quite dose to the top already. But when Palm placed
his foot upon the first shining silver step, he looked up
and saw the stairs appeared to be without number, never
ending. He did not have the strength to climb all those
stairs, and he feared he would be left behind. As his foot
touched the stair, a breath of fresh air wafted over him. He
gulped it eagerly. Lifting his face, he saw blue sky above
him. He drew in another deep breath of fresh air and
began to dimb. The distance seemed short now.

Caramon stood at the top, waiting patiently. Lifting a
ghostly hand, he beckoned to them.

Tasslehoff reached the top, only to find, as Palin had
said, that the Silver Stair led nowhere. The staircase came
to an abrupt end, his next step would carry him over the
edge. Far below, the ugly black smoke of the dying hedge
swirled like the waters of a maelstrom.

"What do I do now, Caramon?" Tas yelled.

Palin heard no reply, but apparently the kender did.

"How wonderful," Tas cried. "I'll fly just like the
draconians!"

Palin shouted out in horror. He lunged, tried to grasp
hold of the kender's shirttail, and missed.

With a cry of glee, Tasslehoff spread his arms like a
bird and leaped straight off the final stair. He plunged
downward and disappeared into the smoke.

Palin clung to the stair. In his desperate attempt to
grab hold of Tas, he had almost toppled off. He waited,
his heart in his throat, to hear the kender's death cry,
but all he heard was the crackling of flame and the roar-
ing of the dragons.

34

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

Palin looked into the swirling smoke and shuddered.
He looked back at his father, but Caramon was not there.
In his place Hew the red dragon. Wings blotted out the
patch of blue sky. The dragon reached out a talon,
intending to pluck Palin from his stair and carry him
back to his cell. He was tired, tired of being afraid. He
wanted only to rest and to be rid of fear forever.

He knew now where the Silver Stair led.

Death.

Caramon was dead. His son would soon join him.

"At least," Palin said calmly, grimly, "I will nevermore
be a prisoner."

He leaped off the stair—and fell heavily on his side on
a hard stone floor.

The landing being completely unexpected, Palin made
no attempt to break his fall. He rolled and tumbled, came
up hard against a stone wall. Jolted by the impact, shocked
and confused, he lay blinking at the ceiling and wondered
that he was alive.

Tasslehoff bent over him.

"Are you all right?" he asked, but didn't wait for an
answer. "Look, Palin! Isn't it wonderful? You told me to
find Dalamar and I have! He's right here! But I can't find
Caramon anymore. He's nowhere."

Palin eased himself carefully to a sitting position. He
was bruised and battered, his throat hurt, and his lungs
wheezed as though they were still filled with smoke,
but he felt no stabbing pains, heard no bones crunch
together. His astonishment and shock at the sight of the
elf caused him to forget his minor injuries. Palin was
shocked not only to see Dalamar—who had not been
seen in this world for thirty years—he was shocked to
see how Dalamar changed.

The long-lived elves do not appear to humans to
age. Dalamar was an elf in the prime of manhood. He

35

DRAQONLANCE rue wan of Souls

should have looked the same now as he had looked
when Palin last saw him more than thirty years ago. He
did not. So drastic was the change that Palin was not
completely convinced that this apparition was Dalamar
and not another ghost.

The elf's long hair that had once been as black as the
wing of a raven was streaked with gray. His face, though
still elegantly carved and beautifully proportioned, was
wasted. The elf's pale skin was stretched tight over the
bones of the skull, making it look as if his face were
carved of ivory. The aquiline nose was beakish, the chin
sharp. His robes hung loosely on an emadated frame. His
long-fingered, elegant hands were bony and chafed, the
knuckles red and prominent. The veins on the backs of
his hands traced a blue road map of illness and despair.

Palin had always liked and admired Dalamar, though
he could not say why. Their philosophies were not remotely
the same. Dalamar had been the servant of Nuitari, god
of the Dark Moon and darker magicks. Palin had served
Solinari, god of the Silver Moon, god of the magic of light.
Both men had been devastated when the gods of magic
had departed, taking the magic with them. Palin had gone
into the world to seek out the magic they called "wild"
magic. Dalamar had withdrawn from other magi, with-
drawn from the world. He had gone seeking magic in
dark places.

"Are you injured?" Dalamar asked. He sounded
annoyed, not concerned for Palin's well-being, but only
that Palin might require some sort of attention, an exer-
tion of power on the part of the elf.

Palin struggled to stand. Speaking was painful. His
throat hurt abominably.

"I am all right," he rasped, watching Dalamar as
the elf watched him, wary, suspicious. "Thank you for
helping us—"

36

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

Dalamar cut him off with a sharp, emphatic gesture of
a pallid hand. The skin of the hand was so pale against
the black robes that it seemed disembodied.

"I did what I had to do, considering the mess you had
made of things." The pale hand snaked out, seized hold
of Tas by the collar. "Come with me, kender."

"I'd be glad to come with you, Dalamar," Tas answered.
"And, by the way, it really is me, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, so
you needn't keep calling me 'kender' in that nasty tone.
I'm very glad to see you again, except, you're pinching
me. Actually you're hurting me quite a bit—"

"In silence," Dalamar said and gave the kender's
collar an expert twist that effectively caused Tas to obey
the order by half-choking him. Dragging the squirming
kender with him, Dalamar crossed the small, narrow
room to a heavy wooden door. He beckoned with a pale
hand, and the door swung silently open.

Keeping a tight grasp on Tas, Dalamar paused in the
doorway and turned to face Palin.

"You have much to answer for, Majere."

"Wait!" Palin croaked, wincing at the pain in his throat.
"Where is my father? I saw him."

"Where?" Dalamar demanded, frowning.

"At the top of the Silver Stair," Tasslehoff volunteered.
"We both saw him."

"I have no idea. I did not send him, if that is what
you are thinking," said Dalamar. "Although, I appreciate
his help."

He walked out, and the door slammed shut behind
him. Alarmed, panicked, feeling himself start to suffo-
cate, Palin hurled himself at the door.

"Dalamar!" he shouted, beating on the wood. "Don't
leave me in here!"

Dalamar spoke, but it was only to chant words of
magic.

37

DRAQONLANCE Vie WBR oy Souls

Palin recognized the spell—a wizard lock.
His strength gone, he slid down the door and slumped
to the cold, stone floor.
A prisoner.

38

3

SUN Anise




n the dark hour before the dawn, Gilthas, the
king of the Qualinesti stood on the balcony of
his palace. Rather, his body stood on the bal-
cony. His soul walked the streets of the silent city. His
soul walked every street, paused at every doorway,
looked in every window. His soul saw a newlywed
couple asleep, clasped in each other arms. His soul saw
a mother sitting in a rocking chair, nursing her babe, the
babe sleeping, the mother dozing, gently rocking. His
soul saw young elf brothers sharing the same bed with a
large hound. The two boys slept with their arms flung
around the neck of the dog, all three dreaming of play-
ing catch in sunlit meadows. His soul saw an elderly elf
sleeping in the same house that his father had slept in
and his father before him. Above his bed, a portrait of
the wife who had passed on. In the next room, the son
who would inherit the house, his wife by his side.

"Sleep long this night," Gilthas's soul said softly to each
one he touched. "Do not wake too early in the morning, for

39

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl7e wan OF Souls

when you wake, it will not be the beginning of a new day
but the end of all days. The sun you see in the sky is not
the rising sun, but the setting sun. The daylight will be
night and night the darkness of despair. Yet, for now,
sleep in peace. Let me guard that peace while I can."

"Your Majesty," said a voice.

Gilthas was loath to pay heed. He knew that when he
turned to listen, to answer, to respond, the spell would
be shattered. His soul would return to his body. The
people of Qualinesti would find their sleep disturbed
by dreams of smoke and fire, blood and shining steel.
He tried to pretend he had not heard, but even as he
watched, he saw the bright silver of the stars start to
fade, saw a faint, pale light in the sky.

"Your Majesty," said a voice, another voice.

Dawn. And with the dawn, death.

Gilthas turned around. "Marshal Medan," he said, a
hint of coolness in his tone. He shifted his gaze from the
leader of the Dark Knights of Neraka to the person stand-
ing next to him, his trusted servant. "Planchet. You both
have news, by the looks of it. Marshal Medan, I'll hear
yours first."

Alexius Medan was a human male in his fifties, and
although he bowed deferentially to the king, the Marshal
was the true ruler of Qualinesti and had been for more
than thirty years, ever since the Dark Knights of Neraka
seized Qualinesti during the Chaos War. Gilthas was
known to all the world as the "Puppet King." The Dark
Knights had left the young and apparently weak and
sickly youth on the throne in order to placate the elven
people and give them the illusion of elven control. In real-
ity, it was Marshal Medan who held the strings that
caused the arms of the puppet Gilthas to move, and Sen-
ator Palthainon, a powerful member of the Thalas-Enthia,
who played the tune to which the puppet danced.

40

DnaQONS of a Lost Stan

But as Marshal Medan had learned only yesterday, he
had been deceived. Gilthas had not been a puppet but a
most gifted actor. He had played the weak and vacillating
king in order to mask his real persona, that of leader of
the elven resistance movement. Gilthas had fooled
Medan completely. The Puppet King had cut the strings,
and the dances he performed were done to music of His
Majesty's own choosing.

"You left us after dark and have been gone all night,
Marshal," Gilthas stated, eyeing the man suspiciously.
"Where have you been?"

"I have been at my headquarters. Your Majesty, as I
told you before I left," Medan replied.

He was tall and well-built. Despite his fifty-five
years—or perhaps because of them—he worked at keep-
ing himself fighting fit. His gray eyes contrasted with his
dark hair and dark brows and gave him an expression of
perpetual gravity that did not lighten, even when he
smiled. His face was deeply tan, weathered. He had been
a dragonrider in his early days.

Gilthas cast a very slight glance at Planchet, who
gave a discreet nod of his head. Both glance and nod
were seen by the observant Medan, who looked more
than usually grave.

"Your Majesty, I do not blame you for not trusting
me. It has been said that kings cannot afford the luxury
of trusting anyone—" the Marshal began.

"Especially the conqueror of our people, who has held
us in his iron grasp for over thirty years," Gilthas inter-
jected. Both elven and human blood ran in the young
king's veins, though the elven dominated. "You release
the grip on our throats to offer the same hand in friend-
ship. You will understand me, sir, when I say that I still
feel the bite of your fingers around my windpipe."

"Well put. Your Majesty," replied the Marshal with a

41

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfte Wan of Souls

hint of smile. "As I said, I approve your caution. I wish I
had a year to prove my loyalty—"

"To me?" Gilthas said with a slight sneer. "To the
'puppet'?"

"No, Your Majesty," Marshal Medan said. "My loy-
alty to the land I have come to consider my home. My
loyalty to a people I have come to respect. My loyalty
to your mother." He did not add the words, "whom I
have come to love," though he might have said them in
his heart.

The Marshal had been awake all night the night
before, removing the Queen Mother to a place of safety,
out of reach of the hands of Beryl's approaching assas-
sins. He had been awake all day yesterday, having taken
Laurana in secret to the palace where they had both met
with Gilthas. It had been Medan's unhappy task to
inform Gilthas that Beryl's armies were marching on
Qualinesti with the intent of destroying the land and its
people. Medan had not slept this night, either. The only
outward signs of weariness were on the Marshal's hag-
gard face, however, not in his clear, alert eyes.

Gilthas's tension relaxed, his suspicions eased. "You
are wise. Marshal. Your answer is the only answer I
would ever accept from you. Had you sought to flatter
me, I would have known you lied. As it is, my mother
has told me of your garden, that you have worked to
make it beautiful, that you take pleasure not only in the
flowers themselves but in planting them and caring for
them. However, I must say that I find it difficult to believe
that such a man could have once sworn loyalty to the
likes of Lord Ariakan."

"I find it difficult to understand how a young man
could have been tricked into running away from par-
ents who doted on him to fly into a web spun by a cer-
tain senator," said Marshal Medan coolly, "a web that

42

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

nearly led to the young man's destruction, as well as
that of his people."

Gilthas flushed, hearing his own story repeated back
to him. "What I did was wrong. I was young."

"As was I, Your Majesty," said the Marshal. "Young
enough to believe the lies of Queen Takhisis. I do not
flatter you when I say, Gilthas, that I have come to respect
you. The role you played of the indolent dreamer, who
cared more for his poetry than his people, fooled me
completely. Although," the Marshal added dryly, "I
must say that you and your rebels have caused me no
end of trouble."

"And I have come to respect you. Marshal, and even
to trust you somewhat," said Gilthas. 'Though not com-
pletely. Is that good enough?"

Medan extended his hand. "Good enough. Your Majesty."

Gilthas accepted the Marshal's hand. Their handshake
was firm and brief, on both sides.

"Now," said Medan, "perhaps your servant will tell
his spies to cease following me about. We need everyone
focused on the task ahead."

"What is your news. Marshal?" said Gilthas, neither
agreeing nor disagreeing.

"It is relatively good news. Your Majesty," Medan
stated. "All things considered. The reports we heard
yesterday are true. Beryl's forces have crossed the
border into Qualinesti."

"What good news can there be in this?" Gilthas
demanded.

"Beryl is not with them. Your Majesty," said the Mar-
shal. "Nor are any of her minions. Where they are and
why they are not with the army, I cannot imagine. Per-
haps she is holding them back for some reason."

'To be in on the final kill," said Gilthas bitterly. "The
attack on Qualinost."

43

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfte Wan of Souls

"Perhaps, Your Majesty. At any rate, they are not
with the army, and that has bought us time. Her army is
large, burdened with supply wagons and siege towers,
and they are finding it difficult going through the forest.
From the reports coming from our garrisons on the
border, not only are they being harassed by bands of
elves operating under the Lioness, but the very trees
and plants and even the animals themselves are battling
the enemy."

"Yes, they would," said Gilthas quietly, "but all these
forces are mortal, as are we, and can only withstand so
much."

"Indeed, Your Majesty. They could not withstand
dragon fire, that is certain. Until the dragons arrive,
however, we have a breathing space. Even if the drag-
ons were to set the forests aflame, I calculate that it will
take ten days for the army to reach Qualinost. That
should give you time to institute the plan you outlined
for us last night."

Gilthas sighed deeply and turned his gaze from the
Marshal to the brightening sky. He made no response,
but silently watched the sun rise.

"Preparations for evacuation should have begun last
night," Medan stated in stem tones.

"Please, Marshal," said Planchet in a low voice. "You
do not understand."

"He speaks truly. You do not understand. Marshal
Medan," Gilthas said, turning around. "You could not
possibly understand. You love this land, you say, but
you cannot love it as we do. Our blood runs in every
leaf and flower. The blood of every aspen tree flows
through our veins. You hear the song of the sparrow,
but we understand the words of that song. The axes
and flames that fell the trees cut us and scorch us. The
poison that kills the birds causes a part of us to die. This

44

DRBOONS OF a Lost Stan

morning I must tell my people that they have to leave
their homes, homes that trembled in the Cataclysm and
yet stood firm. They must leave their bowers and their
gardens and their waterfalls and grottos. They must
flee, and where will they go?"

"Your Majesty," said Planchet, "on that score I, too,
have good news for you. I received word in the night
from the messenger of Alhana Starbreeze. The shield has
fallen. The borders of Silvanesd are once more open."

Gilthas stared in disbelief, not daring to hope. "Can this
be possible? Are you certain? How? What happened?"

"The messenger had no details, my lord. He started
on his glad journey to bring us the good tidings the
moment the elves knew it to be true. The shield is indeed
fallen. Alhana Starbreeze walked across the border her-
self. I am expecting another messenger with more infor-
mation soon."

'This is wonderful news," Gilthas exclaimed, ecstatic.
"Our people will go to Silvanesn. Our cousins cannot deny
us entry. Once there, we will combine our forces and
launch an attack to retake our homeland."

Seeing Planchet regard him gravely, Gilthas sighed.

"I know, I know. You needn't remind me. I am leaping
ahead of myself. But this joyful news gives me the first
hope I have known in weeks. Come," Gilthas added,
leaving the balcony and walking inside his chambers,
"we must tell Mother—"

"She sleeps still. Your Majesty," said Planchet in a
low voice.

"No, I do not," said Laurana. "Or, if I was, I will gladly
wake to hear good news. What is this you say? The shield
has fallen?"

Exhausted after the flight from her home in the night
and a day of hearing nothing but dire news, Laurana
had at last been persuaded to sleep. She had her own

45 ~

DRAQONLANCE 'Clie Wan OF Soute

room in the royal palace, but Medan, fearful of Beryl's
assassins, had given orders that the palace be cleared of
all servants, ladies-in-waiting, elven nobility, clerks, and
cooks. He had posted elven guards around the palace
with orders to allow no one to enter except for himself
and his aide. Medan might not have even trusted his
aide, except that he knew him to be a Solamnic Knight
and loyal to Laurana. Medan had then insisted that Lau-
rana sleep on a couch in Gilthas's sitting room where
her slumbers could be guarded. When Medan had
departed for his headquarters, he had left behind the
Solamnic, Gerard, as well as her son to watch over her
during the night.

"The news is true. Mother," said Gilthas, coming to
stand beside her. 'The shield has fallen."

"It sounds wonderful," said Laurana cautiously. "Hand
me my dressing gown, Planchet, so that I do not further
disturb the Marshal's sensibilities. I don't trust the news,
however. I find the timing disquieting."

Laurana's gown was a soft lilac color with lace at
the throat. Her hair poured over her shoulders like
warm honey. Her almond-shaped eyes were luminous,
as blue as forget-me-nots. She was older than Medan
by many, many years and looked far younger than he
did, for the elven summer of youth and beauty dimin-
ishes into the winter of old age far more slowly than it
does with humans.

Watching the Marshal, Gilthas saw in the man's face
not the cool reserve of chivalry, but the pain of love, a
hopeless love that could never be returned, could never
even be spoken. Gilthas still did not like the Marshal, but
this look softened his feelings for the man and even led
him to pity him. The Marshal remained staring out the
window until he could regain his stem composure.

"Say that the timing is fortuitous. Mother," urged

46

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

Gilthas. "The shield falls when we most need it to fall. If
there were gods, I would suppose they watch over us."

"Yet there are no gods," Laurana replied, wrapping
her dressing gown around her. 'The gods have left us. So
I do not know what to say to this news except be cautious
and do not build your hopes upon it."

"I must tell the people something. Mother," Gilthas
returned impatiently. "I have called a meeting of the Senate
this very morning." He cast a glance at Medan. "You see,
my lord, I have not been-idle this night. We must begin the
evacuation today if we are to have a hope of emptying the
city of its thousands. What I must say to our people will
be devastating. Mother. I need hope to offer them."

" 'Hope is the carrot they hang in front of the horse's
nose to keep him plodding on,' " Laurana murmured.

"What did you say. Mother?" Gilthas asked. "You
spoke so softly, I could not hear you."

"I was thinking of something someone said to me long
ago. At the time I thought the person was embittered and
cynical. Now I think perhaps he was wise." Laurana
sighed, shook off her memories. "I am sorry, my son. I
know this isn't helping."

A Knight, Medari's aide, entered the room. He stood
respectfully silent, but it was clear from the tenseness of
his posture that he was attempting to gain their attention.
Medan was the first to notice him.

"Yes, Gerard, what is it?" Medan asked.

"A trivial matter. I do not want to disturb the Queen
Mother," said Gerard with a bow. "Might we speak in
private, my lord? If His Majesty will permit?"

"You have leave," said Gilthas, and turned back to try
to persuade his mother.

Medan, with a bow, withdrew with Gerard, walking
out on the balcony of the king's chamber, overlooking
the garden.

47

DRAQONLANCE •Cfte wan of Souls

Gerard wore the armor of a Dark Knight of Neraka,
although he had removed the heavy breastplate for com-
fort's sake. He had washed away the blood and other traces
of his recent battle with a draconian, but he still looked
considerably the worse for wear. No one would have ever
called the young Solamnic handsome. His hair was as
yellow as corn, his face was scarred with pockmarks, and
the addition of numerous fresh bruises, blue and green
and purple, rising to the surface, did nothing to enhance
his appearance. His eyes were his best feature, an intense,
arresting blue. The blue eyes were serious, shadowed, and
belied his words about the trivial nature of the interruption.

"One of the guards sent word that two people wait
below, both demanding to enter the palace. One is a
senator. . . ." He paused, frowning. "\ can't recall the
name—elven names are a muddle to me—but he is tall
and had a way of looking down his nose at me as if I were
an ant perched on the tip."

Medan's mouth twitched in amusement. "And has
he the expression of someone who has just bitten into
a bad fig?"

"Correct, my lord."

"Palthainon," said Medan. "The Puppet Master. I
was wondering when he would turn up." Medan
glanced through the glass-paned door at the king. "As
the story goes in the old child's tale, Palthainon will find
his puppet king has turned into a real one. Unlike the
child's tale, I don't think this puppeteer will be pleased
to lose his puppet."

"Should he be permitted to come up, my lord?"

"No," said Medan coolly. "The king is otherwise
engaged. Let Palthainon await His Majesty's pleasure.
Who else wants admittance?"

Gerard's expression darkened. He lowered his voice.
"The elf Kalindas, my lord. He requests admittance. He

48

DnagoNS of a Lost Stan

has heard, he says, that the Queen Mother is here. He
refuses to leave."

Medan frowned. "How did he find out the Queen
Mother was in the palace?"

"I don't know, my lord," said Gerard. "He did not hear
it from his brother. As you ordered, we did not permit
Kelevandros to leave. When I was so weary I could not
keep my eyes open anymore, Planchet kept watch to see
that he did not try to slip out."

Medan cast a glance at Kelevandros. The elf, wrapped
in his cloak, was still apparently sound asleep in a far
comer of the room.

"My lord," said Gerard, "may I speak plainly?"

Medan gave a wry smile. "You've done nothing else
since you entered my service, young man."

"I wouldn't exactly call it 'entering' your service, my
lord," returned Gerard. "I am here because, as you must
know or could have guessed, I deemed my remaining
with you to be the best way to protect the Queen
Mother. I know that one of those two elves is a traitor. I
know that one of them has betrayed Laurana, the mis-
tress who trusted them. That was how you knew to be
waiting for Palin Majere that morning in the woods.
One of those two told you. They were the only ones who
knew. Am I right?" His voice was harsh, accusing.

Medan eyed him. "Yes, you are right. Believe me when
I say. Sir Solamnic, that you do not look at me with more
disgust than I look at myself. Yes, I used Kalindas. I had
no choice. If the scum did not report to me, he would
have reported directly to Beryl, and I would not have
known what was going on. I did what I could to protect
the Queen Mother. I knew well that she aided and abet-
ted the rebels. Beryl would have killed Laurana long ago,
if it hadn't been for me. So do not presume to judge me,
young man."

49

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct^e wan of Souls

"I am sorry, my lord," Gerard said, contrite. "I did not
understand. What do we do? Should I send Kalindas
away?"

"No, said Medan, rubbing his jaw that was gray and
grizzled with a day's growth of stubble. "Better to have
him here where I can keep an eye on him. There is no
telling what mischief he might cause if he were wander-
ing around loose."

"He could be ... removed," Gerard suggested uncom-
fortably.

Medan shook his head. "Laurana might believe that
one of her servants was a spy, but I doubt very much if
her son would. Kelevandros would certainly not, and if we
killed his brother he would raise such an outcry that
we would have to kill him, as well. How will it look to
the elven people, whose trust I must win, if they hear that
I have started butchering elves on His Majesty's very
doorstep? Besides, I need to ascertain if Kalindas has
been in communication with Beryl's forces and what he
told them."

"Very good, my lord," said Gerard. "I will keep close
watch on him."

"I will keep watch on him, Gerard," the Marshal
amended. "Kalindas knows you, or have you forgotten?
He betrayed you, as well. If he finds you here with me,
my trusted confidant, he will be immediately suspi-
cious. He might do something desperate."

"You are right, my lord," Gerard said, frowning. "I
had forgotten. Perhaps I could return to headquarters."

"You will return to headquarters. Sir Knight," Medan
said. "Your own headquarters. I am sending you back
to Solamnia."

"No, my lord," Gerard said stubbornly. "I refuse to go."

"Listen to me, Gerard," the Marshal said, resting his
hand on the young man's shoulder, "I have not said this

50

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

to His Majesty or the Queen Mother—although I think
she already knows. The battle we are about to fight is the
last desperate struggle of a drowning man going under
for the third time. Qualinost cannot hope to stand against
the might of Beryl's army. This fight is at best a delaying
action to buy time for the refugees to flee."

"Then I will most certainly stay, my lord/' Gerard
said steadily, his tone defiant. "I could not in honor do
otherwise."

"If I make this an order?" Medan asked.

"I would say you are not my commander and that I
owe no allegiance to you," Gerard returned, his expres-
sion grim.

"And I would say you are a very selfish young man
who has no concept of true honor," Medan replied.

"Selfish, my lord?" Gerard repeated, stung by the
accusation. "How can it be selfish to offer my life for
this cause?"

"You will be of more value to the cause alive than
dead," Medan stated. "You did not hear me out. When I
suggested that you return to Solamnia, I was not sending
you to some safe haven. I had in mind that you will take
word of our plight to the Knights' Council in Solanthus
and ask for their aid."

Gerard regarded the Marshal skeptically. "You are
asking for the aid of the Solamnics, my lord?"

"No," said Medan. "The Queen Mother is asking for
the aid of the Solamnic Knights. You will be her repre-
sentative."

Gerard was clearly still distrustful.

"I have calculated that we have ten days, Gerard,"
the Marshal continued. 'Ten days until the army reaches
Qualinost. If you leave immediately on dragonback,
you could reach Solanthus the day after tomorrow at
the latest. The Knights could not send an army, but

51

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct»e wan of Souls

mounted dragonriders could at least help guard the civil-
ians." He smiled grimly. "Do not believe that I am send-
ing you out of harm's way, sir. I expect you to come back
with them, and then you and I will not fight each other,
but side by side."

Gerard's face cleared. "I am sorry I questioned you,
my lord. I will leave at once. I will need a swift mount."

"You will have one. My own Razor. You will ride him."

"\ could not take your horse, sir," Gerard protested.

"Razor is not a horse," said Medan. "He is my dragon.
A blue. He has been in my service since the Chaos War.
What is the matter now?"

Gerard had gone extremely pale. "Sir," he said, dear-
ing his throat, "I feel it only right that you know... I have
never ridden a dragon...." He swallowed, burning with
shame. "I have never even seen one."

"It is high time you did," Medan said, dapping Gerard
on the back. "A most exhilarating experience. I have
always regretted that my duties as Marshal kept me from
riding as much as I would have liked. Razor is stabled in
a secret location outside Qualinost. I will give you direc-
tions and send written orders with my seal so that the
stable master will know you come by my command. I
will also send a message to Razor. Do not worry. He will
bear you swiftly and in safety. You are not fearful of
heights, are you?"

"No, my lord," Gerard said, gulping. What else could
he say?

"Excellent. I will draw up the orders at once,"
Medan said.

Returning to the main chamber, motioning for Gerard to
accompany him, Medan sat down at Planchefs desk and
began to write.

"What of Kalindas, my lord?" Gerard asked in a low
undertone.

52

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

Medan glanced at Laurana and Gilthas, who were to-
gether on the opposite side of the room, still conferring.

"It will not hurt him to cool his heels for awhile."

Gerard stood in silence, watching the Marshal's hand
flow over the paper. Medan wrote swiftly and concisely.
The orders did not take long, not nearly long enough
as far as Gerard was concerned. He had no doubt that
he was going to die, and he would much rather die with
a sword in his hand than by toppling off the back of a
dragon, falling with sickening terror to a bone-shattering
end. Deeming himself a coward, he reminded himself of
the importance and urgency of his mission, and thus he
was able to take Medan's sealed orders with a hand that
did not shake.

"Farewell, Sir Gerard," Medan said, clasping the young
man by the hand.

"Only for a time, my lord," said Gerard. "I will not fail
you. I will return and bring aid."

"You should leave immediately. Beryl and her followers
would think twice about attacking a blue dragon, espe-
cially one belonging to the Dark Knights, but it would
be best for you to take advantage of the fact that for the
moment Beryl's dragons are not around. Planchet will
show you the way out the back, through the garden, so
that Kalindas does not catch sight of you."

"Yes, my lord."

Gerard lifted his hand in a salute, the salute a Solam-
nic Knight gives his enemy.

"Very well, my son, I agree," Laurana's voice reached
them from across the chamber. She stood near a window.
The first rays of the morning sunshine touched her hair
like the hand of the alchemist, changed the honey to gold.
"You convince me. You have your father's own way about
you, Gilthas. How proud he would have been of you. I
wish he could be here to see you."

53

DRAQONLANCE 'C1)e wan of Souls

"I wish he were here to offer his wise counsel," said
Gilthas, leaning forward to kiss his mother gently on the
cheek. "Now, if you will excuse me. Mother, I must write
down the words that I will shortly be called upon to speak.
This is so important, I do not want to make a mistake."

"Your Majesty," said Gerard, stepping forward. "If I
might have a moment of your time. I want to pay my
respects before I go."

"Are you leaving us. Sir Gerard?" Laurana asked.

"Yes, Madam," said Gerard. 'The Marshal has orders
for me. He dispatches me to Solamnia, there to plead
your cause before the Council of Knights and ask for
their aid. If I might have a letter from you. Your Majesty,
in your hand with your seal, vouching for my credentials
as your messenger and also stating the dire nature of
the situation—"

"The Solamnics have never cared for Qualinesd before,"
Gilthas interrupted, frowning. "I see no reason why they
should start now."

"They did care, once," said Laurana gently, looking
searchingly at Gerard. "There was a Knight called Sturm
Brightblade who cared very much." She held out her hand
to Gerard, who bent low to touch her soft skin with his
lips. "Go safely in the memory of that brave and gentle
knight. Sir Gerard."

The story of Sturm Brightblade had never meant two
coppers to Gerard before now. He had heard the tale of
his death at the High Clerist's Tower so many times that
it had grown stale in the telling. Indeed, he had even
expressed his doubts that the episode had truly hap-
pened. Yet now he recalled that here was the comrade
who had stood over the body of the dead Knight, the com-
rade who had wept for him even as she lifted the fabled
dragonlance to defy his killer. Receiving her blessing in
Sturm Brightblade's name, Gerard was humbled and

54

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

chastened. He bent his knee before her, accepted the
blessing with bowed head.

"I will. Madam," he said. 'Thank you."

He rose to his feet, exalted. His fears over riding the
dragon seemed paltry and ignoble now, and he was
ashamed of them.

The young king looked chastened as well and gave
Gerard his hand to shake. "Ignore my words. Sir Knight.
I spoke without thought. If the Solamnics have been care-
less of Qualinesti, then it might be truly said that the Qua-
linesti have been careless of the Solamnics. For one to
help the other would be the beginning of a new and
better relationship for both. You shall have your letter."

The king dipped his pen in ink, wrote a few para-
graphs on a sheet of fine vellum, and signed his name.
Beneath his name, he affixed his seal, pressing into soft
wax a ring he wore on his index finger. The ring left
behind the image of an aspen leaf. He waited for the wax
to harden, then folded the letter and handed it to Gerard.

"So I will convey to them. Your Majesty," said Gerard,
accepting the letter. He looked once more at Laurana, to
take with him in his mind her beautiful image for inspi-
ration. He was disquieted to see sorrow darken her eyes
as she gazed at her son, to hear her sigh softly.

Planchet told him how to find his way out of the
garden. Gerard departed, scrambling awkwardly over
the balcony, dropping heavily to the garden below. He
looked up for one final wave, one final glimpse, but
Planchet had closed the doors behind him.

Gerard recalled Laurana's look, her sadness, and he
had a sudden terrible fear that this would be the last
time he ever saw her, the last time he ever saw Quali-
nost. The fear was overwhelming, and his earlier resolve
to stay and help them fight resurfaced. But he could not
very well return now, not without looking foolish, or—

55

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctye Wan OF Souls

worse—a coward. Gripping the Marshal's orders in his
hand, Gerard departed, running through the garden
that was starting to come alive with the warm rays of
the sun.

The sooner he reached the council, the sooner he
would be back.

56

4
'Ctye 'CnaltOR




he room was quiet. Gilthas sat at his desk, writ-
ing his speech, the pen moving swiftly across the
page. He had spent the night thinking of what
to say. The words came rapidly, so that the ink seemed to
flow from the heart and not his pen. Planchet was laying
out a light breakfast of fruit, bread, and honey, although
it seemed unlikely anyone would have much appetite.
Marshal Medan stood at the window, watched Gerard
depart through the garden. The Marshal saw the young
Knight pause, perhaps he even guessed what Gerard was
thinking. When Gerard turned and left, Medan smiled to
himself and nodded.

"That was good of you. Marshal Medan," said Lau-
rana, coming to stand at his side. She kept her voice low
so as not to interrupt Gilthas in his work. "To send the
young man safely away. For you do not truly believe
the Solamnic Knights will come to our aid, do you?"

"No, I do not," said the Marshal, equally quiet. "Not
because they will not, but because they cannot." He looked

57

DRAQONLANCE tlie WBR OF Souls

out the window, across the garden to the distant hills to
the north. "They have their own problems. Beryl's attack
means that the so-called Pact of the Dragons is broken.
Oh, I am certain that Lord Targonne is doing his best to
try to placate Malys and the others, but his efforts will be
for naught. Many believe that Khellendros the Blue plays
a game of cat and mouse. He pretends to be oblivious to
all that is going on around him, but that is only to lull
Malys and the others into complacency. In fact, it is my
belief that he has long had his eye on Solanthus. He held
off attacking only for fear that Beryl would consider such
an attack a threat to her own territory to the south. But
now he will feel that he can seize Solanthus with impunity.
And so it will go from there. We may be the first, but we
will not be the last.

"As to Gerard," Medan continued, "I returned to the
Solamnic Knighthood a good soldier. I hope his com-
manders have sense enough to realize that."

He paused a moment, watching Gilthas. When the
king had reached the end of a sentence, Medan spoke. "I
am sorry to interrupt Your Majesty's work, but a matter
has arisen that must be dealt with swiftly. A matter of
some unpleasantness, I fear."

Medan shifted his gaze to Laurana. "Gerard reported
to me that your servant, Kalindas, waits downstairs. It
seems that he heard you were in the palace and was wor-
ried for you."

Medan watched Laurana carefully as he spoke. He
saw her color wane, saw her troubled gaze flash across
the room to Kelevandros, who was still sleeping.

She knows, Medan said to himself. If she does not
know which of them is the traitor, yet she knows that
one of them is. Good. That will make this easier.

"I will send Kelevandros to fetch him," Laurana said
through pallid lips.

58

DnaqoNS of a Lost Slan

"I do not believe that would be wise," Medan replied.
"I suggest that you ask Planchet to take Kalindas to my
headquarters. My second-in-command, Dumat, will look
after him. Kalindas will not be harmed, I assure you,
Madam, but he must be kept safe, where he cannot com-
municate with anyone."

Laurana looked at the Marshal with sorrow. "My lord,
I don't think... Is this necessary?"

"It is. Madam," he said firmly.

"I don't understand," Gilthas said, his voice tinged
with anger. He rose to his feet. "My mother's servant is to
be thrown in prison! Why? What is his crime?"

Medan was about to answer, but Laurana forestalled him.

"Kalindas is a spy, my son."

"A spy?" Gilthas was astonished. "For whom?"

"The Dark Knights," Laurana replied. "He reports
directly to Marshal Medan, unless I am much mistaken."

Gilthas cast the Marshal a look of unutterable disgust.

"I make no apology. Your Majesty," Medan said calmly.
"Nor, do I expect you to make any apology for the spies
you have planted in my household."

Gilthas flushed. "A dirty business," he muttered.

"Indeed, Your Majesty. This makes an end of it. I, for
one, will be glad to wash my hands. Planchet, you will
find Kalindas waiting downstairs. Remove him to—"

"No, Planchet," said Gilthas peremptorily. "Bring him
here to me. Kalindas has the right to answer his accuser."

"Do not do this. Your Majesty," Medan said earnestly.
"Once Kalindas sees me here with you, he will know he
has been unmasked. He is a dangerous man, cornered
and desperate. He has no care for anyone. He will stop at
nothing. I cannot guarantee Your Majesty's safety."

"Nevertheless," said Gilthas steadily, "elven law pro-
vides that Kalindas have the chance to defend himself
against these charges. For too long, we have lived under

59

DRAOONLANCE 'Cfte WBR of Souls

your law. Marshal Medan. The law of the tyrant is no law
at all. If I am to be king, then I make this my first act."

"Madam?" Medan turned to Laurana.

"His Majesty is right," said Laurana. "You have made
your accusations, and we have listened. Kalindas must
have his turn to tell his story."

"You will not find it a pretty one. Very well," Medan
said, shrugging. "But we must be prepared. If I might
suggest a plan of action ..."

"Kelevandros," Laurana said, shaking the slumbering
elf by the shoulder. "Your brother waits downstairs."

"Kalindas is here?" Kelevandros jumped to his feet.

"The guards refuse to allow him to enter," Laurana
continued. "Go down and tell the guards they have my
permission to bring him here."

"Yes, Madam."

Kelevandros hastened out the door. Laurana looked
back at Medan. Her face was very pale, but she was
calm, composed.

"Was that satisfactory?"

"Perfect, Madam," said Medan. "He was not the least
suspicious. Take your seat at the table. Your Majesty, you
should return to your work."

Laurana sighed deeply and sat down at the dining
table. Planchet selected the very best fruit for her repast
and poured her a glass of wine.

Marshal Medan had never admired Laurana's courage
more than now, as he watched her take bites of fruit,
chew and swallow, though the food must have tasted like
ashes in her mouth. Opening one of the doors that led to
the balcony, Medan moved outside/leaving the door ajar,
so that he could hear and see what took place in the room
without being seen himself.

Kalindas entered at his brother's heels.

60

DnaQONS of a Lost Stan

"Madam, I have been frantic with concern for your
safety. When that loathsome Marshal took you away, I
feared he meant your death!"

"Did you, Kalindas?" Laurana said gently. "I am sorry
to have caused you so much concern. As you see, I am
safe here. Safe for the time being, at least. We have reports
that Beryl's armies are marching on Qualinesti."

"Indeed, Madam, I heard that terrible rumor," said
Kalindas, advancing until he stood close to the table at
which she sat. "You are not safe here. Madam. You must
take flight immediately."

"Yes, Madam," said Kelevandros. "My brother has
told me that you are in danger. You and the king."

Gilthas had completed his writing. The parchment in
his hand, the king rose from his desk, preparing to leave.

"Planchet," he said, "bring me my cloak."

"You are right to act swiftly. Your Majesty," said Kalin-
das, mistaking Gilthas's intent. "Madam, I will take the
liberty of fetching your cloak, as well—"

"No, Kalindas," said Gilthas. "That is not what I meant."

Planchet returned with the king's cloak. Holding the
garment over his right hand and arm, he moved to stand
next to Gilthas.

"I have no intention of fleeing," Gilthas was saying. "I
go now to make a speech to the people. We begin imme-
diately to evacuate the population of Qualinost and make
plans for the defense of the dty."

Kalindas bowed to the king. "I understand. Your
Majesty will make his speech, and then I will take you
and your honored mother to a place of safety. I have
friends waiting."

"I'll wager you do, Kalindas," said Marshal Medan,
stepping through the door. "Friends of Beryl's waiting
to assassinate both His Majesty and the Queen Mother.
Where would these friends of yours happen to be?"

61

DRAQONLANCE V)e Wan of Souls

Kalindas's eyes darted warily from the Marshal to
Gilthas and back to the Marshal. The elf licked dry lips.
His gaze slid to Laurana. "I don't know what has been
said about me. Madam—"

Gilthas intervened. "I will tell you what has been said,
Kalindas. The Marshal has made the accusation that you
are a spy in his employ. We have evidence that appears to
indicate that this is true. By elven law, you are granted the
right to speak in your defense."

"You don't believe him, do you. Madam?" Kelevan-
dros cried. Shocked and outraged, he came to stand stolidly
beside his brother. "Whatever this human has told you
about Kalindas is a lie! The Marshal is a Dark Knight,
and he is human!"

"Indeed, I am both those," said Medan. "I am also the
one who paid your brother to spy upon the Queen Mother.
I'll wager that if you search his person, you will find on
him a stash of steel coins with the head of Lord Targonne
stamped upon them."

"I knew someone in my household had betrayed me,"
Laurana said. Her voice ached with sorrow. "I received a
letter from Palin Majere, warning me. That was how the
dragon knew to wait for him and for Tasslehoff. The only
person who could have warned the dragon was someone
in my house. No one else knew."

"You are mistaken. Madam," Kelevandros insisted
desperately. 'The Dark Knights were spying on us. That
is how they came to know. Kalindas would never betray
you. Madam. Never! He loves you too well."

"Does he?" Medan asked quietly. "Look at his face."

Kalindas was livid, his skin whiter than the fine linen
of the bed sheets. His lips curled back from his teeth in a
sneer. His blue eyes were pale and glittering.

"Yes, I have a bag of steel coins," he said, spittle fleck-
ing his lips. "Coins paid to me by this human pig who

62

Dna<,ONS of a Lost StaR

thinks that by betraying me he may win the chance to
crawl into your bed. Perhaps he already has. You are
known to enjoy rutting with humans. Love you. Madam?
This is how much I love you!"

Kalindas's hand darted inside his tunic. The blade of a
dagger flashed in the sunlight.

Gilthas cried out. Medan drew his sword, but he had
placed himself to guard the king. Medan was too far
across the room to save Laurana.

She snatched up a wine glass and flung the contents
into Kalindas's face. Half-blinded by the wine stinging
his eyes, he stabbed wildly. The blow aimed for Laurana's
heart struck her shoulder.

Cursing, Kalindas lifted the knife to strike again.

He gave a terrible cry. The knife fell from his hand. The
blade of a sword protruded from his stomach. Blood
soaked his shirt front.

Kelevandros, tears streaming down his cheeks,
jerked his sword out of his brother's body. Dropping
the weapon, Kelevandros caught hold of Kalindas,
lowered him to the ground, cradled his dying brother
in his arms.

"Forgive me, Kalindas!" Kelevandros said softly. He
looked up, pleading. "Forgive him. Queen Mother—"

"Forgive!" Kalindas's lips, flecked with blood, twisted.
"No!" He choked. His last words were squeezed out. "I
curse them! I curse them both!"

He stiffened in his brother's arms. His face contorted.
He tried again to speak, but blood gushed from his mouth,
and with it went his life. Even in death, his eyes continued
to stare at Laurana. The eyes were dark, and when the light
of life faded in them, the shadows were lit with the cold
glitter of his hate.

"Mother!" Gilthas sprang to her side. "Mother, you are
hurt! Come, lie down."

63

DRAQONLANCE 'Clie Ware of Souls

"I am all right," Laurana said, though her voice shook.
"Don't fuss...."

"That was quick thinking on your part. Madam.
Throwing the wine at him. He caught the rest of us flat-
footed. Let me see." Medan peeled back the fabric of the
sleeve that was soaked with blood. His touch was as
gentle as he could make it. 'The wound does not appear
to be serious," he reported, after a cursory examination.
"The dagger glanced off the bone. You will have a scar
there, I am afraid. Madam, but the wound is clean and
should heal well."

"It would not be the first scar I've borne," Laurana
said with a wan smile. She clasped her hands together,
to try to stop the trembling. Her gaze went involuntarily
to the corpse.

"Throw something over that!" Medan commanded
harshly. "Cover it up."

Planchet grabbed hold of the cloak he had been hold-
ing, spread it over Kalindas. Kelevandros knelt beside
his brother, one hand holding the dead hand, the other
holding the sword that had slain him.

"Planchet, summon a healer—" Gilthas began.

"No," Laurana countermanded his order. "No one
must know of this. You heard the Marshal. The wound is
not serious. It has already stopped bleeding."

"Your Majesty," said Planchet. "The meeting of the
Thalas-Enthia ... it is past time."

As if to emphasize this statement, a voice came from
below, querulous and demanding. "I tell you I will wait
no longer! A servant is permitted to see His Majesty, and
I am kept waiting? You do not intimidate me. You dare not
lay a hand on me, a member of the Thalas-Enthia. I will
see His Majesty, do you hear? I will not be kept out!"

"Palthainon," said Medan. "After the last act of the
tragedy, they send in the clowns." The Marshal started

64

DnaqoNs of a Lost Stan

toward the door. "I will stall him as long as possible. Get
this mess cleaned up!"

Laurana rose hurriedly to her feet. "He should not see
me wounded like this. He must not know anything is
wrong. I will wait in my own chambers, my son."

Gilthas was obviously reluctant to leave, but he knew
as well as she did the importance of his talk before the
Senate. "I will go to the Thalas-Enthia," he said. "First,
Mother, I have a question to ask Kelevandros, and I want
you to be here to hear it. Kelevandros, did you know of
your brother's foul scheming? Were you part of it?"

Kelevandros was deathly pale and covered with his
brother's blood, yet he faced the king with dignity. "I knew
he was ambitious, yet I never thought... I never ..." He
paused, swallowed, and said quietly, "No, Your Majesty.
I did not."

'Then I grieve for you, Kelevandros," said Gilthas, his
harsh tone softening. "For what you had to do."

"I loved him," said Kelevandros in a low voice. "He
was all the family I had left. Yet I could not let him harm
our mistress."

Blood was starting to seep through the cloak. Kelevan-
dros knelt over his brother's body, wrapped the cloak
around it more tightly.

"With your permission. Your Majesty," he said with
quiet dignity, "I will take my brother away."

Planchet made as if to help, but Kelevandros refused
his assistance.

"No, he is my brother. My responsibility."

Kelevandros lifted Kalindas's body in his arms and,
after a brief struggle, managed to stand upright. "Madam,"
he said, not raising his eyes to meet hers, "your home
was the only home we ever knew, but I fear it would
be unseemly—"

"I understand, Kelevandros," she said. 'Take him there."

65

DRAQONLANCE 'CUc Wan of Souls

"Thank you. Madam."

"Planchet," Gilthas said, "go with Kelevandros. Give
him what help he needs. Explain matters to the guard."

Planchet hesitated. "Your Honored Mother is wise. We
should keep this secret. Your Majesty. If the people were
to discover that his brother had made an attempt on the
Queen Mother's life, I fear they might do Kelevandros
some harm. And if they heard that Marshal Medan had
been using elves to spy ..."

"You are right, Planchet," Gilthas said. "See to it. Kele-
vandros, you should use the servant's—"

Realizing what he had been about to say, he stopped
the words.

"The servant's entrance around back," said Kelevan-
dros finished. "Yes, Your Majesty. I understand."

Turning, he bore his heavy burden out the door.

Laurana looked after them. "The curses of the dead
always come true, they say."

"Who says?" Gilthas demanded. 'Toothless old grannies?
Kalindas had no high and noble goals. He did what he
did out of greed alone. He cared only for the money."

Laurana shook her head. Her hair was gummed
with her own blood, stuck to the wound. Gilthas started
to add comforting words, but they were interrupted by
a commotion outside the door. Marshal Medan could
be heard tromping heavily up the stairs. He had raised
his voice, to let them know he was coming and that he
had company.

Laurana kissed her son with lips that were as pale as
her cheeks. "You must leave now. My blessings go with
you—and those of your father."

She left hurriedly, hastening down the hall.

"Planchet, the blood—-" Gilthas began, but Planchet
had already whisked a small ornamental table over the
stain and planted himself in front of it.

66

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stare

Senator Palthainon entered the room with fuss and
bustle. Fire smoldered in his eyes, and he began talking
the instant his foot crossed the threshold.

"Your Majesty, I was told that you convened the Thalas-
Enthia without first asking my approval—"

The senator halted in midword, the speech he had
been rehearsing all the way up the stairs driven clean
from his head. He had expected to find his puppet lying
limp on the floor, tangled in his own strings. Instead, the
puppet was walking out the door.

"I convened the Senate because I am king," said
Gilthas, brushing past the senator. "I did not consult you,
Senator, for the same reason. I am king."

Palthainon stared, began to burble and sputter. "What—
What— Your Majesty! Where are you going? We must
discuss this."

Gilthas paid no attention. He continued out the door,
slammed it shut behind him. The speech he had written
so carefully lay on the desk. After all, he would speak the
words from his heart.

Palthainon stared after him, confounded. Needing
someone to blame, he rounded on Marshal Medan. "This
is your doing. Marshal. You put the fool boy up to this.
What are you plotting, Medan? What is going on?"

The Marshal was amused. "This is none of my doing,
Senator. Gilthas is king, as he says, and he has been king
for many years. Longer than you realize apparently. As
for what is going on"—Medan shrugged—"I suggest you
ask His Majesty. He may deign to tell you."

"Ask His Majesty, indeed!" returned the senator with
a blustering sneer. "I do not ask His Majesty anything. I
tell His Majesty what to think and what to say, just as
I always have. You are blathering. Marshal. I do not
understand you."

"No, but you will," Medan advised the senator's

67

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl7e Wan Of Souls

retreating back, as the elf picked up what shreds of dig-
nity remained him and swept out of the chamber.

"Planchet," said Medan, after king and senator were
gone and the palace was again quiet. "Bring water and
bandages. I will attend to the Queen Mother. You should
pull up the carpet. Take it out and burn it."

Armed with a wash basin and a roll of linen, Medan
knocked at the door to Laurana's chambers. She bade
him enter. He frowned to see her on her feet, looking out
the window.

"You should lie down. Madam. Take this time to rest."

She turned to face him. "Palthainon will cause trouble
in the Senate. You may be assured of that."

"Your son will skewer him. Madam," said the Mar-
shal. "With words, not steel. He will let so much air out
of that windbag I would not be surprised to see him come
whizzing past the window. There," he added, "I made
you smile."

Laurana did smile, but the next moment she swayed
on her feet and reached to steady herself on the arm of a
chair. Medan was at her side, helping her to sit down.

"Madam, you have lost a vast quantity of blood, and
the wound continues to bleed. If I would not offend ..."
He paused, embarrassed. Coughing, he continued. "I could
clean and dress the wound for you."

"We are both old soldiers. Marshal," said Laurana,
sliding her arm out of the sleeve of her dressing gown. "I
have lived and fought with men under circumstances
where I could not afford to indulge in modesty. It is most
kind of you to offer."

The Marshal reached to touch the warm skin and saw
his hand—coarse, large, thick-fingered, and clumsy—in
sharp contrast to the slender white shoulder of the elven
woman, her own skin as smooth as the silken coverlet, the

68

DRa<»ONS of a Lost Stan

blood crimson and warm from the jagged cut. He snatched
his hand back, the fingers clenched.

"\ fear I hurt you. Madam/' he said, feeling her flinch
at his touch. "\ am sorry. I am rough and clumsy. I know
no other way."

Laurana clasped her hair with her hand, drew it over
her shoulder, so that it was out of his way. "Marshal
Medan, my son explained his plan for the defense of
Qualinost to you. Do you think it will work?"

"The plan is a good one. Madam," said the Marshal,
wrapping the bandage around her shoulder. "If the
dwarves agree to it and do their part, it even has a chance
of succeeding. I do not trust dwarves, however, as I
warned His Majesty."

"A great many lives will be lost," said Laurana sadly.

"Yes, Madam. Those who remain to fight the rear-
guard action may not be able to escape in time. The
battle will be a glorious one," he added, tying off the
bandage with a knot. "Like the old days. I, for one, would
not miss it."

"You would give your life for us. Marshal?" Laurana
asked, turning to look him full in the face. "You, a human
and our enemy, will die defending elves?"

He pretended to be preoccupied with the wound, in
order not to meet her penetrating gaze. He did not
answer the question immediately but thought about it for
a long time.

"I do not regret my past. Madam," he said at last. "I
do not regret past decisions. I was bom of common stock,
a serf's son. I would have been a serf myself, illiterate,
unschooled, but then Lord Ariakan found me. He gave
me knowledge, he gave me training. Most important, he
gave me faith in a power greater than myself. Perhaps
you cannot understand this. Madam, but I worshipped
Her Dark Majesty with all my soul. The Vision she gave

69

DRAQONLANCE V^e wan of Souls

me comes to me still in my dreams, although I cannot
understand why, since she is gone."

"I understand. Marshal," said Laurana softly. "I stood
in the presence of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness. I still feel
the awe and reverence I experienced then. Although I
knew her power to be evil, it was awful to behold. Per-
haps that was because when I dared try to look into her
eyes, I saw myself. I saw her darkness inside me."

"You, Madam?" Medan shook his head.

"I was the Golden General, Marshal," Laurana said
earnestly. "A fine title. People cheered me in the streets.
Children gave me bouquets of flowers. Yet I ordered those
same people into battle. I orphaned many of those chil-
dren. Because of me thousands died, when they might
have lived to lead happy and productive lives. Their
blood is on my hands."

"Do not regret your actions. Madam. To do so is self-
ish. Your regret robs the dead of the honor that is theirs.
You fought for a cause you knew to be just and right.
They followed you into battle—into death, if you will—
because they saw that cause shining in you. That is why
you were called the Golden General," he added. "Not for
your hair."

"Still," she said, "I would like to give something back
to them."

She fell silent, absorbed in her own thoughts. He
started to leave, thinking that she would like to rest, but
she detained him.

"We were speaking of you. Marshal," she said, resting
her hand light upon his arm. "Why you are prepared to
give your life for elves."

Looking into her eyes, he could have said he was pre-
pared to lay down his life for one elf, but he did not. His
love would not be welcome to her, whereas his friendship
was. Counting himself blessed, he did not seek for more.

70

OnaqoNS of a Lost StaR

"I fight for my homeland. Madam," he replied simply.

"One's homeland is where one is bom. Marshal."

"Precisely, Madam. My homeland is here."

His response gave her pleasure. Her blue eyes were
soft with sympathy, glimmered with sudden tears. She
was warmth and sweetness and perfume, and she was
low in her spirits, shaken and hurt. He rose to his feet
quickly, so quickly that he clumsily overturned the bowl
of water he had used to wash the wound.

"I am sorry. Madam." He bent to wipe up the spill,
glad to have the chance to hide his face. He rose again,
did not look at her. "The bandage is not too tight, is it,
Madam?" he asked gruffly.

"No, not too tight," said Laurana.

"Good. Then if you will excuse me. Madam, I must
return to headquarters, to see if there have been any fur-
ther reports of the army's progress."

With a bow, he turned on his heel and departed in
haste, leaving her to her thoughts.

Laurana drew the sleeve of her gown over her shoul-
der. She flexed her fingers, rubbed her fingers over old
calluses on her palm.

"I will give something back," she said.

71

5

DRBQON FBQlyt




he stables of the Dark Knights were located a
considerable distance from Qualinesti. Not sur-
prising, Gerard considered, since the stables
housed a blue dragon. He had never been there, never
had occasion to go, and had only a vague idea where the
stables were. Medan's directions were easy to follow,
however, and guided Gerard unerringly.

Mindful of the necessity for haste, he advanced at a
jogging run. Gerard was soon winded, however. His
wounds from his battle with the draconian throbbed.
He'd had very little sleep, and he was weighted down
with his armor. The thought that at the end of all this
toil he would confront a blue dragon did not bring ease
to his sore muscles or lighten the weight of his armor.
Just the reverse.

He smelled the stables before he could see them. They
were surrounded by a stockade with guards at the
entrance. Alert and wary, they hailed him the moment
they heard his footsteps. He replied with the proper code

72

DnaQONS of a Lost Stare

word and handed over Medan's orders. The guards
peered at these intently, looked closely at Gerard, whom
they did not recognize. There was no mistaking Medan's
seal, however, and they let him pass.

The stables housed horses, griffons, and dragons,
although not in the same location. Low, sprawling
wooden buildings housed the horses. The griffons had
their nests atop a cliff. Griffons prefer the heights, and
they had to be kept far from the horses so that the horses
were not made nervous by the smell of the beasts. The
blue dragon, Gerard learned, was stabled in a cave
beneath the cliff.

One of the stable hands offered to take Gerard to the
dragon, and, his heart sinking so low that he seemed to
walk on it with every reluctant step, Gerard agreed. They
were forced to wait, however, due to the arrival of another
blue dragon bearing a rider. The blue landed in a clearing
near the horse stables, sending the horses into a panic.
Gerard's guide left him, ran to calm the horses. Other
stable hands shouted imprecations at the dragonrider,
telling him he'd landed in the wrong spot and shaking
their fists at him.

The dragonrider ignored them. Sliding from his saddle,
he brushed away their jeers.

"I am from Lord Targonne," he said brusquely. "I have
urgent orders for Marshal Medan. Fetch down one of the
griffons to take me to headquarters and then see to my
dragon. I want him properly housed and fed for the
return flight. I leave tomorrow."

At the mention of the name Targonne, the stable hands
shut their mouths and scattered to obey the Knight's
commands. Several led the blue dragon to the caves
beneath the mountains, while others began the long
process of trying to whistle down one of the griffons. The
proceeding took some time, for griffons are notoriously

73

DRAQONLANCE We wan of Souls

ill-tempered and will pretend to be deaf to a command
in the hope that their master will eventually give up
and go away.

Gerard was interested to hear what news the Dark
Knight was taking with such speed to Medan. Seeing
the Knight wipe his mouth, Gerard removed the flask
from his belt.

"You appear to thirst, sir," he said, holding out the Bask.

"I don't suppose you have any brandy in there?" asked
the Knight, eyeing the flask eagerly.

"Water, I'm sorry to say," said Gerard.

The Knight shrugged, seized the flask and drank. His
thirst slaked, he handed the flask back to Gerard. "I'll
drink the Marshal's brandy when I meet with him." He
eyed Gerard curiously. "Are you coming or going?"

"Going," said Gerard. "A mission for Marshal Medan.
I heard you say you've come from Lord Targonne. How
has his lordship reacted to the news that Beryl is attack-
ing Qualinesti?"

The Knight shrugged, looked around with disdain.
"Marshal Medan is the ruler of a backwater province.
Hardly surprising that he was caught off-guard by
the dragon's actions. I assure you, sir. Lord Targonne
was not."

Gerard sighed deeply. "You have no idea how hard
this duty is. Stuck here among these filthy elves who
think that just because they live for centuries that makes
them better than us. Can't get a mug of good ale to save
your soul. As to the women, they're all so blasted snooty
and proud.

"I'll tell you the truth, though." Gerard edged closer,
lowered his voice. "They really want us, you know. Elf
women like us human men. They just pretend they don't.
They lead a fellow on and then scream when he tries to
take whafs been offered."

74

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

"I hear the Marshal sides with the vermin." The
Knight's lip curled.

Gerard snorted. "The Marshal—he's more elf than
human, if you ask me. Won't let us have any fun. My
guess is thafs about to change."

The Knight gave Gerard a knowing look. "Let's just
say that wherever you're going, you'd best hurry back, or
you're going to miss out."

Gerard regarded the Knight with admiration and envy.
"I'd give anything to be posted at headquarters. Must be
really exciting, being around his lordship. I'll bet you
know everything thafs happening in the whole world."

"I know my share," the Knight stated, rocking back
on his heels and regarding the very stars in the sky with
proprietory interest. "Actually I'm considering moving
here. There'll be land for the asking soon. Elf land and
fancy elf houses. And elf women, if that's what you like."
He gave Gerard a disparaging glance. "Personally I
wouldn't want to touch one of the cold, clammy hags.
Turns my stomach to think of it. You had best have your
fun with one of them fast, though, or she might not be
around for the taking."

Gerard was able now to guess the import of Tar-
gonne's orders to Medan. He saw quite clearly the plan
the Lord of the Night had in mind, and he was sick-
ened by it. Seize elven property and elven homes,
murder the owners, and hand the wealth out as gifts to
loyal members of the Knighthood. Gerard's hand tight-
ened around his sword. He would have liked to turn
this Knight's proud stomach—turn it inside out. He
would have to forego the pleasure. Leave that to Mar-
shal Medan.

The Knight slapped his gloves against his thigh and
glanced over at the stable hands, who were yelling at the
griffons, who were continuing to ignore them.

75

DRAQONLANCE •Cl^e Ware of Souls

"Louts!" he said impatiently. "I suppose I must do this
myself. Well, a good journey to you, sir."

"And to you, sir," said Gerard. He watched the Knight
stalk off to bully the stable hands, striking them with his
fist when they did not give him the answers he thought he
deserved. The stable hands slunk away, leaving the Knight
to yell for the griffons himself.

"Bastard," said one of the men, nursing a bruised cheek.
"Now we'll be up all night tending to his blasted dragon."

"I wouldn't work too hard at it," said Gerard. "I think
the Knighfs errand will take longer than he anticipates.
Far longer."

The stable hand cast Gerard a sulky glance and, rub-
bing his cheek, led Gerard to the cave of the Marshal's
blue dragon.

Gerard prepared nervously to meet the blue by
recalling every bit of information he'd ever heard about
dragons. Of primary importance would be controlling
the dragonfear, which he had heard could be extremely
debilitating. He took a firm grip on his courage and
hoped he would do nothing to disgrace himself.

The stable hands brought the dragon forth from his
lair. Razor was a magnificent sight. The sunlight gleamed
on his blue scales. His head was elegantly shaped, eyes
keen, nostrils flared. He moved with sinuous grace.
Gerard had never been this dose to a dragon, any dragon.
The dragonfear touched Gerard, but the dragon was not
exerting his power to panic the human, and Gerard felt
the fear as awe and wonder.

The dragon, aware that he was being admired, shook
his crest and flexed his wings, lashed his tail about.

An elderly man left the dragon's side, walked over to
Gerard. The old man was short and bowlegged and scrawny.
Squinty eyes were almost lost in a web of wrinkles, and he
peered at Gerard with intense curiosity and suspidon.

76

DnaooNS of a Lost Stan

"I am Razor's trainer, sir/' said the old man. "I've
never known the Marshal to allow another person on his
dragon's back. Whafs going on?"

Gerard handed over Medan's orders. The old man
stared at them with equal intensity, held the seal dose to
his nose to see it with what was probably his single good
eye. Gerard thought for a moment that the old man was
going to keep him from leaving, and he didn't know
whether to be glad or disappointed.

"Well, there's a first time for everything," the old man
muttered and handed back the orders. He looked at
Gerard's armor, raised an eyebrow. "You're not thinking
of taking to the air in that, are you, sir?"

"I... I suppose ..." Gerard stammered.

The old man was scandalized. "You'd freeze your pri-
vates off!" He shook his head. "Now if you was going
into battle on dragonback, yes, you'd want all that there
metal, but you're not. You're flying far and you're flying
fast. I have some old leathers of the Marshal's that'll fit
you. Might be a trifle big, but they'll do. Is there any
special way you would like us to place the saddle, sir?
The Marshal prefers it set just back of the shoulder
blades, but I've known other riders who want it between
the wings. They claim the flight is smoother."

"I... I don't really know. . .." Gerard looked at the
dragon, and the knowledge struck home that he was
really going to have go through with this.

"By Our Queen," stated the old man, amazed. "You've
never sat a dragon afore, have you?"

Gerard confessed, red-faced, that he had not. "I hope it
is not difficult," he added, remembering vividly learning
to ride a horse. If he fell off the dragon as many times as
he fell off the horse...

"Razor is a veteran. Sir Knight," stated the old man
proudly. "He is a thorough soldier. Disciplined, obeys

77

DRAQONLANCE T^tTC Wan of Souls

orders. Not temperamental like some of these blues can
be. He and the general fought together as a team during
the Chaos War and after. But when those freakish, bloated
dragons came and began killing their own kind, the
Marshal kept Razor hidden away. Razor wasn't happy
about that, mind you. The rows they had."

The old man shook his head. He squinted up at Gerard.
"\ think I'm beginning to understand after all." He
nodded his wizened head. "I've heard the rumors that
the Green Bitch was heading this way."

He leaned close to Gerard, spoke in a loud whisper.
"Don't let on to Razor, though, sir. If he thought he'd
have a chance at that green beast what killed his mate,
he'd stay and fight. Marshal or no Marshal. You just
take him safe away from here. Sir Knight. Good luck to
the both of you."

Gerard opened his mouth to say that he and Razor
would be returning to fight just as soon as he had deliv-
ered his message, but he shut it again, fearing to say too
much. Let the old man think what he wanted.

"Will. . . Razor mind that I am not Marshal Medan?"
Gerard asked hesitantly. "I wouldn't want to upset the
dragon. He might refuse to carry me."

"Razor is dedicated to the Marshal, sir, but once he
understands that Medan has sent you, he will serve you
well. This way, sir. I'll introduce you."

Razor listened attentively as a nearly tongue-tied
Gerard haltingly explained his mission and exhibited
Medan's orders.

"Where is our destination?" Razor demanded.

"I am not permitted to reveal that, yet," Gerard said
apologetically. "\ am to tell you once we are airborne. The
fewer who know, the better."

The dragon gave a shake of his head to indicate his
readiness to obey. He was not the talkative sort, apparently,

78

DRBQONS of a Lost Staii

and after that single question, he lapsed into disci-
plined silence.

Saddling the dragon took some time, not because Razor
in any way hindered the operation, but the act of posi-
tioning the saddle and the harness with its innumerable
buckles and straps was a complex and time-consuming
procedure. Gerard put on the "leathers," consisting of a
padded leather tunic with long sleeves that he pulled on
over a pair of thick leather breeches. Leather gloves pro-
tected the hands. A leather cap that resembled an execu-
tioner's hood fit over his head, protected both head and
neck. The leather tunic was overlarge, the leather pants
were stiff, the leather helm stifling. Gerard found it almost
impossible to see out of the eye-slits and wondered why
they even bothered. The insignia of the Dark Knights—
the death lily and the skull—had been incorporated into
the stitching of the padding.

Other than that and his sword, nothing else marked
Gerard as a Dark Knight. He placed the predous letter
safely in a leather pack, tied the pack tightly to the
dragon's saddle.

The sun was high in the sky by the time both dragon
and rider were ready to leave. Gerard mounted the
dragon awkwardly, requiring assistance from the stable
hands and the dragon, who bore his incompetence
with exemplary patience. Red-faced and embarrassed,
Gerard had barely grasped the reins in his hand when
Razor gave a galvanized leap straight into the air, pow-
ering himself upward with the strong muscles of his
hind legs.

The jolt drove Gerard's stomach down somewhere
around his boots, and he held on so tightly his fingers lost
all feeling and went numb. But when the dragon spread
his wings and soared into the morning, Gerard's spirit
soared with him.

79

DRA(,ONLANCE X:I}€ Wan of Souls

He had never before understood why anyone would
want to be a part of a dragon-wing. He understood then.
The experience of flight was exhilarating as well as terri-
fying. Memories came to him of childish dreams of
flying like the eagles. He had even attempted to do so
himself by jumping off the barn roof with arms extended,
only to crash into a hayrick, nearly breaking his neck. A
thrill of excitement warmed his blood and diluted the
fear in his belly.

Watching the ground fall away beneath him, he mar-
veled at the strange feeling that it was the world that was
leaving him, not the other way around. He was entranced
by the silence, a silence that was whole and complete, not
what is termed silence by the land-bound. That silence is
made up of various small sounds that are so constant we
no longer hear them: the chirping of birds, the rustling of
the wind in the leaves, the sound of distant voices, the
murmur of brook and stream.

Gerard could hear nothing except the creak of the ten-
dons of the dragon's wings, and when the dragon floated
on the thermals, he could not hear even that. The silence
filled him with a sensation of peace, euphoria. He was no
longer a part of the world. He floated above its cares, its
woes, its problems. He felt weightless, as if he had shed
his bulky flesh and bone. The thought of going back down,
of gaining back the weight, of resuming the burden, was
suddenly abhorrent. He could have flown forever, flown
to the place the sun went when it set, flown to places
where the moon hid.

The dragon cleared the treetops.

"What direction?" Razor shouted, his voice booming,
shaking Gerard out of his reverie.

"North," Gerard shouted. The wind rushing past his
head whipped the words from his mouth. The dragon
turned his head to hear better. "Solanthus."

80

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

Razor's eye regarded him askance, and Gerard was
afraid the dragon might refuse. Solanthus was in nominally
free territory. The Solamnic Knights had transformed
Solanthus into a heavily fortified dty, probably the most
heavily fortified in all of Ansalon. Razor might very well
wonder why he was being ordered to fly into an enemy
stronghold, and if he didn't like the answer he might
dedde to dump Gerard from the saddle.

Gerard was ready with an explanation, but the dragon
explained the situation to himself.

"Ah, a reconnaissance mission," he said and adjusted
his course.

Razor maintained silence during the flight. This suited
Gerard, who was preoccupied with his own thoughts,
dark thoughts that cast a shadow over the beautiful
panorama of the landscape sliding away far beneath him.
He had spoken hopefully, positively of being able to per-
suade the Solamnic Knights to come to Qualinesti's aid,
but now that he was on his way, he began to doubt that
he would be able to persuade them.

"Sir," said Razor, "look below."

Gerard looked, and his heart seemed to plummet to
the ground.

"Drop down," he ordered the dragon. He didn't know
if he could be heard, and he accompanied his words with
a gesture of his gloved hand. "I want a better view."

The dragon swooped out of the clouds, circled slowly
in a descending spiral.

"That's close enough," said Gerard, indicating with a
gesture that the dragon was to remain stationary.

Gerard bent over the saddle, grasping it with his gloved
hands, and looked out over the dragon's left wing.

A vast army swarmed across the land, its numbers so
large that it stretched like a great black snake for as far as
he could see. A ribbon of blue that wound through the

81

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfte Wan of Souls

green forests was surely the White-rage River that formed
the border of Qualinesti. The head of the black snake had
already crawled over the border, was well inland.

Gerard leaned forward. "Would it be possible for you
to increase your speed?" he shouted and illustrated his
question with a jabbing finger, pointing north.

Razor grunted. "I can Hy faster," he shouted, "but you
will not find it comfortable."

Gerard looked down, estimating numbers, counting
companies, supply wagons, gaining all the information
he could. He gritted his teeth, bent in the saddle and gave
the nod to proceed.

The dragon's enormous wings began to beat. Razor
lifted his head to the clouds, soared up to reach them.

The sudden acceleration pressed Gerard into the
saddle. He blessed the designer of the leather helm,
understood the need for the eye-slits. Even then, the
rushing wind half-blinded him, brought tears to his eyes.
The motion of the dragon's wings caused the saddle to
rock back and forth. Gerard's stomach heaved. Grimly
he hung on and prayed that somewhere there were gods
to pray to.

82

6

'Ctye Manci} ON SilvaNOSt

o one quite knew how word came to spread
throughout the capital city of Silvanost that the
hands of the human girl named Mina were the
hands of a healer. The elves might have heard news of her
from the outside world, except that they had been long
cut off from the outside world, covered by the shield that
had been presumably protecting them but had been, in
reality, slowly killing them. No elf could say where he
had first heard this rumor, but he credited it to neighbor,
cousin, or passerby.

^^^

The rumor started with the fall of darkness. It spread
through the night, whispered on the flower-scented
night breeze, sung by the nightingale, mentioned by the
owl. The rumor spread with excitement and joy among
the young, yet there were those among the older elves
who frowned to hear it and who cautioned against it.

Strong among these were the kirath, the elves who had
long patrolled and guarded the borders of Silvanesti. These
elves had watched with grief as the shield killed every

83

DRAQONLANCE 'CITS Wan of Souls

living thing along the border. They had fought the cruel
dream cast by the dragon Cyan Bloodbane many years ago
during the War of the Lance. The kirath knew from their
bitter experience with the dream that evil can come in
lovely forms, only to grow hideous and murderous when
confronted. The kirath warned against this human girl.
They tried to halt the rumors that were spreading through
the city, as fast and bright and slippery as quicksilver. But
every time the rumor came to a house where a young elven
mother held to her breast her dying child, the rumor was
believed. The warnings of the kirath went unheeded.

That night, when the moon lifted high in the heavens,
the single moon, the moon that the elves had never grown
accustomed to seeing in a sky where once the silver and
the red moons had swung among the stars, the guards on
the gates of Silvanost looked out along the highway lead-
ing into their dty, a highway of moondust, to see a force
of humans marching on Silvanost. The force was small,
twenty Knights clad in the black armor of the Knights
of Neraka and several hundred foot soldiers marching
behind. The army was a shabby one. The foot soldiers
stumbled, they limped, footsore and weary. Even the
Knights were afoot, their horses having died in battle or
been eaten by their starving riders. Only one Knight rode,
and that was their leader, a slender figure mounted on a
horse the color of blood.

A thousand elven archers, armed with the storied
elven longbow, legendary for its accuracy, looked down
upon this advancing army, and each picked out his or her
target. There were so many archers that had the order
been given to fire, each one of those advancing soldiers
would have been stuck full with as many arrows as there
are quills on the porcupine.

The elven archers looked uncertainly to their com-
manders. The archers had heard the rumors, as had their

84

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

commanders. The archers had sick at home: wives, hus-
bands, mothers, fathers, children, all dying of the wasting
disease. Many of the archers themselves were in the first
stages of the illness and remained at their posts only
through sheer effort of will. So too with their command-
ers. The kirath, who were not members of the elven army,
stood among the archers, wrapped in their cloaks that
could blend in with the leaves and trees of the forests
they loved, and watched grimly.

Mina rode unerringly straight toward the silver gates,
rode into arrow range unflinching, her horse carrying its
head proudly, neck arched, tail flicking. At her side
walked a giant minotaur. Her Knights came behind her,
the foot soldiers followed after. Now within sight of the
elves, the soldiers took some pains to dress their lines,
straighten their backs, march upright and tall with the
appearance of being unafraid, although many must have
quaked and shivered at the sight of the arrow tips shining
in the moonlight.

Mina halted her horse before the gate. She raised her
voice, and it carried as clear and ringing as the notes of a
silver bell.

"I am called Mina. I come to Silvanost in the name of the
One God. I come to Silvanost to teach my elven brothers
and sisters of the One God and to accept them into the
service of the One God. I call upon you, the people of Sil-
vanost, to open the gates, that I may enter in peace."

"Do not trust her," urged the kirath. "Do not believe her!"

No one listened, and when one of the kirath, a man
named Rolan, lifted his bow and would have fired a shaft
at the human girl, those standing around him struck him
down so that he fell bloody and dazed to the pavement.
Finding that no one paid them any heed, the kirath picked
up their fallen comrade and left the city of Silvanost,
retreated back to their woodlands.

85

DRAQONLANCE tlie Ware of Souls

A herald advanced and read aloud a proclamation.

"His Majesty the king orders that the gates of Sil-
vanost be opened to Mina, whom His Majesty names
Dragonslayer, Savior of the Silvanesti."

The elven archers flung down their bows and gave a
ragged cheer. The elven gatekeepers hastened to the gates
that were made of steel and silver and magic. Though
these gates looked as frail and fragile as spun cobweb,
they were so bound by ancient magicks that no force on
Krynn could break them, unless it was the breath of a
dragon. But Mina, it seemed, had only to set her hand to
the gates, and they opened.

Mina rode slowly into Silvanost. The minotaur
walked at her stirrup, glowering distrustfully at the
elves, his hand on his sword. Her soldiers came after,
nervous, watchful, wary. The elves, after their initial
cheer, fell silent. Crowds of elves lined the highway that
was chalk-white in the moonlight. No one spoke, and all
that could be heard was the jingle of chain mail and the
rattle of armor and sword, the steady shuffling march of
booted feet.

Mina had gone only a short distance, and some of the
army still remained outside the gate, when she drew her
horse to a halt. She heard a sound, and now she looked
out into the crowd.

Dismounting, she left the highway and walked straight
into the crowd of elves. The huge minotaur drew his
sword and would have followed to guard her back, but
she raised her hand in a wordless command, and he
halted as though she had struck him. Mina came to a
young elven woman trying vainly to stifle the whimper-
ings of fretful child of about three years. It was the child's
wail that had caught Mina's ears.

The elves drew aside to let Mina pass, flinching from
her as though her touch pained them. Yet, after she had

86

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

passed, some of the younger reached out hesitatingly to
touch her again. She paid them no heed.

Approaching the elf woman, Mina said, speaking in
Elvish, "Your baby cries. She burns with fever. What is
wrong with her?"

The mother held the child protectively in her arms,
bowed her head over the little girl. Her tears fell on the
child's hot forehead.

"She has the wasting sickness. She has been ill for
days now. She grows worse all the time. I fear that. . .
she is dying."

"Give me the child," said Mina, holding out her hands.

"No!" The elven woman clasped the child to her. "No,
do not harm her!"

"Give me the child," said Mina gently.

The mother lifted fearful eyes and looked into Mina's.
The warm liquid amber flowed around the mother and
the child. The mother handed the baby to Mina.

The little girl weighed almost nothing. She was as
light as a will-o'-the-wisp in Mina's arms.

"I bless you in the name of the One God," said Mina,
"and I call you back to this life."

The child's whimpering ceased. She went limp in
Mina's arms, and the elder elves drew in hissing breaths.

"She is well now," Mina said, handing back the child
to the mother. "The fever has broken. Take her home and
keep her warm. She will live."

The mother looked fearfully into the face of her child
and gave a cry of joy. The child's whimpering had
ceased, and she had gone limp because she now slept
peacefully. Her forehead was cool to the touch, her
breathing easy.

"Mina!" the elf woman cried, falling to her knees.
"Bless you, Mina!"

"Not me," said Mina. "The One God."

87

DRAQONLANCE 'cue wan of Souls

"The One God," the mother cried. "I thank the One
God."

"Lies!" cried an elf, thrusting his way forward through
the crowd. "Lies and blasphemy. The only true god is
Paladine."

"Paladine forsook you," Mina said. "Paladine left you.
The One God is with you. The One God cares for you."

The elf opened his mouth to make an angry rejoinder.
Before he could speak, Mina said to him, "Your beloved
wife is not with you here this night."

The elf shut his mouth. Muttering, he started to turn
away.

"She is sick at home," Mina told him. "She has not been
well for a long, long time. Every day, you watch her sink
closer to death. She lies in bed, unable to walk. This morn-
ing, she could not lift her head from the pillow."

"She is dying!" the elf said harshly, keeping his head
turned away. "Many have died. We bear our suffering
and go on."

"When you return home," said Mina, "your wife will
meet you at the door. She will take you by the hands, and
you will dance in the garden as you once used to."

The elf turned to face her. His face was streaked with
tears, his expression was wary, disbelieving. "This is
some trick."

"No, it is not," Mina returned, smiling. "I speak the
truth, and you know it. Go to her. Go and see."

The elf stared at Mina, then, with a hollow cry, pushed
his way through those who surrounded him and van-
ished into the crowd.

Mina extended her hand toward an elven couple.
Father and mother each held a young boy by the hand.
The boys were twins, thin and listless, their young
faces so pinched with pain they looked like wizened
old men.

88

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

Mina beckoned to the boys. "Come to me."

The boys shrank away from her. "You are human,"
said one. "You hate us."

"You will kill us/' said his brother. "My father says so."

"To be human, elf, or minotaur makes no difference
to the One God. We are all children of the One God, but
we must be obedient children. Come to me. Come to the
One God."

The boys looked up at their parents. The elves stared
at Mina, saying nothing, making no sign. The crowd
around them was hushed and still, watching the drama.
Finally, one boy let loose his mother's hand and came for-
ward, walking weakly and unsteadily. He took hold of
Mina's hand.

"The One God has the power to heal one of you," said
Mina. "Which will it be? You or your brother."

"My brother," the child said immediately.

Mina rested her hand on the boy's head. "The One
God admires sacrifice. The One God is pleased. The
One God heals you both."

Healthful color flooded the pallid cheeks. The listless
eyes blazed with life and vigor. The weak legs no longer
trembled, the bent spines straightened. The other boy
left his father and ran to join his twin, both flinging their
arms around Mina.

"Bless you! Bless you, Mina!" some of the younger Sil-
vanesti elves began to chant, and they gathered close to
Mina, reaching out to seize hold of her, begging her to
heal them, their wives, their husbands, their children. The
crowd surged and heaved around her so that she was in
danger of being adored to death.

The minotaur, Gaidar, Mina's second-in-command and
self-appointed guardian, waded into the mass. Catching
hold of Mina, he bore her out of the press, thrusting aside
the desperate elves with his strong arms.

89

DRAOONLANCE 'CtJe wan of Souls

Mounting her horse, Mina rose up in the stirrups and
lifted her hand for silence. The elves hushed immediately,
strained to hear her words.

"It has been given to me to tell you that all those who
ask of the One God in humility and reverence will be
healed of the sickness brought upon you by the dragon
Cyan Bloodbane. The One God has freed you from this
peril. Pray to the One God upon your knees, acknowl-
edge the One God as the true god of the elves and you
will be cured."

Some of the younger elves fell to their knees at once
and began to pray. Others, the elder elves, refused.
Never before had the elves prayed to any god except
Paladine. Some began to mutter that the kirath had
been right, but then those who had prayed lifted their
heads to the moonlight and cried out in joy that the
pain had left their bodies. At the sight of the miraculous
healing, more elves dropped to their knees, raised their
voices in praise. The elder elves, watching in dismay
and disbelief, shook their heads. One in particular, who
was dressed in the magical camouflaging cloak of the
kirath, stared hard at Mina for long moments before
vanishing among the shadows.

The blood-red horse proceeded forward at a walk.
Mina's soldiers cleared her way through the press of
bodies. The Tower of the Stars glimmered softly in the
moonlight, pointing the way to heaven. Walking at her
side, Gaidar tried to breathe as little as possible. The stench
of elf was overpowering, doying, sickeningly sweet to the
minotaur, like the scent of something long dead.

"Mina," said Gaidar in a harsh growl, "these are elves!"
He made no effort to conceal his disgust. "What does the
One God want with elves?"

'The souls of all mortals are valuable to the One God,
Gaidar," Mina responded.

90

DnaooNS OF a Lost StaR

Gaidar mulled this over but could not understand.
Looking back at her, he saw, in the moonlight, the images
of countless elves held prisoner in the warm golden
amber of her eyes.

Mina continued through Silvanost as prayers to the
One God, spoken in the Elvish language, rustled and
whispered through the night.

Silvanoshei, son of Alhana Starbreeze and Porthios of
the House of Solostaran, the heir to both kingdoms of the
elves, the Qualinesti and the Silvanesti, stood with his
face and hands pressed against the crystal windowpane,
peering into the night.

"Where is she?" he demanded impatiently. "No,
wait! I think I see her!" He stared long and then fell
back with a sigh. "No, it is not her. I was mistaken. Why
doesn't she come?" He turned around to demand in
sudden fear, "You don't think anything has happened
to her. Cousin?"

Kiryn opened his mouth to reply, but before he could
say a word, Silvanoshei had spoken to a servant. "Find
out what is happening at the gate. Return to me at once."

The servant bowed and departed, leaving the two
alone in the room.

"Cousin," said Kiryn, keeping his voice carefully
modulated, "that is the sixth servant you have sent this
past half hour. He will return with the same message
that they have all brought. The progress of the proces-
sion is slow, due to the fact that so many of our people
want to see her."

Silvanoshei went back to the window, stared out
again with an impatience he did not bother to hide. "It
was a mistake. I should have been there to greet her."
He cast a cold glance at his cousin. "I should not have
listened to you."

91

DRAQONLANCE Vie wan of Souls

"Your Majesty," said Kiryn with a sigh, "it would not
have looked good. You, the king, welcoming in person
the leader of our enemies. Bad enough that we have
admitted her into the city in the first place," he added to
himself, but Silvanoshei had sharp ears.

"Need I remind you. Cousin," said the king tersely,
"that it was this same leader of our enemies who saved us
from the machinations of the foul dragon Cyan Blood-
bane? Because of her, I was brought back to life and given
the chance to lower the shield he erected over us, the
shield that was sucking out our very lives. Because of her,
I was able to destroy the Shield Tree and save our people.
If not for her, there would be no elves in the streets of
Silvanost, only corpses."

"I am aware of that. Your Majesty," Kiryn said. "Yet I
ask myself why? What are her motives?"

"I might ask the same of you. Cousin," Silvanoshei
said coolly. "What are you motives?"

"I don't know what you mean," Kiryn said.

"Don't you? It has been brought to my attention that
you are plotting behind my back. You have been seen
meeting with members of the kirath."

"What of that. Cousin?" Kiryn asked mildly. "They
are your loyal subjects."

"They are not my loyal subjects!" Silvanoshei said
angrily. "They conspire against me!"

"They conspire against our enemies, the Dark
Knights—"

"Mina, you mean. They conspire against Mina. That is
the same as conspiring against me."

Kiryn sighed softly and said, "There is someone wait-
ing to speak to Your Majesty."

"I will see no one," Silvanoshei said.

"I think you should see him," Kiryn continued. "He
comes from your mother."

92

DnagoNS OF a Lost Stan

Silvanoshei turned away from the window and stared
at Kiryn. "What are you saying? My mother is dead. She
died the night the ogres raided our camp. The night I fell
through the shield ..."

"No, Cousin," said Kiryn. "Your mother, Alhana,
lives. She and her forces have crossed the border. She
has been in contact with the kirath. That is why . . .
They tried to see you. Cousin, but were denied. They
came to me."

Silvanoshei sank down into a chair. He lowered his
head to his shaking hand to hide his sudden tears.

"Forgive me. Cousin," Kiryn said. "I should have
found some better way to tell you—"

"No! You could have brought me no happier news!"
Silvanoshei cried, lifting his face. "My mother's messenger
is here?" He rose to his feet, walked impatiently toward
the door. "Bring him in."

"He is not in the antechamber. He would be in danger
here in the palace. I took the liberty—"

"Of course. I had forgotten. My mother is a dark elf,"
Silvanoshei said bitterly. "She is under penalty of death,
as are those who follow her."

"Your Majesty now has the power to set that right,"
said Kiryn.

"By law, perhaps," said Silvanoshei. "But laws cannot
erase years of hatred. Go and fetch him, then, wherever
you have hidden him."

Kiryn left the room. Silvanoshei returned to the
window, his thoughts a confused and joyous muddle. His
mother alive. Mina returned to him. The two of them
must meet. They would like each other. Well, perhaps not
at first....

He heard a scraping sound behind him, turned to see
movement behind one of the heavy curtains. The curtain
was drawn aside, revealing an opening in the wall, a

93

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl7e Ware of Souls

secret passageway. Silvanoshei had heard stories from
his mother about these passageways. As a lark, Sil-
vanoshei had searched for the passages, but had found
only this one. The passage led to the hidden garden, a
garden now lifeless, its flowers having been killed by the
blight of the shield.

Kiryn stepped out from behind the curtain. Another
elf, cloaked and hooded, followed after him.

"Samar!" exclaimed Silvanoshei in a recognition that
was both pleasurable and filled with pain.

His first impulse was to run forward, grasp Samar by
the hand or perhaps even embrace him, so glad was he to
see him and know he was alive and that his mother was
alive. Kiryn was hoping for just such a reunion. He
hoped that the news that his mother was near, that she
and her forces had crossed the border would wrench Sil-
vanoshei's mind away from Mina.

Kiryn's hopes were doomed to failure.

Samar did not see Silvanoshei the king. He saw Sil-
vanoshei the spoiled child, dressed in fine clothes and
glittering jewels, while his mother wore clothes she
made of homespun and adorned herself in the cold
metal of chain mail. He saw Silvanoshei residing in a
grand palace with every comfort he could wish for, saw
his mother shivering in a barren cave. Samar saw a vast
bed with a thick down mattress and blankets of angora
wool and sheets of silk, and he saw Alhana sleeping on
the cold ground with her tattered cloak wrapped
around her.

Anger pounded in Samar's veins, dimmed his vision,
blurred his thinking. He blotted out Silvanoshei com-
pletely and saw only Alhana, who had been overcome
with joy and emotion on hearing that Silvanoshei, whom
she had believed to be dead, was alive. Not only alive but
crowned king of Silvanesti—her dearest wish for him.

94

DnagoNS of a Lost Stan

She had wanted to come immediately to see him, an
act that would have placed in jeopardy not only her life
but the lives of her people. Samar had pleaded long
and hard to dissuade her from this course of action, and
only the knowledge that she risked imperiling all for
which she had labored so long had at last convinced her
that he should go in her stead. He would take her love
to her son, but he would not fawn or dote on the boy.
Samar would remind Silvanoshei of a son's duty to a
mother, be he king or commoner. Duty to his mother,
duty to his people.

Samar's cold look halted Silvanoshei in midstep.

"Prince Silvanoshei," said Samar, with a very slight
bow. "I trust I find you well. I certainly find you well-
fed." He cast a scathing glance at the laden table. "That
much food would feed your mother's army for a year!"

Silvanoshei's warm affection froze to solid ice in an
instant. He forgot how much he owed Samar, remem-
bered instead only that the man had never approved of
him, perhaps never even liked him. Silvanoshei drew
himself up to his full height.

"Undoubtedly you have not heard the news, Samar,"
Silvanoshei said with quiet dignity, "and so I forgive
you. I am king of the Silvanesti, and you will address
me as such."

"I will address you as what you are," Samar said, his
voice shaking, "a spoiled brat!"

"How dare you—" Silvanoshei began hotly.

"Stop it! Both of you." Kiryn stared at them, aghast.
"What are you two doing? Have you forgotten the terrible
crisis that is at hand? Cousin Silvanoshei, you have
known this man from childhood. You have told me many
times that you admired and respected him as a second
father. Samar risked his life to come to you. Is this how
you repay him?"

95

DRAQONLANCE 'Clie Ware of Souls

Silvanoshei said nothing. He pressed his lips together,
regarded Samar with an expression of injured dignity.

"And you, Samar/' said Kiryn, turning to the elven
warrior. "You are in the wrong. Silvanoshei is the crowned
and anointed king of the Silvanesti people. You are Qua-
linesti. Perhaps the ways of your people are different.
We Silvanesti revere our king. When you demean him,
you demean us all."

Samar and the King were silent long moments, staring at
each other—not as two friends who have been quick to
quarrel and are glad to make up, but as two duelists who are
sizing each other up even as they are forced to shake hands
before the final contest. Kiryn was grieved to the heart.

"We have started out all wrong," he said. "Let us
begin again."

"How is my mother, Samar?" Silvanoshei asked abruptly.

"Your mother is well... Your Majesty," Samar replied.
He left a deliberate pause before the title, but he spoke it.
"She sends her love."

Silvanoshei nodded. He was keeping a tight grip on
himself. "The night of the storm. I thought... It seemed
impossible that you could survive."

"As it turned out, the Legion of Steel had been keep-
ing watch on the movements of the ogres, and so they
came to our aid. It seems," Samar added, his voice gruff,
"that you and your mother have been grieving together.
When you did not return, we searched for you for days.
We could only conclude that you had been captured by
the ogres and dragged off to torment and death. When
the shield fell and your mother crossed over into her
homeland, we were met by the kirath. Her joy was
boundless when she heard that not only were you alive,
but that you were now king, Silvanoshei."

His tone hardened. 'Then the reports of you and this
human female—"

96

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

Silvanoshei flashed Kiryn an angry glance. "Now I
understand the reason you brought him here. Cousin. To
lecture me." He turned back to the window.

"Silvanoshei—" Kiryn began.

Samar strode forward, grabbed hold of Silvanoshei by
the shoulder. "Yes, I am going to lecture you. You are
behaving like a spoiled brat. Your honored mother did
not believe the rumors. She told the kirath who spoke of
this that they lied. What happens? I overhear you speak-
ing of this human. I hear from your own lips that the
rumors are true! You mope and whine for her, while a
massive army of Dark Knights crosses the border. An
army that was waiting at the border, prepared to cross
when the shield came down.

"And, lo and behold, the shield fell! How did this
army come to be there, Silvanoshei? Was it coincidence?
Did the Dark Knights happen to arrive at the precise
moment the shield happened to fall? No, Silvanoshei,
the Dark Knights were there on the border because
they knew the shield was going to fall. Now they march
on Silvanost, five thousand strong, and you have
opened the gates of the city to the female who brought
them here."

"That is not true!" Silvanoshei returned heatedly,
ignoring Kiryn's attempts to placate him. "Mina came to
save us. She knew the truth about Cyan Bloodbane. She
knew the dragon was the one responsible for raising the
shield. She knew the shield was killing us. When I died at
the hands of the dragon, she restored me to life. She—"
Silvanoshei halted, his tongue cleaving to his palate.

"She told you to lower the shield," Samar said. "She
told you how to lower the shield."

"Yes, I lowered the shield!" Silvanoshei returned defi-
antly. "I did what my mother has been striving to do for
years! You know that to be true, Samar. My mother saw

97

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl)e Wan of Souls

the shield for what it was. She knew it was not raised to
protect us, and she was right. It was put in place to kill us.
What would you have had me do, Samar? Leave the
shield in place? Watch it suck the lives from my people?"

"You might have left it in place long enough to check
to see if your enemy was massing on your border," Samar
said caustically. "The kirath could have warned you, if
you had taken time to listen to them, but no, you chose to
listen to a human female, the leader of those who would
see you and your people destroyed."

"The decision was mine alone to make," said Sil-
vanoshei with dignity. "I acted on my own. I did what my
mother would have done in my place. You know that,
Samar. She herself told me of the time she flew on griffon-
back straight into the shield in her efforts to shatter it.
Time and again she tried and was flung back—"

"Enough!" Samar interrupted impatiently. "What's
done is done." He had lost this round, and he knew it.
He was quiet a moment, pondering. When he spoke
again, there was a change in his voice, a note of apology
in his tone. "You are young, Silvanoshei, and it is the
province of youth to make mistakes, although this, I fear,
may well prove fatal to our cause. However, we have not
given up. We may yet be able to undo the damage you
have—however well-meaning—caused."

Reaching beneath his cloak, Samar drew out another
cloak and hood. "Dark Knights ride into our sacred dty
with impunity. I watched them enter. I saw this female. I
saw our people, espedally our young people, bewitched
by her. They are blind to the truth. It will be our task to
make them see again. Conceal yourself with this cloak,
Silvanoshei. We will leave by the secret passage through
which I entered, escape the dty in the confusion."

"Leave?" Silvanoshei stared at Samar in astonishment.
"Why should I leave?"

98

DnagoNS OF a Lost Stare

Samar would have spoken, but Kiryn interrupted,
hoping to salvage his plan.

"Because you are in danger. Cousin," said Kiryn. "Do
you think the Dark Knights will allow you to remain
king? If they do, you will be no more than a puppet, like
your cousin Gilthas. But, as king in exile, you will be a
force to rally the people—"

Go? I cannot go, Silvanoshei said to himself. She is
coming back to me. She draws closer every moment. This
very night perhaps I will fold her in my arms. I would not
leave though I knew death itself had come for me.

He looked at Kiryn and he looked at Samar and he
saw not friends, but strangers, conspiring against him.
He could not trust them. He could trust no one.

"You say that my people are in danger," said Sil-
vanoshei. He turned his back, turned his gaze out the
window, as if he were looking over the city below. In truth,
he searched for her. "My people are in danger, and you
would have me flee to safety and leave them to face the
threat alone. What poor sort of king is that, Samar?"

"A live king. Your Majesty," Samar said dryly. "A king
who thinks enough of his people to live for them instead
of for himself. They will understand and honor you for
your decision."

Silvanoshei glanced coolly over his shoulder. "You
are wrong, Samar. My mother fled, and the people did
not honor her for it. They despised her. I will not make
the same mistake. I thank you for coming, Samar. You
are dismissed."

Trembling, amazed at his own temerity, he turned
back to the window, stared out unseeing.

"You ungrateful whelp!" Samar was half-choked with
the galFof his rage, could barely speak. "You will come
with me if I have to drag you!"

Kiryn stepped between Samar and the king.

99

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct»e wan of Souls

"I think you had better leave, sir," Kiryn said, his voice
calm, eyes level. He was angry with both of them, angry
and disappointed. "Or I will be forced to summon the
guards. His Majesty has made his decision."

Samar ignored Kiryn, glowered balefully at Sil-
vanoshei. "I will leave. I will tell your mother that her
son has made a noble, heroic sacrifice in the name of the
people. I will not tell her the truth: that he stays for love
of a human witch. I will not tell her, but others will. She
will know, and her heart will break."

He tossed the cloak on the floor at Silvanoshei's feet.
"You are a fool, young man. I would not mind if by your
folly you brought ruin only on yourself, Silvanoshei, but
you will bring ruin upon us all."

Samar left, stalking across the room to the secret pas-
sage. He flung the curtain aside with a violence that
almost ripped it from its rings.

Silvanoshei cast a scathing glance at Kiryn. "Don't
think I don't know what you were after. Remove me, and
you ascend the throne!"

"You don't think that of me. Cousin," Kiryn said quietly,
gently "You can't think that."

Silvanoshei tried very hard to think it, but he failed. Of
all the people he knew, Kiryn was the only one who
seemed to have a true affection for him. For him alone.
Not for the king. For Silvanoshei.

Leaving the window, he walked over, took Kiryn by
the hand, pressed it warmly. "I'm sorry. Cousin. Forgive
me. He makes me so angry, I don't know what I'm saying.
I know you meant well." Silvanoshei looked after Samar.
"I know that he means well, but he doesn't understand.
No one understands."

Silvanoshei felt a great weariness come over him. He
had not slept in a long time. He couldn't remember how
long. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her face, heard

TOO

DuaooNS of a Lost Staii

her voice, felt the touch of her lips on his, and his heart
leaped, his blood thrilled, and he lay awake, staring into
the darkness, waiting for her to return to him.

"Go after Samar, Kiryn. Make certain he leaves the
palace safely. I would not want any harm to come to him."

Kiryn gave his king a helpless glance, sighed, shook
his head, and did as he was told.

Silvanoshei went back to the window.

101

7

SaiIiNQ tl7€ Riven of tl7€ Dcat>




t is a sad truism that the misfortunes of others,
no matter how terrible, always pale in compari-
son to our own. At this moment in his life, if
someone had told Conundrum that armies of goblins and
hobgoblins, draconians, hired thugs, and murderers were
marching on the elves, the gnome would have laughed in
derision and rolled his eyes.

"They think they have trouble?" he would have said.
"Hah! They should be down beneath the ocean in a
leaky submersible with a crazed human woman who
keeps insisting that I follow a bunch of dead people.
Now that is trouble."

If Conundrum had been told that his friend the
kender, who had provided him with the means to finally
be able to achieve his life quest and map the Hedge Maze,
was being held prisoner by the most powerful mage in
all the world in the Tower of High Sorcery, Conundrum
would have sneered.

"The kender thinks he has trouble! Hah! He should try

102

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

to operate the submersible all by himself when it requires
a crew of twenty. There is trouble for you!"

In fact, the submersible worked far better with a crew of
one, since the other nineteen simply added to the weight
and got in the way and used up the air. The original
voyage that left Mt. Nevermind and headed to the citadel
had started with a crew of twenty, but the others had
become lost, mislaid, or seriously burned along the way,
leaving at last only Conundrum, who had been but a lowly
passenger, in sole control. He knew nothing whatsoever
about the complicated system of mechanics designed to
power the MNS Indestructible, undoubtedly the reason the
vessel had remained afloat as long as it had.

The vessel was designed in the shape of a large fish. It
was made of wood, which made it light enough to float,
and then covered with iron, which made it heavy enough
to sink. Conundrum knew that there was a crank he had to
crank in order to keep the vessel moving forward, another
crank that made the vessel move up, and a third that
made the vessel go down. He was somewhat vague on
what the cranks actually did, although he recalled a gnome
(perhaps the late captain) telling him that the rear crank
caused the fins at the rear of the vessel to whirl about in a
frenzied manner, stirring up the water and thus pro-
pelling the vessel forward. The crank at the bottom caused
fins at the bottom to whirl, sending the vessel upward,
while fins on the top reversed that process.

Conundrum knew that along with the cranking there
were a good many gears that had to be constantly oiled.
He knew this because all gnomes everywhere know that
gears must be constantly oiled. He had been told that there
were bellows that pumped air into the submersible, but
he was unable to figure out how these worked and so
concluded that it would be wisest, if less scientific, to bring
the Indestructible up to the surface for air every few hours.

103

DRAQONLANCE t:l)e Wan of Souls

Since the bellows did not work and had never worked,
this proved to be sound reasoning on his part.

At the start of his enforced journey. Conundrum asked
Goldmoon why she had stolen his submersible, where she
planned to go with it, and what she intended to do once
they got there. It was then she made the startling pro-
nouncement mat she was following the dead, that the dead
guided her and protected her, and the dead were leading
her across New Sea to where she must go. When he asked,
quite logically, why the dead had seen fit to tell her to steal
his boat, she had said that diving underwater was the only
means by which they could escape the dragon.

Conundrum tried to interest Goldmoon in the work-
ings of the submersible and to elicit her help in the
cranking—which was wearing on the arms—or at least
the help of the dead, since they appeared to be the ones in
charge of this trip. She paid no attention to him. Conun-
drum found his passenger exasperating, and he would
have turned the Indestructible around on the spot and
sailed back to his Hedge Maze, dragon or no dragon, but
for the lamentable fact that he did not have the faintest
idea how to make the boat go in any direction other than
up, down, and forward.

Nor, as it turned out, did the gnome know how to make
the boat stop, thus giving a new and unfortunate mean-
ing to the term "landfall."

Due to either fate or the guidance of the dead, the Inde-
structible did not smash headlong into a cliff or run aground
on a reef. Instead it plowed into a sandy beach, its fins still
flapping, sending up great spumes of sand and seawater,
mangling jellyfish, and terrorizing the sea birds.

The final mad plunge up onto the beach was jouncing
and uncomfortable but not fatal to the passengers. Gold-
moon and Conundrum escaped with only minor cuts and
bruises. The same could not be said of the Indestructible.

104

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

Goldmoon stood on the deserted beach and breathed
the fresh sea air deeply. She paid no attention to the cuts
on her arms or the bruise on her forehead. This strange
new body of hers had the capacity to heal itself. Within
moments, the blood would dry, the flesh close together,
the bruises fade away. She would continue to feel the
pain of the injuries, but only on her true body, the body
that was the weak and frail body of an elderly human.

She did not like this new body that had been miracu-
lously bestowed on her—an unwilling redpient—the
night of the terrible storm, but she had come to realize
that its strength and health were essential in order to
take her to wherever it was the dead wanted her to go.
The old body would not have made it this far. It was
near death. The spirit that resided in the old body neared
death as well. Perhaps that was the reason Goldmoon
could see the dead when others could not. She was closer
now to the dead than to the living.

The pale river of spirits flowed over the windswept
dunes, heading north. The long greenish-brown grass that
grew on the dunes rippled with the wind of their passing.
Gathering up the hem of her long white robes, the robes
that marked her a Mystic of the Citadel of Light, Goldmoon
made ready to follow.

"Wait!" cried Conundrum, who had been staring open-
mouthed at the destruction of the Indestructible. "What
are you doing? Where are you going?"

Goldmoon did not reply but continued on. Walking
was difficult. She sank into the soft sand with every step.
Her robes hampered her movements.

"You can't leave me," Conundrum stated. He waved an
oil-covered hand. "I've lost an immense amount of time
ferrying you across the sea, and now you have broken my
boat. How am I going to return to my life quest—mapping
the Hedge Maze?"

105

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct?e wan of Souls

Goldmoon halted and turned to look back at the
gnome. He was not a savory sight, with his scraggly hair
and untidy beard, his face flushed with righteous indig-
nation and smeared with oil and blood.

"I thank you for bringing me," she said, raising her
voice to be heard above the freshening wind and the
crashing waves. "I am sorry for your loss, but I can do
nothing to help you." She shifted her head, gazed north-
ward. "I have a journey I must make. I cannot linger here
or anywhere." Looking back at the gnome, she added,
kindly, "I would not leave you stranded. You may come
with me, if you choose."

Conundrum looked at her, then back at the Indestruc-
tible, which had certainly not lived up to its name. Even he,
a passenger, could see that repairs were going to be long
and costly, to say nothing of the fact that since he'd never
understood how the contraption worked in the first place,
making it work again would present certain problems.

"Besides," he said to himself, more brightly, "I'm cer-
tain the owner has it insured, and he will no doubt be
compensated for the loss."

This was taking an optimistic view of the matter. One
might say an optimistic and completely unrealistic view,
since it was a well known fact that the Guild of Insurers-
Equity UnderandOverwritersCollisionAccidentalDis-
membermentFireFloodNotLiableforActsofGod had never
paid out a single copper piece, although there were, fol-
lowing the Chaos War, innumerable lawsuits pending,
contending that ActsofGod no longer counted, since there
were no longer any gods. Due to the fact that the lawsuits
had to go through the gnomish legal system, it was not
expected that they would be settled during the litigants'
lifetimes but would be handed down to the generations
coining afterward, all of whom would be financially ruined
by the accruing legal fees.

106

DRBQONS oy a Lost StaR

Conundrum had few belongings to retrieve from the
wreckage. He had run off from the citadel so fast that he
had left behind his most important belonging—the map
of the Hedge Maze. The gnome was confident that the
map would be found and, considering that it was a Marvel
to end all Marvels, would naturally be placed in a most
safe and secure part of the Citadel of Light.

The only thing salvaged from the wreckage was a
knife that had belonged to the late captain. The knife was
remarkable, for it had all sorts of tools attached to it and
could do just about everything. It could open a bottle of
wine, tell you which direction was north, and crack the
shells of recalcitrant oysters. Its one drawback was that
you couldn't cut anything with it, since it lacked a blade,
the inventor having run out of room, but that was a
minor inconvenience compared to the fact that you could
use it to trim your nose hairs.

Thrusting the remarkable knife in the pocket of his
ink-stained and oily robes. Conundrum floundered, slid-
ing and stumbling along the beach. He paused once to
turn and look back at the Indestructible. The submersible
had the forlorn appearance of a beached whale and was
already being covered over by drifting sand.

Conundrum set out after Goldmoon, who was follow-
ing the river of the dead.

107

8

BalBNCINQ ACCOUNtS




ive days after Beryl's attack on the Citadel of
Light, five days after the fall of the shield in Sil-
vanesti and five days after the first ranks of Beryl's
army crossed the border into the realm of Qualinesti,
Lord Targonne sat at his desk going over the reports
that had been flooding in from various parts of the con-
tinent of Ansalon.

Targonne found the report from Malys pleasing, at
first. The enormous red dragon Malystryx, the dragon
whom everyone acknowledged to be the true ruler of
Ansalon, had taken the news of her cousin Beryl's aggres-
sion far better than Targonne had dared hope. Malys
had ranted and raved, to be sure, but in the end she had
stated that any move by Beryl to annex lands beyond
Qualinesti would be viewed as a most serious affront to
Malys and would be dealt with summarily.

The more Targonne thought about it, however, the more
he began to have second thoughts. Malystryx had been

108

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

too accommodating. She had received the news too
calmly. He had the feeling that the giant red was plotting
something and that whatever she was plotting would be
catastrophic. For the moment, however, she was keeping
to her lair, apparently content to let him deal with the sit-
uation. That, he fully intended to do.

According to reports. Beryl had demolished the Citadel
of Light, crushing the crystal domes in a fit of pique
because, according to his agents, who had been on the
scene and who had witnessed the destruction firsthand,
she had not been able to locate the magical artifact that
had been the reason for this misguided attack. The loss of
life on the island might have been incalculable but for the
fact that before she razed the buildings. Beryl had sent
down squadrons of draconians to search for the artifact
and the wizard who wielded it.

The delay provided time for the inhabitants to flee to
safety inland. Targonne's agents, who had been attending
the dtadel in disguise, hoping to discover why their heal-
ing spells were going awry, had been among those who
had fled to safety and were thus able to send back their
reports. Beryl had departed early on in the battle, leaving
her reds to finish the destruction for her. The draconians
had gone after the refugees but had been fought off by the
forces of the Solamnic Knights and some fierce tribal war-
riors who dwelt in the island's interior. The draconians
had sustained heavy casualties.

Targonne, who did not like draconians, counted this as
no great loss.

"Next report," he said to his aide.

The aide drew out a sheet of vellum. "A message
from Marshal Medan, my lord. The Marshal apologizes
for the delay in responding to your orders but says that
your messenger met with a most unfortunate accident.
He was flying to Qualinost when the griffon on which he

109

DRAQONLANCE 'CDe Wan of Souls

was riding suddenly went berserk and attacked him.
He was able to deliver his message, but he died of his
injuries shortly thereafter. The Marshal states that he will
comply fully with your orders and hand over the elven
city of Qualinost to the dragon Beryl, along with the Queen
Mother, both of whom he holds prisoner. The Marshal
has disbanded the elven Senate, arrested the senators and
the Heads of House. He was going to arrest the elven
king, Gilthas, but the young man was smuggled out of
the city and is now in hiding. The Marshal reports that
Beryl's army is encountering attacks from elven forces
and that these are slowing the army's march but other-
wise doing little damage."

"That is good news, if ifs true," Targonne said, frown-
ing. "I have never quite trusted Medan. He was one of
Ariakan's favorites, the main reason he was put in charge
of Qualinesti. There were those stories Beryl put out that
he had grown more elf than human, raising flowers and
playing the lute."

'Thus far, he appears to have the situation under con-
trol, my lord," said the aide, glancing back over the neatly
written page.

Targonne grunted. "We will see. Send a message to the
great green bitch that she can have Qualinost and that I
trust she will leave it intact and unspoiled. Include an
account of the revenues we collected from Qualinost last
year. That should convince her."

"Yes, my lord," said the aide, making a note.

"Anything new to report from Sanction?" Targonne
asked in a resigned tone that indicated he would be
shocked if there were.

The walled city of Sanction, located on the western
shores of New Sea, controlled the only ports on New
Sea for that part of Ansalon. During the War of the
Lance, the city had been a stronghold of the dragon

110

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

highlords, but it was now controlled by a mysterious
and powerful wizard known as Hogan Bight. Thought
to be acting independently. Bight had been wooed by
the Dark Knights of Neraka, in hopes that he would
ally with them and make the ports of Sanction avail-
able to them. Knowing that Bight was also being wooed
by the Solamnics, the Dark Knights had laid siege to
Sanction in order to hasten Bight's decision-making
process. The siege had dragged on for long months
now. The Solamnics had attempted to break it, but they
had been routed by this very Mina who had now taken
Silvanesti. Targonne supposed he should be grateful to
Mina for having saved the day for him. He would have
been a damn sight more grateful to her if he'd actually
ordered her to do it.

"Sanction is still under siege, my lord," said the aide,
after a moment's shuffle to the bottom of the pile. "The
commanders complain they do not have enough men to
take the city. They maintain that if General Dogah's
forces had been allowed to march to Sanction instead of
being diverted to Silvanesti, the city would now be in
their hands."

"And I'm a gully dwarf," Targonne said with a snort.
"Once Silvanesti is secure, we will deal with Sanction."

"Regarding Silvanesti, my lord." The aide returned to
the top of the pile and extracted a sheet of paper. "I have
here the report from the interrogation of the elven pris-
oners. The three—two males and a female—are mem-
bers of what is known as the 'kirath,' a sort of border
patrol, I believe."

He handed over the report. Immediately after hear-
ing of the fall of Silvanesti, Targonne had ordered
Dogah's troops to capture several elves alive and have
them transported back to Jelek for interrogation. Tar-
gonne scanned the report briefly. His eyebrows lifted in

111

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct?e Wan oy Souls

astonishment, then came together in a frown. He could
not believe what he was reading and started over at the
beginning to see if he'd missed something.

Lifting his head, Targonne stared at his aide. "Have
you read this?" he demanded.

"Yes, my lord," said the aide.

"The Mina girl is mad! Absolutely mad! Worse than
that, I don't think she's even on our side! Healing the
elves! She is healing the bloody elves!"

"So it would appear, my lord," said the aide.

Targonne picked up the paper to read aloud, " 'She has
now a cult of young elven followers, who stand outside
the palace where she has taken up residence, chanting her
name.' And this. 'She has seduced the elven king Sil-
vanoshei, who was publicly heard to say he is going to
marry her. This news reportedly has greatly angered his
mother, Alhana Starbreeze, who attempted to persuade
her son to flee Silvanesti in advance of the arrival of the
Dark Knights. Silvanoshei is said to be besotted with this
Mina and refuses to leave her side.' "

Targonne threw down. the report in anger. 'This cannot
go on. Mina is a threat, a danger. She must be stopped."

'That may prove difficult, my lord," said his aide. "You
will see in Dogah's report that he approves and admires
everything she does. He is infatuated by her. His men are
loyal to her, as are her own. You will note that Dogah now
signs his report, 'In the name of the One God.' "

"This Mina has bewitched them. Once she is gone and
her spell is broken, they will return to their senses. But
how to get rid of her? That is the problem. I don't want
Dogah's forces turning on me...."

Targonne picked up the report again, reread it. This
time, he began to smile. He laid the report down, sat
back, went over the plan in his mind. The numbers, he
thought, added up nicely.

112

DnagoNS of a Lost Stap

"Are the elven prisoners still alive?" he asked abruptly.

"Yes, my lord. It was thought you might have further
need of them."

"You said there was a female among them?"

"One, my lord."

"Excellent. I have no further use for the males. Dis-
patch them in whatever way the executioner finds amus-
ing. Have the female brought here to me. I will need a
quill and ink—see to it that ifs squeezed from berries or
however the elves make it. And a scrollcase of elven
design and manufacture."

"I believe there are some in the treasury room, my lord."

"Bring the least valuable. Finally, I want this." Targonne
drew a diagram, handed it to the aide.

"Yes, my lord," the aide said, after a moment's perusal.
"It will have to be specially made."

"Of course. Elven design. Emphasize that. And," Tar-
gonne added, "keep the cost to a minimum."

"Of course, my lord," said the aide.

"Once I have planted my instructions in the elf's
mind, she is to be returned to Silvanesti and dropped off
near the city of Silvanost. Have one of the messengers
ready to depart this night."

"I understand, my lord," said the aide.

"One more thing," Targonne added, "I will be making
a trip to Silvanesti myself sometime within the fortnight.
I'm not sure when, so see to it that arrangements are
made for me to leave whenever I have to."

"Why would you go there, my lord?" his aide asked,
startled.

"Protocol will require my attendance at the funeral,"
Targonne replied.

113

9

'CtJe RINQ of teans




ilvanesti was an occupied land, Silvanost an
occupied capital. The worst fears of the elves had
been realized. It was to protect against this very
disaster that they had authorized the creation of the
magical shield. The embodiment of their fear and their
distrust of the world, the shield had slowly drained them,
drawing upon that fear to give itself unwholesome life.
When the shield fell, the world, represented by the sol-
diers of the Dark Knights, marched into Silvanost, and
sick and exhausted, the elves capitulated. They surren-
dered the city to their most feared foe.

The kirath predicted the worst. They spoke of slave
camps, of looting and burning, of torment and torture.
They urged the elves to fight until death had taken
every one of them. Better to die free, said the kirath,
than live as slaves.

A week passed and not a single elf male was dragged
from his house and tortured. No elf babies were spitted
on the ends of spears. No elf women were raped and left

114

DRBQONS OF a Lost Stan

to die on dung heaps. The Dark Knights did not even
enter the city of Silvanost. They camped outside the city
on the battlefield where Mina's troops had fought and
lost and Mina herself had been made prisoner. The first
order given to the soldiers of the Dark Knights was not
to set fire to Silvanost but to bum the carcass of the green
dragon. Cyan Bloodbane. A detachment even fought and
defeated a band of ogres who had been elated to dis-
cover the shield had fallen and attempted an invasion of
their own. Many among the younger elves were calling
the Dark Knights saviors.

Babies were healed and played upon the grass that
grew green in the fierce bright sunlight. Women strolled
in their gardens, finding joy in the flowers that had
withered beneath the shield, but which were now starting
to bloom. Men walked the streets free and unfettered.
The elf king, Silvanoshei, remained the ruler. The Heads
of House were consulted on all matters. A confused
observer might have said it was the Dark Knights who
had capitulated to the Silvanesti.

To say that the kirath were disappointed would be
unfair. They were loyal to their people, and they were
glad—and most were thankful—that thus far the blood-
bath they had expected had not occurred. Some of the
older members of the kirath claimed that what was hap-
pening to the elves was far worse. They did not like this
talk of a One God. They mistrusted the Dark Knights,
who, they suspected, were not as peace-loving as they
appeared. The kirath had heard rumors of comrades
ambushed and spirited away on the backs of blue drag-
ons. Those who disappeared were never heard of again.

Alhana Starbreeze and her forces had crossed the
border when the shield fell. They now occupied terri-
tory to the north of the capital, about halfway between
Silvanost and the border. They never remained in one

115

DRAQONLANCE tlie ware of Souls

location long but shifted from camp to camp, covering
their movements, blending into the forests that many of
them, including Alhana herself, had once known and
loved. Alhana did not have much fear that she and her
troops would be discovered. The five thousand troops of
Dark Knights would have all they could do to hold Sil-
vanost. The commander would be a fool to divide his
forces and send them into unfamiliar territory, searching
for elves who had been born and bred to the forests.
Nonetheless Alhana had survived this long by never
taking chances, and so the elves remained on the move.

Not a day passed, but that Alhana did not long to see
her son. She lay awake nights making plans to sneak into
the city, where her life was forfeit, not only from the
Dark Knights, but from her very own people. She knew
Silvanost, she knew the palace, for it had been her home.
In the night the plans seemed sound, and she was deter-
mined to follow through with them. In the morning she
would tell Samar, and he would bring up every difficulty,
present her with every opportunity for disaster. He
always won the argument, not so much because she
feared what might happen to her if she were caught, but
because she feared what might happen to Silvanoshei.
She kept in touch with what was happening in Silvanost
through the kirath. She watched and waited and ago-
nized, and like all the other elves, she wondered what the
Knights of Neraka were plotting.

It appeared to the kirath, to men and women such as
Rolan, Alhana Starbreeze, and Samar and their meager
resistance forces, that their people had once more fallen
under the spell of a dream such as had been cast on the
land during the War of the Lance. Except that this dream
was a waking dream and none of them could battle it, for
to do so would be to battle the dreamers. The kirath and
Alhana made what plans they could for the day when

116

OnaQONS of a Lost Stan

the dream must end and the dreamer wake to a night-
mare reality.

General Dogah's troops camped outside Silvanesti.
Mina and her knights had moved into the Tower of the
Stars. They had taken over one wing of the building, that
which had previously belonged to the late Governor
General Konnal. All the elves knew that their young king
was enamored of Mina. The story of how she had brought
Silvanoshei back from death had been made into a song
sung by the young people throughout Silvanesti.

Never before would the elves have countenanced a
marriage between one of their own and a human.
Alhana Starbreeze had been declared a dark elf for
having married "outside her kind" by marrying a Qua-
linesti. Yet the young people—those who were near the
same age as their king—had come to adore Mina. She
could not walk the streets but that she was mobbed.
The palace was surrounded, day and night, by young
elves who sought to catch a glimpse of her. They were
pleased and flattered to think that she loved their king,
and they confidently expected to hear news of the mar-
riage any day.

Silvanoshei expected it, too. He dreamed of her walk-
ing into the palace, being led to his throne room, where
he would be seated in regal state. In his dreams, she
flung herself eagerly, adoringly into his arms. That had
been five days ago. She had not yet asked to see him. On
her arrival, she had gone straight to her quarters and
remained there.

Five days had passed, and he had neither seen nor
spoken to her. He made excuses for her. She feared to
see him, feared her troops might not understand. She
would come to him at night and declare her love for
him, then swear him to secrecy. He lay awake nights in
anticipation, but she did not come, and Silvanoshei's

117

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfte wan of Souls

dream began to wither, as did the bouquet of roses and
violets he had handpicked from the royal garden to
present to her.

Outside the Tower of the Stars, the young elves
chanted "Mina! Mina!" The words that had been so sweet
to his ears only days before now stabbed him like knives.
Standing at the window, hearing that name echo in the
bitter emptiness of his heart, he made his decision.

"I am going to her," he said.

"Cousin—" Kiryn began.

"No!" SUvanoshei said, cutting off the reprimand he
knew was coming. "I have listened to you and those
fools of advisers long enough! 'She should come to you,'
they say. 'It would be undignified for you to go to her,
Your Majesty.' 'It is you who do her the honor.' 'You put
yourself in a false position.' You are wrong. All of you. I
have thought this over. I believe that I know the problem.
Mina wants to come to me, but her officers will not let
her. That great, hulking minotaur and the rest. Who knows
but that they are holding her against her will?"

"Cousin," said Kiryn gently, "she walks the streets of
Silvanost, she comes and goes freely from the palace.
She meets with her officers and, from what I have
heard, even the highest ranking defer to her in all
things. You must face it. Cousin, if she wanted to see
you, she would."

Silvanoshei was dressing himself in his very finest
garments, and either he was pretending not to hear, or
he had truly not heard. Kiryn's heart ached for his
cousin. He had witnessed with alarm Silvanoshei's
obsession with this girl. He had guessed from the begin-
ning that she was using Silvanoshei to her own ends,
though what those ends might be, Kiryn could not tell.
Part of the reason he had hoped Silvanoshei would
seek safety in the forest with the resistance movement

118

OnagoNS of a Lost Stan

was to take him away from Mina, break the hold she
had over him. Kiryn's plans had failed, and he was at
his wit's end.

Silvanoshei had no appetite. He had lost weight. He
could not sleep but roamed around his room at night,
leaping out of bed at every sound, thinking it was her
coming to him. His long hair had lost its sheen and hung
limp and ragged. His nails were bitten almost to the quick.
Mina was healing the elven people. She was bringing
them back to life. Yet she was killing their king.

Dressed in his royal robes that hung from his wasted
frame, Silvanoshei enveloped himself in his doth of gold
and made ready to leave his chambers.

Kiryn, greatly daring, knowing that he risked rebuke,
made one last attempt to stop him.

"Cousin," he said, his voice soft with the affection he
truly felt, "do not do this. Do not demean yourself. Try to
forget about her."

"Forget her," Silvanoshei said with a hollow laugh. "I
might as well try to forget to breathe!"

Thrusting aside his cousin's hand, Silvanoshei swept
out the door, the cloth of gold fluttering behind him.

Kiryn followed him, heartsick. Elven courtiers bowed
as the king passed, many attempting to catch his eye. He
paid them no heed. He wended his way through the
palace until he reached the wing occupied by Mina and
her Knights. In contrast to his chambers that were filled
with people, the part of the tower where Mina had set up
her command post was quiet and empty. Two of her
Knights stood guard outside a closed door. At the sight of
Silvanoshei, the Knights came to respectful attention, but
they did not stand aside.

Silvanoshei gave them a baleful look. "Open the door,"
he commanded.

The Knights made no move to comply.

119

DRAQONLANCE tl?e Wan of Souls

"I gave you an order," said Silvanoshei, flushing, the
red staining the unhealthy pallor of his skin as if he were
cut and bleeding.

"I am sorry. Your Majesty," said one of the Knights,
"but our orders are to admit no one."

"I am not no one!" Silvanoshei's voice shook. "I am king.
This is my palace. All doors open to me. Do as I tell you!"

"Cousin," Kiryn urged softly, "please come away!"

The door opened at that moment, not from without. It
opened from within. The huge minotaur stood in the
door, his head level with the top of the gilded frame. He
had to stoop to pass through.

"What is this commotion?" the minotaur demanded in
his rumbling voice. "You disturb the commander."

"His Majesty begs an audience with Mina, Gaidar,"
said one of the Knights.

"I do not beg!" said Silvanoshei angrily. He glow-
ered at the minotaur blocking the door. "Stand aside. I
will speak to Mina. You cannot keep her locked away
from me!"

Kiryn was watching the minotaur closely, saw the
monster's lips twitch in what might have been the begin-
ning of a derisive smile, but at the last moment, the mino-
taur rearranged his expression to one of somber gravity.
Bowing his homed head, he stood aside.

"Mina," he said, turning on his heel, "His Majesty, the
king of Silvanesti, is here to see you."

Silvanoshei swept into the room.

"Mina!" he cried, his heart in his voice, on his lips, in his
outstretched hands, in his eyes. "Mina, why have you not
come to me?"

The girl sat behind a desk covered with what looked
to be map rolls. One map was spread out upon the desk,
the curling edges held down with a sword at one comer,
a morning star on the other. Kiryn had last seen Mina

120

OnagoNS of a Lost Stan

the day of the battle with Cyan Bloodbane. He had seen
her dressed in the coarse robes of a prisoner, he had
seen her being led to her execution.

She had changed since then. Her head had been shaved
to only a fine down of red. The hair had grown back some,
was thick and curly and flamed in the sunlight streaming
through the crystal panes of the window behind her. She
wore the black tunic of a Knight of Neraka over black
chain mail. The amber eyes that gazed at Silvanoshei were
cool, preoccupied, held the markings of the map, held
roads and cities, hills and mountains, rivers and valleys.
The eyes did not hold him.

"Silvanoshei," Mina said after a moment, during which
the roads and cities caught in the golden amber were
slowly overlaid by the image of the young elf. "Forgive
me for not coming to pay my respects sooner. Your
Majesty, but I have been extremely busy."

Caught in the amber, Silvanoshei struggled. "Mina!
Respect! How can you use such a word to me? I love you,
Mina. I thought... I thought you loved me."

"I do love you, Silvanoshei," said Mina gently, as one
speaks to a fretful child. "The One God loves you."

Silvanoshei's struggles availed him nothing. The amber
absorbed him, hardened, held him fast.

"Mina!" he cried in agony and lurched toward her.

The minotaur sprang in front of her, drew his sword.

"Silvan!" Kiryn shouted in alarm, catching hold of him.

Silvanoshei's strength gave way. The shock was too
much. He crumpled and fell to the floor, clutching Kiryn's
arm, nearly dragging his cousin down with him.

"His Majesty is unwell. Take him back to his room,"
said Mina, adding in a voice soft with pity, "Tell him I
will pray for him."

Kiryn, with the help of the servants, managed to assist
Silvanoshei to his chambers. They took secret hallways

121

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfte Wan OF Souls

and stairs, for it would never do for the courtiers to see
their king in such a pitiable condition. Once in his cham-
bers, Silvanoshei flung himself on his bed and refused to
speak to anyone. Kiryn stayed with him, worried until he
was almost ill himself. He waited until, finally, he saw
with relief that Silvanoshei slept, his exhaustion eventu-
ally overcoming his grief.

Thinking Silvanoshei was likely to sleep for hours,
Kiryn went to his own rest. He gave orders to the ser-
vants that His Majesty was unwell and that he was not
to be disturbed. The curtains over the windows were
closed and drawn, the room darkened. The servants stole
out, softly shutting the door behind them. Musicians sat
outside the king's bedchamber, playing soft music to
soothe his slumbers.

Silvanoshei slept heavily, as though drugged, and when
he woke some hours later, he was stupefied and groggy.
He lay staring into the shadows, hearing Mina's voice. I
was busy, too busy to come to you.... I will pray for you....
Her words were sharp steel and inflicted a fresh wound
every time he repeated them. He repeated them over and
over. The sharp blade struck his heart and struck his
pride. He knew she had once loved him, but now no one
would believe that. All believed that she had used him,
and they pitied him, just as she pitied him.

Angry, restless, he threw off the silken sheets and the
embroidered down coverlet and left his bed. A thousand
plans came to mind so that his brain was fevered with
them. Plans to win her back, plans to humiliate her, noble
plans to do grand things in spite of her, degrading plans
to cast himself at her feet and plead with her to love him
again. He found that none of the plans spread soothing
salve over the terrible wounds. None of them eased this
horrible pain.

122

DRBOONS of a Lost Stan

the day of the battle with Cyan Bloodbane. He had seen
her dressed in the coarse robes of a prisoner, he had
seen her being led to her execution.

She had changed since then. Her head had been shaved
to only a fine down of red. The hair had grown back some,
was thick and curly and flamed in the sunlight streaming
through the crystal panes of the window behind her. She
wore the black tunic of a Knight of Neraka over black
chain mail. The amber eyes that gazed at Silvanoshei were
cool, preoccupied, held the markings of the map, held
roads and cities, hills and mountains, rivers and valleys.
The eyes did not hold him.

"Silvanoshei," Mina said after a moment, during which
the roads and cities caught in the golden amber were
slowly overlaid by the image of the young elf. "Forgive
me for not coming to pay my respects sooner. Your
Majesty, but I have been extremely busy."

Caught in the amber, Silvanoshei struggled. "Mina!
Respect! How can you use such a word to me? I love you,
Mina. I thought... I thought you loved me."

"I do love you, Silvanoshei," said Mina gently, as one
speaks to a fretful child. "The One God loves you."

Silvanoshei's struggles availed him nothing. The amber
absorbed him, hardened, held him fast.

"Mina!" he cried in agony and lurched toward her.

The minotaur sprang in front of her, drew his sword.

"Silvan!" Kiryn shouted in alarm, catching hold of him.

Silvanoshei's strength gave way. The shock was too
much. He crumpled and fell to the floor, clutching Kiryn's
arm, nearly dragging his cousin down with him.

"His Majesty is unwell. Take him back to his room,"
said Mina, adding in a voice soft with pity, "Tell him I
will pray for him."

Kiryn, with the help of the servants, managed to assist
Silvanoshei to his chambers. They took secret hallways

121

DRAQONLANCE 'CDe Wan oy Souls

and stairs, for it would never do for the courtiers to see
their king in such a pitiable condition. Once in his cham-
bers, Silvanoshei flung himself on his bed and refused to
speak to anyone. Kiryn stayed with him, worried until he
was almost ill himself. He waited until, finally, he saw
with relief that Silvanoshei slept, his exhaustion eventu-
ally overcoming his grief.

Thinking Silvanoshei was likely to sleep for hours,
Kiryn went to his own rest. He gave orders to the ser-
vants that His Majesty was unwell and that he was not
to be disturbed. The curtains over the windows were
closed and drawn, the room darkened. The servants stole
out, softly shutting the door behind them. Musicians sat
outside the king's bedchamber, playing soft music to
soothe his slumbers.

Silvanoshei slept heavily, as though drugged, and when
he woke some hours later, he was stupefied and groggy.
He lay staring into the shadows, hearing Mina's voice. I
was busy, too busy to come to you.... I will pray for you....
Her words were sharp steel and inflicted a fresh wound
every time he repeated them. He repeated them over and
over. The sharp blade struck his heart and struck his
pride. He knew she had once loved him, but now no one
would believe that. All believed that she had used him,
and they pitied him, just as she pitied him.

Angry, restless, he threw off the silken sheets and the
embroidered down coverlet and left his bed. A thousand
plans came to mind so that his brain was fevered with
them. Plans to win her back, plans to humiliate her, noble
plans to do grand things in spite of her, degrading plans
to cast himself at her feet and plead with her to love him
again. He found that none of the plans spread soothing
salve over the terrible wounds. None of them eased this
horrible pain.

122

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

He walked the length of his room and back many
times, passing by his writing desk, but he was so pre-
occupied that he did not notice the strange scrollcase
until the twentieth or twenty-first turn, when a shaft of
dusty sunlight filtered through a chink in the velvet cur-
tains, struck the scrollcase, and illuminated it, bringing
it to his attention.

He paused, stared at the case, wondering. The scroll-
case had not been there this morning. Of that, he was
certain. It did not belong to him. It did not bear upon it
the royal crest, nor was it as richly decorated as those that
bore his messages. The case had a battered appearance, as
if it had been often used.

The wild thought came to him that the scrollcase
belonged to Mina. This notion was completely irrational,
but when one is in love, all things are possible. He reached
out his hand to snatch it up, then paused.

Silvanoshei was a young man who felt desperately in
love, but he was not deranged enough to have forgotten
the lessons in caution learned from spending most of his
life running from those who sought to take his life. He
had heard tales of scrollcases that harbored venomous
snakes or were magically enchanted and spewed forth
poisonous gas. He should summon a guard and have the
case removed.

"Yet, after all, what does it matter?" he asked himself
bitterly. "If I die, I die. That at least would end this tor-
ment. And ... it might be from her!"

Recklessly, he caught up the scrollcase. He did take
time to examine the seal, but the wax impression was
smudged, and he couldn't make it out. Breaking the seal,
he tugged impatiently at the lid with trembling fingers
and finally pulled it off with such force that an object flew
out and landed on the carpet, where it lay sparkling in
the single shaft of sunlight.

123

DRAQONLANCE 1:176 Wan of Souls

He bent down to stare at it in wonder, then picked it
up. He held between his thumb and forefinger a small
ring, a circlet of rubies that had all been cut in a teardrop
shape—or perhaps blood drop would better describe
them. The ring was of exquisite workmanship. Only elves
do such fine work.

His heart beat fast. The ring came from Mina. He knew
it! Looking back inside the scrollcase, he saw a rolled mis-
sive. Dropping the ring on the desk, he drew out the
letter. The first words quenched the flicker of hope that
had so briefly warmed his heart. My cherished son . .. the
letter began. But as he read, hope returned, a ravening
flame, all-consuming.

My cherished son,

This letter will be brief as I have been very HI. I am recovered,
but I am still very weak, too weak to write. One of my ladies acts
as my scribe. The rumors that you are in love with a human girl
have reached my ears. At first I was angry, but my illness carried
me so close to death that it has taught me to think differently. I
want only your haziness, Silvanoshei. This ring has magical
properties. If you give it to one who loves you, it will ensure that
her love for you will endure forever. If you give it to one who does
not love you, the ring will cause her to love you with a passion
equal to your own.

Take the ring with a mother's blessing, my beloved son, and
give it to the woman you lave with a kiss from me.

The letter was signed with his mother's name, though it
was not her signature. The letter must have been written
by one of the elven women who had once been Alhana's
ladies-in-waiting but were now her friends, having chosen
to share with her the harsh life of an outcast. He did not
recognize the handwriting, but there was no reason he
should. He felt a pang of worry over his mother's ill

124

DnagoNs of a Lost SIBR

health, but was reassured to hear that she was better. His
joy, as he looked at the ring and read once more of the
ring's magical properties, was overwhelming. Joy over-
whelmed reason, overwhelmed logic.

Cradling the predous ring in the palm of his hand, he
brought it to his lips and kissed it. He began to make
plans for a great banquet. Plans to show to all the world
that Mina loved him and him alone.

125

10

'Ctfe BetROfl^al BaNQuet




he Tower of the Stars was in a bustle of excitement
and frantic preparation. His Majesty, the Speaker
of the Stars, was giving a grand banquet in honor
of Mina, the savior of the Silvanesti. Ordinarily, among
the elves, such a banquet would have required months of
preparation, days spent agonizing over guest lists, weeks
of consultation with the cooks over the menu, more weeks
spent arranging the table and deciding on the perfect
choice for flowers. It was a mark of the king's youth, some
said, and his impetuosity, that he had announced that the
banquet would be held within twenty-four hours.

His minister of protocol wasted two of those twenty-
four by attempting to remonstrate with His Majesty that
such a feat was beyond the realm of possibility. His
Majesty had been adamant, and so the minister had been
forced to give way in despair and rush forth to marshal
his forces.

The king's invitation was presented to Mina. She
accepted in the name of herself and her officers. The

126

DRBQONS OF a Lost Stare

minister was horrified. The elves had not intended to
invite the officers of the Dark Knights of Neraka. So far
as the longest lived among the elves could remember,
no Silvanesti elf had ever shared a meal with a human on
Silvanesti soil. Mina was different. The elves had begun
to consider Mina as one of themselves. Rumors were cir-
culating among her followers that she had elven blood
in her; the fact that she was a commander in the army of
the Dark Knights of Neraka having conveniently slipped
their minds. Mina helped foster this belief, never appear-
ing in public in her black armor, but always dressing in
silvery white.

At this point, an argument arose. The aide to the min-
ister of protocol maintained that during the War of the
Lance, when the daughter ofLorac (who was Alhana Star-
breeze, but since she was a dark elf and her name could
not be mentioned, she was referred to in this manner) had
returned to Silvanost, she had brought with her several
human companions. There was no record of whether or
not they had dined while on Silvanesti soil, but it was to
be presumed they had. Thus a precedent had been set.
The minister of protocol observed that they might have
dined, but, if so, the dining was informal, due to the
unfortunate circumstances of the time. Thus, such a
dinner did not count.

As for the notion of the minotaur dining with elves,
that was simply out of the question.

Flustered, the minister hinted to Mina that her officers
would be bored with the proceedings, which they would
find long and tedious, particularly since none of them
spoke Elvish. They would not like the food, they would
not like the wine. The minister was certain that her officers
would be much happier dining as they were accustomed
to dine in their camp outside of the walls of Silvanost. His
Majesty would send food, wine, and so forth.

127

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl?e Ware of Souls

"My officers will attend me/' Mina said to him, "or I
will not come."

At the thought of delivering this message to His
Majesty, the minister decided that eating dinner with
humans would be less traumatic. General Dogah, Cap-
tain Samuval, the minotaur Gaidar, and Mina's Knights
would all attend. The minister could only hope fervently
that the minotaur would not slurp his soup.

His Majesty was in a festive mood, and his gaiety
affected the palace staff. Silvanoshei was a favorite
among the servants and staff members, and all had noted
his wan appearance and were anxious about him. The
staff was pleased at the change in him and did not ques-
tion it. If a banquet would lift him from the doldrums,
they would throw the most lavish banquet that had ever
been seen in Silvanesti.

Kiryn was less pleased at the change, viewed it with
unease. He alone noted that Silvanoshei's gaiety had a
frantic quality to it, that the color in his cheeks was not
the rosy color of health but seemed to have been burned
into the pale flesh. He could not question the king, for
Silvanoshei was immersed in preparations for the
grand event, overseeing everything to make certain all
was perfect, down to personally selecting the flowers
that were to grace the table. He claimed he had no time
to talk.

"You will see. Cousin," Silvanoshei said, pausing a
moment in his headlong rush to grasp Kiryn's hand and
squeeze it. "She does love me. You will see."

Kiryn could only conclude that Silvanoshei and Mina
had been in contact and that she had somehow reassured
him. This was the only explanation for Silvanoshei's
erratic behavior, although Kiryn, thinking over again all
that Mina had said the day before, found it difficult to
believe that those cruel words of hers had been an act.

128

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

But she was human, and the ways of humans were never
to be understood.

Elven royal banquets are always held outdoors, at
midnight, beneath the stars. In the old days, before the
War of the Lance, before the coming of Cyan Bloodbane
and the casting of the dream, rows and rows of tables
would have been set up in the tower's garden to accom-
modate all the elves of House Royal. Many nobles had
died fighting the dream. Many more had died of the
wasting sickness brought on them by the shield. Of those
who had survived, most refused the invitation—a terrible
affront to the young king. Rather it would have been an
affront, if Silvanoshei had paid any heed to it. He said
only, with a laugh, that the old fools would not be missed.
As it was, only two long tables were required now, and
the elder elves of House Servitor, who remembered the
past glory of Silvanesti, let fall tears as they polished the
delicate silver and set the fragile, eggshell-thin porcelain
dishes upon the cobweb-fine lace table coverings.

Silvanoshei was dressed and ready long before mid-
night. The hours until the banquet appeared to him to
have been mounted on the backs of snails, they crawled so
slowly. He worried that all might not be right, although
he had been to check the laying of the tables eight times
already and was with difficulty dissuaded from going
down a ninth. The discordant sound of the musicians
tuning their instruments was sweetest music to him, for it
meant that there was only a single hour remaining. He
threatened to backhand the minister of protocol, who said
that the king could not possibly make his regal appear-
ance until all the guests had entered. Silvanoshei was the
first to arrive and charmed and bewildered all his guests
by greeting them personally.

He carried the ruby ring in a jeweled box in a velvet
pouch inside his blue velvet doublet and beneath his

129

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfle wan of Souls

silken shirt. He checked continuously to make certain the
box was still there, pressing his hand over his breast so
often that some of the guests took note and wondered
uneasily if their young king suffered from some heart
complaint. They had not seen His Majesty so joyful since
his coronation, however, and they were soon caught up in
his merriment and forgot their fears.

Mina came with the midnight, and Silvanoshei's joy
was complete. She wore a gown of white silk, simple,
with no ornamentation. Her only jewelry was the pen-
dant that she always wore, a pendant round and plain
with no decoration or design. She herself was in high
spirits. Those elves she knew, she greeted by name, gra-
ciously accepting their blessings and their thanks for the
miracles she had performed. She was as slender as any
elf maid and almost as beautiful said the young elves,
which was, for them, a high compliment, one rarely paid
to any human.

"I thank you for the honor you do me this night,
Your Majesty," said Mina when she came to make her
bow to Silvanoshei.

He would not let her bow but took her hand and
raised her up. "I wish I had time to do more," he said.
"Someday you will see a true elven celebration." Our
wedding, his heart sang to him.

"I do not mean this honor," she said, dismissing with
a glance the beautifully decorated tables, the fragrant
flowers and the myriad candles that illuminated the
night. "I thank you for the honor you do me this night.
The gift you intend to give me is one I have long wanted,
one for which I have long prepared. I hope I may be
worthy of it," she added quietly, almost reverently.

Silvanoshei was astonished and for a moment felt the
pleasure in his gift—that was to have been a marvelous
surprise—diminished. Then the import of her words struck

130

DnaQONS of a Lost Stare

him. The honor he would do her. The gift she had long wanted.
She hoped she may he worthy. What could that mean except
that she spoke of the gift of his love?

Ecstatic, he kissed fervently the hand she offered
him. He promised himself that within hours he would
kiss her lips.

The musicians ceased playing. Silver chimes rang out,
announcing dinner. Silvanoshei took his place at the head
table, leading Mina by the hand and seating her on his
right. The other elves and the human officers took their
places, or at least so Silvanoshei presumed. He could not
have sworn to that, or the fact that there was anyone else
present or that the stars were in the sky, or that the grass
was beneath his feet.

He was aware of nothing except Mina. Kiryn, seated
opposite Silvanoshei, tried to speak to his cousin, but Sil-
vanoshei never heard a word. He did not drink wine. He
drank Mina. He did not eat fruit or cake. He devoured
Mina. The pale moon did not light the night. Mina lit the
night. The music was harsh compared to Mina's voice.
The amber of her eyes surrounded him. He existed in a
golden stupor of happiness, and as if drunk on honey
wine, he did not question anything. As for Mina, she
spoke to her neighbors, enchanting them with her fluent
Elvish and her talk of the One God and the miracles this
god performed. She rarely spoke to Silvanoshei, but her
amber gaze was often on him, and that gaze was not
warm and loving but cool, expectant.

Silvanoshei might have been uneasy at this, but he
touched the box over his heart for reassurance, brought to
mind Mina's words to him, and his unease vanished.

Maidenly confusion, he told himself, and gazed at her
as she talked of this One God, proud to watch her hold
her own among the elven wise and scholars such as his
cousin, Kiryn.

131

DRAQONLANCE •Cfte Wan Of Souls

"You will forgive me if I ask a question about this One
God, Mina," said Kiryn deferentially.

"I not only forgive you," Mina answered with a slight
smile. "I encourage you. I do not fear questions, though
some might fear the answers."

"You are an officer in the Dark Knights of Takhisis—"

"Neraka," Mina corrected. "We are the Dark Knights
of Neraka."

"Yes, I heard your organization had made that change,
Takhisis having departed—"

"As did the god of the elves, Paladine."

True." Kiryn was grave. "Although the circumstances
of their departures are known to be different. Still, that is
not relevant to my question. In their brief history, the Dark
Knights of whatever allegiance have held that the elves
are their sworn and bitter enemies. They have never made
secret their manifesto that they plan to purge the world of
elves and seize their lands for their own."

"Kiryn," Silvanoshei intervened angrily, "this is hardly
suitable—"

Mina rested her hand on his. Her touch was like fire
licking his flesh. The flames both seared and cauterized.

"Let your cousin speak. Your Majesty," said Mina.
"Please continue, sir.".

"I do not understand, therefore, why now you con-
quer our lands and ..." He paused, looked stem.

"And let you live," Mina finished for him.

"Not only that," said Kiryn, "but you heal our sick in
the name of this One God. What care can this One God—
a god of our enemies—have for elves?"

Mina sat back. Lifting a wineglass, she revolved the
fragile crystal goblet in her hand, watching as the candles
seemed to burn in the wine. "Let us say that I am the ruler
of a large city. Inside the city's walls are thousands of
people who look to me for protection. Now, within this

132

OnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

city are two strong and powerful families. They hate and
detest each other. They have sworn each other's destruc-
tion. They fight among themselves whenever they meet,
creating strife and enmity in my dty. Now, let us say that
my city is suddenly threatened. It is under attack from
powerful forces from the outside. What happens? If these
two families continue to quarrel, the dty will surely fall.
But if the families agree to unite and battle this foe
together, we have a chance to defeat our common enemy."

"That common enemy would be what—the ogres?"
asked Kiryn. "They were once your allies, but I have
heard since that they have turned on you—"

Mina was shaking her head. "The ogres will come to
know the One God. They will come to join the battle. Be
blunt, sir," she said, smiling with encouragement. "You
elves are always so polite. You need not be fearful of hurt-
ing my feelings. You will not anger me. Ask the question
that is in your heart."

"Very well," said Kiryn. "You are responsible for reveal-
ing the dragon to us. You are responsible for the dragon's
death. You led us to know the truth about the shield. You
have given us our lives when you could have taken them.
Nothing for nothing, they say. Tit for tat. What do you
expect us to give you in return? What is the price we must
pay for all this?"

"Serve the One God," Mina said. "That is all that is
required of you."

"And if we do not choose to serve this One God?"
Kiryn said, frowning and grave. "What then?"

"The One God chooses us, Kiryn," said Mina, gazing
at the wavering drop of flame flickering in the wine.
"We do not choose the One. The living serve the One
God. So do the dead. Especially the dead," she added in
a voice so low and soft and wistful that only Silvanoshei
heard her.

133

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctfe Wan OF Souls

Her tone and her strange look frightened him.

"Come, Cousin," Silvanoshei said, flashing Kiryn a
warning, irate glance. "Let us make an end to these philo-
sophical discussions. They give me a headache." He ges-
tured to the servants. "Pour more wine. Bring on the fruit
and cake. Tell the musicians to resume playing. That we
may drown him out," he said with a laugh to Mina.

Kiryn said no more, but sat regarding Silvanoshei with
a troubled and worried expression.

Mina did not hear Silvanoshei. Her gaze was sifting
through the crowd. Jealous of anyone who stole her
attention from himself, Silvanoshei was quick to notice
that she was searching for someone. He marked where
her gaze roamed and saw that she was locating every one
of her officers. One by one, her gaze touched each of them
and one by one, each of them responded, either by a con-
scious look of understanding or, with the minotaur, a
slight nod of the homed head.

"You need not worry, Mina," Silvanoshei said, an
edge to his voice, to show he was displeased, "your men
are behaving themselves well. Much better than I had
hoped. The minotaur has only broken his wineglass,
shattered a plate, torn a hole in the tablecloth, and belched
loudly enough to be heard in Thorbardin. All in all, a
most highly successful evening."

"Trivialities," she murmured. "So trivial. So mean-
ingless."

Mina clasped Silvanoshei's hand suddenly, her grip
tightening around his heart. She looked at him with the
amber eyes. "I prepare them for what is to come. Your
Majesty. You imagine that the danger has passed, but you
are mistaken. Danger surrounds us. There are those who
fear us. Those who seek our destruction. We must not be
lulled into complacency by gentle music and fine wine.
So I remind my officers of their duty."

134

DnaqoNs OF a Lost Stare

"What danger?" asked Silvanoshei, now thoroughly
alarmed. "Where?"

"Close," said Mina, drawing him into the amber.
"Very close."

"Mina," said Silvanoshei, "I was going to wait to give
this to you. I had a speech all prepared...." He shook his
head. "I've forgotten every word of it. Not that it matters.
The words I truly want to say to you are in my heart, and
you know them. You've heard them in my voice. You've
seen them every time you see me."

Thrusting his trembling hand into the breast of his
doublet, he drew forth the velvet bag. He reached inside,
brought out the silver box and placed it on the table in
front of Mina.

"Open it," he urged her. "It's for you."

Mina regarded the box for long moments. Her face
was very pale. He heard her give a small, soft sigh.

"Don't worry," he said wretchedly. "I'm not going to
ask anything of you in return. Not now. I hope that
someday you might come to love me or at least think
fondly of me. I think you might someday, if you will
wear this ring."

Seeing that she made no move to touch the box, Sil-
vanoshei seized hold of it and opened it.

The rubies in the ring glittered in the candlelight, each
shining like a drop of blood—Silvanoshei's heart's blood.

"Will you take it, Mina?" he asked eagerly, desper-
ately. "Will you take this ring and wear it for my sake?"

Mina reached out her hand, a hand that was cold and
steady. "I will take the ring and I will wear it," she said.
"For the sake of the One God."

She slipped the ring onto the index finger of her left
hand.

Silvanoshei's joy was boundless. He was annoyed at
first that she had dragged this god of hers into the matter,

135

DRAQONLANCE T:IT€ Wan OF Souls

but perhaps she was merely asking the One God's bless-
ing. Silvanoshei would be willing to ask that, too. He
would be willing to fall onto his knees before this One
God, if that would gain him Mina.

He watched her expectantly, waiting for the ring's
magic to work on her, waiting for her to look at him
with adoration.

She looked at the ring, twisted it on her finger to see
the rubies sparkle. For Silvanoshei, no one else was
present. No one except the two of them. The other people
at the table, the other people at the banquet, the other
people in the world were a blur of candlelight and
music and the fragrance of gardenia and rose, and all of
it was Mina.

"Now, Mina," he said, ecstatic. "You must kiss me."

She leaned near him. The magic of the ring was work-
ing. He could feel her love. His arms encircled her. But
before their lips could touch, her lips parted in a gasp. Her
body stiffened in his arms. Her eyes widened in shock.

"Mina!" he cried, terrified, "what is wrong?"

She screamed in agony. Her lips formed a word. She
tried to speak it, but her throat closed, and she gagged.
Frantic, she clutched at the ring and tried to drag it off her
finger, but her body convulsed, painful spasms wracking
her slender frame. She pitched forward onto the table, her
arms thrust out, knocking over glasses, scattering the
plates. She made an inarticulate, animal sound, terrible
to hear. Her life rattled in her throat. Then she was still.
Horribly still. Her eyes fixed in her head. Their amber
gaze stared accusingly at Silvanoshei.

Kiryn rose to his feet. His action was involuntary. He
had no immediate plan. His thoughts were a confusion.
His first thought was for Silvanoshei, that he should try
to somehow engineer his escape, but he immediately
abandoned that idea. Impossible with all the Dark Knights

136

DnaooNfi Of a Lost Stan

around. At that moment, although he did not consciously
know it, Kiryn abandoned Silvanoshei. The Silvanesti
people were now Kiryn's, his care and his responsibility.
He could do nothing to save his cousin. Kiryn had tried,
and he had failed. But he might be able to save his people.
The kirath must hear of this. They must be warned so
they could be prepared to take whatever actions might
be necessary.

The other elves who sat around them were rigid with
shock, too stunned to move, unable to comprehend what
had just occurred. Time slowed and stopped altogether.
No one drew breath, no eye blinked, no heart beat—all
were frozen in disbelief.

"Mina!" Silvanoshei cried in desperation and reached
out to hold her.

Suddenly, all was turmoil. Mina's officers, crying out
in rage, surged through the crowd, smashing chairs,
overturning tables, knocking down anyone who impeded
their progress. Elves cried out, screamed. Some of the
more astute grabbed husband or wife and fled in haste.
Among these was Kiryn. As the Dark Knights sur-
rounded the table where Mina lay still and unmoving,
Kiryn cast one last, aching glance at his unfortunate
cousin and, with a heavy heart and deep foreboding,
slipped away into the night.

An enormous hand, a hand covered in brown fur,
seized the king's shoulder in a bone-crushing grasp. The
minotaur, his hideous face monstrous with fury and with
grief, lifted Silvanoshei from his chair and, snarling a
curse, flung the young elf aside, as he might have flung
away a piece of refuse.

Silvanoshei smashed through an ornamental trellis
and tumbled backward into the hole where the Shield
Tree had once stood. He lay dazed, breathless, then
faces, grim, human faces, contorted in murderous rage,

137

DRAQONLANCE Vye Wan oy Souls

surrounded him. Rough hands seized him and hauled
him from the pit. Pain shot through his body, and he
moaned. The pain might have come from broken bones.
Perhaps every bone in his body was broken. The true
pain came from his shattered heart.

The knights hauled Silvanoshei to the banquet table.
The minotaur had his hand on Mina's neck.

"The lifebeat is gone. She is dead," he said, his lips
flecked with foam. Turning, he jabbed a shaking finger at
Silvanoshei. 'There is her murderer!"

"No!" Silvanoshei cried. "I loved her! I gave her my
ring—"

The minotaur seized hold of Mina's lifeless hand. He
gave the circlet of rubies a vicious tug, dragged it off her
finger. Thrusting the ring under Silvanoshei's nose, the
minotaur shook it.

"Yes, you gave her a ring. A poisoned ring! You gave
her the ring that killed her!"

Jutting from one of the rubies was a tiny needle. On
that needle glistened a drop of blood.

'The needle is operated by a spring," the minotaur
announced, now holding the ring high for all to see.
"When the victim touches the ring or turns it upon her
finger, the needle activates and pierces the flesh, sending
its deadly poison into the bloodstream. I'll wager," he
added grimly, "that we discover the poison is a kind
whose use is well known to elves."

"I didn't..." Silvanoshei cried from the agony of his
grief. "It wasn't the ring.... It couldn't..."

His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He saw
again Samar standing in his chambers. Samar, who knew
all the secret passages in the palace. Samar, who had
tried to force Silvanoshei to flee, who had made no secret
of his hatred and distrust of Mina. Yet, the note had been
written in a woman's hand. His mother...

138

OnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

A blow sent Silvanoshei reeling. The blow came from
the minotaur's fist, but, in truth, Silvanoshei did not feel
it, though it broke his jaw. The true blow was the knowl-
edge of his guilt. He loved Mina, and he had slain her.

The minotaur's next blow brought darkness.

139

n

'W Wake




he stars faded slowly with the coming of dawn,
each bright, glittering pinprick of flame quenched
by the brighter fire of Krynn's sun. Dawn brought
no hope to the people of Silvanost. A day and a night had
passed since the death of Mina. By orders of General
Dogah, the city had been sealed off, the gates shut. The
inhabitants were told to remain in their houses for their
own safety, and the elves had no thought of doing other-
wise. Patrols marched the streets. The only sounds that
could be heard were the rhythmic tramp of booted feet and
the occasional sharp command of an officer.

Outside Silvanost, in the encampment of the Dark
Knights of Neraka, the three top officers came together in
front of what had once been Mina's command tent. They
had arranged a meeting for sunrise, and it was almost
time. They arrived simultaneously and stood staring at
one another uneasily, irresolutely. None wanted to enter
that empty tent. Her spirit lingered there. She was present
in every object, and that presence only made her absence

140

DnaooNS OF a Lost Stan

more acutely felt. At last, Dogah, his face grim, thrust
aside the tent flap and marched in. Samuval followed, and
Gaidar came, last of all.

Inside the tent. Captain Samuval lit an oil lamp, for
night's shadows still held residence. The three looked
bleakly about. Although Mina had taken quarters in the
palace, she preferred to live and work among her troops.
The original command tent and a few pieces of furniture
had been lost to the ogres. This tent was elven in make,
gaily colored. The humans considered that it looked
more like a tent for harlequins than for military men, but
they were grudgingly impressed by the fact that it was
lightweight, easy to pack and to assemble, and kept out
the elements far better than the tents supplied by the
Dark Knights.

The tent was furnished with a table, borrowed from
the palace, several chairs, and a cot, for Mina sometimes
slept here if she worked late into the night. No one had
been inside this tent since the banquet. Her belongings
had not been touched. A map, marked in her hand-
writing, remained spread out upon the table. Small
blocks and arrows indicated troop movements. Gaidar
glanced at it without interest, thinking it was a map of
Silvanesti. When he saw that it wasn't, he sighed and
shook his horned head. A battered tin cup, half-filled
with cold tarbean tea, held down the eastern comer of
the world. A guttered candle stood on the northwest.
She had worked up until the time of departure for the
banquet. A flow of melted wax had run down the side of
the candle, streamed into the New Sea. A rumble sounded
deep in Gaidar's chest. He rubbed the side of his snout,
looked away.

"Whafs that?" Samuval asked, moving closer to stare
at the map. "I'll be damned," he said, after a moment.
"Solamnia. Looks like we have a long march ahead of us."

141

DRA<SONLANCE 1:176 Wan of Souls

The minotaur scowled. "March! Bah! Mina is dead. I
felt for her lifeboat. It is not there. I think something
went wrong!"

"Hush, the guards," Samuval warned, with a glance at
the tent flap. He had closed and tied shut the opening,
but two soldiers stood outside.

"Dismiss them," said Dogah.

Samuval stalked over to the tent flap, poked his head
out. "Report to the mess tent. Return in an hour."

He paused briefly to look at a tent that stood beside
the command tent. That tent had been the tent where
Mina slept, and it was now where her body lay in state.
They had placed her upon her cot. Dressed in her white
robes, she lay with her hands at her sides. Her armor and
weapons had been piled at her feet. The tent flaps had
been rolled up, so that all could see her and come to pay
her homage. The soldiers and Knights had not only come,
they had stayed. Those who were not on duty had kept
vigil throughout the day after her death and into the long
night. When they had to go on duty, others took their
places. The soldiers were silent. No one spoke.

The silence was not only the silence of grief but of
anger. Elves had killed their Mina, and they wanted the
elves to pay. They would have destroyed Silvanost the
night when they first heard, but their officers had not per-
mitted it. Dogah, Samuval, and Gaidar had endured many
bad hours following Mina's death trying to keep the
troops in line. Only by repeating over and over the words,
"By Mina's command," had they at last brought the
enraged soldiers under control.

Dogah had put them to work, ordering them to cut
down trees to make a funeral pyre. The soldiers, many
with tears streaming down their faces, had performed
their grim task with a fierce will, cutting down the trees of
the Silvanesti forest with as much delight as if they were

142

DRBQONS OF a Lost Stan

cutting down elves. The elves in Silvanost heard the death
cries of their trees—the woods of Silvanesti had never
before felt the blade of an axe—and they grieved deeply,
even as they shuddered in fear. The soldiers had worked
all day yesterday and all through the night. The pyre was
now almost ready. But ready for what? Her three officers
were not quite certain.

They took their seats around the table. Outside the
tent, the camp was noisy with the thud of the axes and
the crews hauling the giant logs to the growing pyre
that stood in the center of the field where the elven
army had defeated Mina's troops and had yet, in the
end, fallen to her might. The noise had a strangely quiet
quality to it. There was no laughing or bantering, no
singing of work songs. The men carried out their duties
in grim silence.

Dogah rolled up the map, stowed it away. General
Dogah was a grim-faced, heavily bearded human of
around forty. A short man, he appeared to be as wide as
he was tall. He was not corpulent but stocky, with mas-
sive shoulders and a bull neck. His black beard was as
thick and curly as a dwarf's, and this and his short stature
gave him the nickname among his troops of Dwarf
Dogah. He was not related to dwarves in any way, shape
or form, as he was quick to emphasize with his fists if
anyone dared suggest such a thing. He was most decid-
edly human, and he had been a member of the Dark
Knights of Neraka for twenty of his forty years.

He was technically the highest-ranking officer among
them, but, being the newest member of Mina's com-
mand group, he was at somewhat of a disadvantage in
that her officers and troops did not know him and had
been immediately distrustful of him. Dogah had been
suspicious of them and, in particular, of this upstart
wench who had, he discovered to his immense shock

143

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl^e Wan of Souls

and outrage, sent him forged orders, had brought him
to Silvanesti on what had appeared at first to be a
kender's errand.

He had arrived at the border with several thousand
troops, only to find that shield was up and they could not
enter. Scouts reported that a huge ogre army was mass-
ing, ready to deal a death blow to the Dark Knights who
had stolen their land. Dogah and his forces were trapped.
They could not retreat, for to do so would have meant a
march back through ogre lands. They could not advance.
Dogah had cursed Mina's name loudly and vidously, and
then the shield had fallen.

Dogah had received the report with astonishment. He
had gone himself to look in disbelief. He had been loath
to cross, fearing that elven warriors would suddenly
spring up, as thick as the dust of the dead vegetation that
coated the ground. But there on the other side, waving to
him from horseback, was one of Mina's Knights.

"Mina bids you cross in safety. General Dogah!" the
Knight had called. "The elven army is in Silvanost, and
they have been considerably weakened both by their
battle with the dragon. Cyan Bloodbane, and by the wast-
ing effects of the shield. They do not pose a threat to you.
You may proceed in safety."

Dogah had been dubious, but he had crossed the
border, his hand on his sword, expecting at any moment
to be ambushed by a thousand pointy-ears. His army
had met with no resistance, none at all. Those elves they
had encountered had been easily captured and were at
first killed, but then they had been sent to Lord Targonne,
as his lordship ordered.

Dogah had remained wary, however, his troops nerv-
ous and on alert. There was still the city of Silvanost.
Then came the astonishing report that the city had fallen
to a handful of soldiers. Mina had entered in triumph

144

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

and was now ensconced in the Tower of the Stars. She
awaited Dogah's arrival with impatience, and she bade
him make haste.

It was not until Dogah had entered the city and
strode its streets with impunity did he come finally to
believe that the Dark Knights of Neraka had captured
the elven nation of Silvanesti. The enormity of this feat
overwhelmed him. The Dark Knights had accomplished
what no other force in history had been able to do, not
even the grand armies of Queen Takhisis during the War
of the Lance. He had looked forward with intense
curiosity to meeting this Mina. He had, in truth, not
really believed that she could be the person responsible.
He had guessed that perhaps it was some older, wiser
officer who was truly in command, using the girl as a
front to keep the troops happy.

Dogah had discovered his mistake immediately on
first meeting her. Watching carefully, he had seen how
every single officer deferred to her. Not only that, they
regarded her with a respect that was close to worship.
Her lightest word was a command. Her commands
were obeyed instantly and without question. Dogah
had been prepared to respect her, but after a few
moments in her presence, he was both charmed and
awed. He had joined wholeheartedly the ranks of those
who adored her. When he had looked into Mina's amber
eyes, he had been proud and pleased to see a tiny image
of himself.

Those eyes were dosed now, the warm fire that lit the
amber quenched.

Gaidar leaned across the table to hiss, "I say again,
something has gone wrong." He sat back, scowling. The
fur that covered his face was streaked with two dark fur-
rows. "She looks dead. She feels dead. Her skin is cold.
She does not breathe."

145

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctie Ware of Souls

"She told us the potion would have that effect," said
Samuval irritably. The fact that he was irritable was a
certain sign of his nervousness.

"Keep your voices down," Dogah ordered.

"No one can hear us over that infernal racket," Samu-
val returned, referring to the erratic staccato of the axes.

"Still, it is best not to take chances. We are the only
three who know Mina's secret, and we must guard the
secret as we promised. If word got out, the news would
spread like a grass fire in the dry season and that
would ruin everything. The soldiers' grief must appear
to be real."

"Perhaps they are wiser than we are," Gaidar mut-
tered. "Perhaps they know the truth, and we are the ones
who have been deluded."

"What would you have us do, minotaur?" Dogah
demanded, his black brows forming a solid bar across
his thick nose. "Would you disobey her?"

"Even if she is . . ." Samuval paused, not wanting to
speak aloud the ill-omened word. "Even if something did
go wrong," he amended, "those commands she gave us
would be her last commands. I, for one, will obey them."

"I also," said Dogah.

"I will not disobey her," said Gaidar, choosing his
words carefully, "but let us face it, her commands are con-
tingent upon one thing happening, and thus far her pre-
diction has not yet come to pass."

"She foretold an attempt on her life," argued Captain
Samuval. "She foretold that the foolish elf would be the
cat's paw. Both came true."

"Yet, she did not foretell the use of the poison ring,"
Gaidar said, his voice harsh. "You saw the needle. You
saw that it punctured her skin."

He drummed his fingers on the table, glanced at his
comrades from beneath narrowed eyes. He had something

146

Dna(,ONS OF a Lost Stan

on his mind, something unpleasant to judge by the frown,
but he seemed uncertain whether to speak his thought
or not.

"Come, Gaidar," said Samuval finally. "Out with it."

"Very well." Gaidar looked from one to the other.
"You have both heard her say that even the dead serve
the One God."

Dogah shifted his bulk in the chair that creaked
beneath his weight. Samuval picked at the wax from the
guttered candle. Neither made any response.

"She promised the One God would confound her
enemies," Gaidar continued, his tone heavy. "She never
promised we should see her again alive—"

"Hail the command tent," a voice shouted. "I have a
message from Lord Targonne. Permission to enter?"

The three officers exchanged glances. Dogah rose
hastily to his feet and hurriedly untied the flaps. The
messenger entered. He wore the armor of a dragonrider,
and he was wind-blown and dust-covered. Saluting, he
handed Dogah a scrollcase.

"No reply is expected, my lord," the messenger said.

"Very well. You are dismissed." Dogah eyed the
seal on the scrollcase and again exchanged glances with
his comrades.

When the messenger had gone, Dogah cracked the
seal with a sharp rap on the table. The other two looked
on expectantly as he opened the case and withdrew the
scroll. He unfurled it, cast his gaze over it, and lifted his
eyes, glittering black with triumph.

"He is coming," he said. "Mina was right."

"Praise the One God," said Captain Samuval, sigh-
ing with relief. He nudged Gaidar. "What do you say
now, friend?"

Gaidar shrugged, nodded, said nothing aloud. When
the others had gone, shouting for their aides, giving orders

147

DRA<,ONLANCE 'Cflc wan of Souls

to make ready for his lordship's arrival, Gaidar remained
alone in the tent where Mina's spirit lingered.

"When I touch your hand and feel your flesh warm
again, then I will praise the One God," he whispered to
her. "Not before."

Lord Targonne arrived about an hour after sunrise,
accompanied by six outriders. His lordship rode a blue
dragon, as did the others. Un!ike many high-ranking
Knights of Neraka, Targonne did not keep a personal
dragon but preferred to use one from the stables. This cut
down on his own out-of-pocket expenditures, or so he
always claimed. In truth, if he had wanted to keep his
own dragon, he would have done so and charged the care
and feeding to the Knighthood. As it was, Targonne did
not keep a dragon because he neither liked nor trusted
dragons. Perhaps this was because as a mentalist, Tar-
gonne knew perfectly well that dragons neither liked nor
trusted him.

He took no pleasure in dragon flight and avoided it
when possib2e< preferring to make his ;oumeys on horse-
back. In this instance, however, the sooner this annoying
girl went up in flames the better, as far as Targonne was
concerned, and he was willing to sacrifice his own per-
sonal comfort to see this accomplished. He brought other
dragonriders with him not so much because he wished to
make a show or that he feared attack, but that he was con-
vinced his dragon was going to do something to imperil
him—either take it into its head to plummet from the
skies or be struck by lightning or dump him off deliber-
ately. He wanted additional riders around him so that
they could rescue him.

His officers knew an this about Targonne. In fact,
Dogah was laughing about this to Gaidar and Captain
Samuval as they watched the blue dragons fly in tight

148

DRawNS of a Lost Stan

circles to a landing. Mina's army was drawn up in for-
mation on the battlefield, with the exception of the few
who were still at work on the pyre. Mina's funeral would
be held at noon, the hour she herself had chosen.

"Do you think any of them would really risk their
necks to save the mercenary old buzzard?" Samuval
asked, watching the circling blues. "From what I've
heard, most of his staff would just as soon see him bounce
several times off sharp rocks while falling into a bottom-
less chasm."

Dogah grunted. "Targonne makes certain he will be
saved. He takes along as escort only those officers to
whom he owes large sums of money."

The blue dragons settled to the ground, their wings
stirring up great clouds of dust. The dragonriders
emerged from the cloud. Sighting the waiting honor
guard, they headed in that direction. Mina's cadre of
officers approached to greet his lordship.

"Which one is he?" asked Captain Samuval, who had
never met the leader of the Knights of Neraka. The cap-
tain's curious gaze ranged over the tall, well-built, grim-
faced Knights who were moving with rapid stride
toward him.

"The little runt in the middle," said Gaidar.

Thinking the minotaur was making sport of him. Cap-
tain Samuval chuckled in disbelief and looked to Dogah
for the truth. Captain Samuval saw Dogah's gaze focus
tensely on the short man who was almost bent double
from coughing in the dust, waving his hand to clear the
air. Gaidar was also keeping close watch on the little man.
The minotaur's hands clenched and unclenched.

Targonne did not cut a very prepossessing figure. He
was short, squat and somewhat bowlegged. He did not
like wearing full armor, for he found it chafed him, and

149

DRAQONLANCE •Ct?e wan of Souls

he made concession to his rank by wearing only a breast-
plate. Expensive, hand-tooled, it was made of the finest
steel, embossed in gold, and suited his exalted station.
Due to the fact that Lord Targonne was stoop-shouldered,
with a caved-in chest and slightly curved back, the breast-
plate did not fit well, but hung forward, giving the
unfortunate impression of a bib tied around the neck of a
child, rather than the armor of a valiant Knight.

Samuval was not impressed with Targonne's appear-
ance, but nonetheless, he had heard stories about Tar-
gonne's ruthless and cold-blooded nature and thus did
not find it at all strange that these two officers were so
apprehensive of this meeting. All knew that Targonne
had been responsible for the untimely death of the former
leader of the Knights, Mirielle Abrena, and a great many
of her followers, though no one ever mentioned such a
thing aloud.

"Targonne is sly, cunning, and subtle, with an amazing
ability to probe deeply into the minds of those he encoun-
ters," warned Dogah. "Some even claim that he uses this
ability to infiltrate the minds of enemies and bend them
to his will."

Small wonder, thought Samuval, that the mighty
Gaidar, who could have lifted Targonne and tossed him
around like a child, was panting with nervousness. The
rank bovine odor was so strong that Samuval edged
upwind to keep from gagging.

"Be prepared," Gaidar warned in a low rumble.

"Let him look into our minds. He will be surprised by
what he finds there," Dogah said dryly, moving forward,
saluting his superior.

"So, Gaidar, it is good to see you again," Targonne said,
speaking pleasantly. The last time Targonne had seen the
minotaur, he had lost his right arm in battle. Unable to fight,

150

DnaqoNS op a Lost Stan

Gaidar had hung around Neraka, hoping for employ-
ment. Targonne might have rid himself of the useless crea-
ture, but he considered the minotaur a curiosity.

"You have come by a new arm. That bit of healing
must have cost you a pretty steel piece or two. I wasn't
aware that our officers were so highly paid. Or perhaps
you found your own private stash. I suppose you are
aware, Gaidar, of the rule that states all treasure discov-
ered by those in the service of the Knighthood is to be
turned over to the Knighthood?"

"The arm was a gift, my lord," said Gaidar, staring
straight over Targonne's head. "A gift of the One God."

"The One God." Targonne marveled. "I see. Look at
me, Gaidar. I like eyes at a level."

Reluctantly, Gaidar lowered his gaze to meet Tar-
gonne's. Immediately Targonne entered the minotaur's
mind. He had a glimpse of roiling storm clouds, fierce
winds, driving rain. A figure emerged from the storm and
began to walk toward him. The figure was a girl with a
shaved head and amber eyes. The eyes looked into Tar-
gonne's, and a bolt of lightning struck the ground in front
of him. Dazzling, shattering white light flared. He could
see nothing for long seconds and stood blinking his eyes
to clear them. When he was able to see once more, Tar-
gonne saw the empty valley of Neraka, the rain-slick
black monoliths, and the storm clouds vanishing over the
mountains. Probe and pierce as he might, Targonne could
not get past these mountains. He could not take himself
out of the accursed valley. He withdrew his thought from
Gaidar's mind.

"How did you do that?" Targonne demanded, eyeing
the minotaur and frowning.

"Do what, my lord?" Gaidar protested, clearly aston-
ished. The astonishment was real, he wasn't feigning. "I
didn't do anything, sir. I've just been standing here."

151

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl»e wan of Souls

Targonne grunted. The minotaur had always been a
freak. He would gain more from a human. He turned to
Captain Samuval. Targonne was not pleased to find this
man among the officers greeting him. Samuval had once
been a Knight, but he had either quit or been drummed
out; Targonne couldn't remember the details. Most likely
drummed out. Samuval was nothing but a draggle-tail
mercenary leading his own company of archers.

"Captain Samuval," said Lord Targonne, laying nasty
emphasis on the low rank. He sent his gaze into Samu-
val's brain.

Flight after flight of arrows arched through the air
with the vidous whir of a thousand wasps. The arrows
found their marks, piercing black armor and black
chain mail. Black-fletched arrows struck through men's
throats and brought down their horses. The dying
screamed, horrible to hear, and still the arrows flew and
the bodies began to mount, blocking the pass so that
those behind were forced to turn and fight the enemy
who had almost made it through the pass, almost ridden
to glory.

An arrow was fired at him, at Targonne. It flew straight
and true, aiming for his eye. He tried to duck, to flee, to
escape, but he was held fast. The arrow pierced his eye,
glanced through to the brain. Pain exploded so that he
clutched at his head, fearing his skull might split apart.
Blood poured down over his vision. He could see nothing
except blood, no matter where he looked.

The pain ended swiftly, so swiftly that Targonne won-
dered if he had imagined it. Finding himself clutching at
his head, he made as if to brush back his hair from his
face and made another attempt to look into the mind of
Captain Samuval. He saw only blood.

He tried to stanch the flow, to clear his vision, but the
blood continued to pour down around him, and eventually

152

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

he gave it up. Blinking, having the strange feeling that his
eyelids were gummed together, he glared frowningly at
this annoying captain, searching for some signs that the
man was not what he appeared to be—not a bluff and
ordinary soldier, but a wizard of high intelligence and
cunning, a rogue Gray Robe or mystic in disguise. The
captain's eyes were eyes that followed the arrow's flight
until it hit its target. Nothing more.

Targonne was vastly puzzled and starting to grow
frustrated and angry. Some force was at work here,
thwarting him, and he was determined to ferret it out. He
left the captain. Who cared about a blasted sell-sword
anyway? Next to him stood Dogah, and Targonne relaxed.
Dogah was Targonne's man. Dogah was to be trusted.
Targonne had walked the length and breadth of Dogah's
mind on previous occasions. Targonne knew all the dark
secrets tucked away in shadowed comers, knew that he
could count on Dogah's loyalty. Targonne had deliber-
ately saved Dogah for last, knowing that if he had ques-
tions, Dogah would answer them.

"My lord," said General Dogah before Targonne could
open his mouth, "let me first state for the record that I
believed the orders I received telling me to march to Sil-
vanesti came from you. I had no idea they had been
forged by Mina."

Since the orders commanding Dogah to march to Sil-
vanesti had provided the Dark Knights of Neraka with
one of the greatest victories ever in the history of the
Knighthood, Targonne did not like to be reminded of the
fact that he was not the one who had given them.

"Well, well," he said, highly displeased, "perhaps I had
more to do with those than you imagine, Dogah. The
Knight Officer who issued those orders may have indi-
cated that she was acting on her own, but the truth was
that she was obeying my commands."

153

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct^e Wan of Souls

The girl was dead. Targonne could afford to play fast
and loose with the truth. She was certainly not going to
contradict him.

He continued blandly, "She and I agreed between us to
keep this secret. The mission was so risky, so hazardous,
so fraught with possibilities of failure, that I feared to
mention it to anyone, lest word leak out to the elves and
put them on their guard. And then, there is the dragon
Malys to be considered. I did not want to raise her hopes,
to give her expectations that might not come to pass. As
it is, Malystryx is astonished at our great triumph and
holds us in even higher regard than before."

All the while he was speaking, Targonne was attempt-
ing to probe Dogah's brain. Targonne could not manage
it, however. A shield rose before his eyes, a shield that
shimmered eerily in the light of a blazing sun. He could
see beyond the shield, see dying trees and a land covered
with gray ash, but he could not enter the shield nor cause
it to be lifted.

Targonne grew increasingly angry, and thus he became
more bland, more friendly. Those who knew him well
were most terrified of him whenever he linked arms with
them and spoke to them as chums.

Targonne linked arms with General Dogah.

"Our Mina was a gallant officer," he said in mournful
tones. "Now the accursed elves have assassinated her. I
am not surprised. That is like them. Skulking, sneaking,
belly-crawling worms. They are too cowardly to attack
face to face, and so they resort to this."

"Indeed, my lord," said Dogah, his voice grating, "it is
a coward's act."

"They will pay for it, though," Targonne continued.
"By my head, they will pay! So thafs her funeral pyre,
is it?"

He and Dogah had walked slowly, arm in arm, across

154

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

the field of battle. The minotaur and the captain of
archers followed slowly after.

"Ifs massive," said Targonne. "A bit too massive, don't
you think? She was a gallant officer but only a junior offi-
cer. This pyre"—he indicated Ale immense stack of trees
with a wave of his hand—"could well be the pyre of a
leader of the Knighthood. A leader such as myself."

"Indeed it could, my lord," agreed Dogah quietly.

The base of the pyre was formed of six enormous trees.
The work crews had wrapped chains around the logs,
then dragged them into position in the center of the battle-
field. The logs were soaked with any sort of inflammable
liquid the men had been able find. The place reeked of
oils, resins and spirits, and the fresh green blood of the
trees. Atop this pile of logs, the men had thrown more
logs, huge amounts of brush, and dead wood they had
scavenged from the forest. The stack was now almost
eight feet in height and ten feet in length. Climbing on
ladders, they laid willow branches across the top, weav-
ing them into a latticework of leaves. On this platform
they would lay Mina's body.

"Where is the body? I would like to pay my last
respects," said Targonne in dirgelike tones.

He was led to the tent where Mina lay in state, guarded
by a group of silent soldiers, who parted to allow him to
pass. Targonne stuck a mental needle in several as he
walked among them, and their thoughts were only too
dear, only too easy to read: loss, grief, sorrow, white-hot
anger, vengeance. He was pleased. He could turn such
thoughts as these to his own purposes.

He looked down at the corpse and was not in the least
moved or touched beyond an annoyed wonder that this
hoyden should have managed to gamer such a loyal—
one might say fanatical—following. He played to his
audience, however, and saluted her and spoke the proper

155

DRAQONLANCE 'Cflc Wan of Souls

words. Perhaps the men noted some lack of sincerity in
his voice, for they did not cheer him, as he considered he
had the right to expect. They seemed to pay very little
attention to him at all. They were Mina's men, and if they
could have followed her into death to bring her back,
they would have done so.

"Now, Dogah," said Targonne, when they were alone
inside the command tent, "relate to me the circum-
stances of this tragic business. It was the elf king who
murdered her, or so I understand. What have you done
with him?"

Dogah related laconically the events of the previous
night. "We questioned the young elf—his name is Sil-
vanoshei. He is a sly one. He pretends to be almost mad
with grief. A cunning actor, my lord. The ring came
from his mother, the witch Starbreeze. We know from
spies in the king's household that one of her agents, an
elf named Samar, paid a secret visit to the king not long
ago. We have no doubt that, between them, they plotted
this murder. The elf made a show of being in love with
Mina. She took pity on him and accepted the ring from
his hand. The ring was poisoned, my lord. She died
almost instantly.

"As to the elf king, we have him in chains. Gaidar
broke his jaw, and so it has been difficult to get much out
of him, but we managed." Dogah smiled grimly. "Would
your lordship like to see him?"

"Hanged, perhaps," said Targonne and gave a small,
dry chuckle at his little pleasantry. "Drawn and quar-
tered. No, no, I have no interest in the wretch. Do what
you please with him. Give him to the men, if you like. His
screams will help assuage their grief."

"Yes, my lord." General Dogah rose to his feet. "Now,
I must attend to preparations for the funeral. Permission
to withdraw?"

156

OnagoNB OF a Lost Stan

Targonne waved his hand. "Certainly. Let me know
when all is made ready. I will make a speech. The men
will like that, I know."

Dogah saluted and withdrew, leaving Targonne alone
in the command tent. He rifled through Mina's papers,
read her personal correspondence, and kept those that
appeared to implicate various officers in plots against
him. He perused the map of Solamnia and shook his head
derisively. What he found only proved that she had been
a traitor, a dangerous traitor and a fool. Priding himself
on the brilliance of his plan and its success, he settled
back in his chair to take a short nap and recover from the
rigors of the journey.

Outside the tent, the three officers conferred.

"Whafs he doing in there, do you suppose?" Samu-
val asked.

"Rummaging through Mina's things," Gaidar said
with a baleful glare back at the command tent.

"Much good may it do him," said Dogah.

The three eyed each other, ill at ease.

"This is not going as planned. What do we do now?"
Gaidar demanded.

"We do what we promised her we would do," Dogah
replied gruffly. "We prepare for the funeral."

"But it wasn't supposed to happen like this!" Gaidar
growled, insistent. "It is time she ended it."

"I know, I know," Dogah muttered with a dark, side-
long glance at the tent where Mina lay, pale and still. "But
she hasn't, and we have no choice to but to carry on."

"We could stall," suggested Captain Samuval, gnaw-
ing on his lower Up. "We could make some excuse—"

"Gentlemen." Lord Targonne appeared at the entrance
to the tent. "I thought I heard you out here. I believe you
have duties to attend to in regard to this funeral. This is

157

DRAQONLANCE Vie wan of Souls

no time to be standing around talking. I fly only in day-
light, never at night. I must depart this afternoon. I
cannot stay lollygagging around here. I expect the funeral
to be held at noon as planned. Oh, by the way," he added,
having ducked into the tent and then popped his head
back out again, "if you think you might have trouble
lighting the pyre, I would remind you that I have seven
blue dragons at my command who will be most pleased
to offer their assistance."

He withdrew, leaving the three to stare uneasily at
one another.

"Go fetch her, Gaidar," said Dogah.

"You don't mean to put her on that pyre?" Gaidar
hissed through clenched teeth. "No! I refuse!"

"You heard Targonne, Gaidar," Samuval said grimly.
"That was a threat, in case you misunderstood him. If we
don't obey him, her funeral pyre won't be the only thing
those blasted dragons set ablaze!"

"Listen to me, Gaidar," Dogah added, "if we don't go
through with this, Targonne will order his own officers to
do so. I don't know what's gone wrong, but we have to
play this out. Mina would want us to. You are second in
command. It is your place to bring her to the pyre. Do
you want one of us to take over?"

"No!" Gaidar said with a vicious snap of his teeth. "I
will carry her. No one else! I will do this!" He blinked, his
eyes were red-rimmed. "But I do so only because she
commanded it. Otherwise, I would let his dragons set fire
to all the world and myself with it. If she is dead, I see no
reason to go on living."

Inside the command tent, Targonne overheard this
statement. He made a mental note to get rid of the mino-
taur at the first opportunity.

158

12
'CI)€ FuNenal




adng slowly and solemnly, Gaidar carried Mina's
I body in his arms to the funeral bier. Tears ran in
rivulets down the minotaur's grief-ravaged face. He
could not speak, his throat was choked with his sorrow.
He held her cradled in his arms, her head resting on the
right arm she had given to him. Her body was cold, her
skin a ghastly white. Her lips were blue, her eyelids
dosed, the eyes behind them fixed and unmoving.

When he had arrived at the tent where her body lay,
he had attempted, surreptitiously, to find some sign of
life in her. He had held his steel bracer up to her lips,
hoping to see the slight moistness of breath on the
metal. He had hoped, when he picked her up in his
arms, to be able to feel the faint beating of her heart.

No breath stirred. Her heart was still.

I will seem to be as one dead, she had told him. Yet I live.
The One God performs this deception that I may strike out at
our enemies.

159

DnaqoNS Of a Lost Stan

came to an end. Gaidar stood before the huge pyre. A
litter wound round with ropes rested on the ground at
the minotaur's feet. Men with tear-grimed faces stood
atop the pyre, waiting to receive their Mina.

Gaidar looked to his right. Lord Targonne stood at
attention. He wore his grief mask, probably the same
one he'd worn at the funeral of Mirielle Abrena. He was
impatient for the end of the ceremony, however, and he
permitted his gaze to shift often to watch the progress of
the sun—a not-so-subtle reminder to Gaidar to speed
matters along.

General Dogah stood at Gaidar's left. The minotaur
shot the commander a speaking glance.

We have to stall! Gaidar pleaded.

Dogah lifted his gaze to the sun that was almost
directly overhead. Gaidar looked up to see seven blue
dragons circling, taking an unusual interest in the pro-
ceedings. As a rule, dragons find such ceremonies boring
in the extreme. Humans are like bugs. They lead short
and frantic lives, and like bugs, humans are constantly
dying. Unless the human and the dragon have formed a
particular bond, dragons little care what becomes of
them. Yet, now Gaidar watched them fly above Mina's
funeral pyre. The shadows of their wings slid repeatedly
over her still face.

If Targonne meant the dragons to intimidate, he was
succeeding. Dogah felt the cringe of dragonfear twist his
heart, already wrung by grief. He lowered his gaze in
defeat. There was nothing to be done.

"Carry on, Gaidar," Dogah said quietly.

Gaidar knelt from his great height and with uncom-
mon gentleness placed Mina's body on the litter. Some-
where someone had found a fine woven silk doth of gold
and of purple. Probably stolen from the elves. Gaidar
arranged Mina's body on the litter, her hands folded over

161

DRAQONLANCE 'ClJe wan of Souls

her breast. He drew the doth over her, as a father might
lovingly cover a slumbering child.

"Good-bye, Mina," Gaidar whispered.

Half-blinded by his tears that were rolling unchecked
down his snout, he rose to his feet and made a fierce ges-
ture. The soldiers atop the pyre pulled on the ropes. The
ropes tightened, went taut, and the litter bearing Mina's
body rose slowly to the top of the pyre. The soldiers set-
tled the litter, rearranged the cloth over her. Each one
stooped to kiss her cold forehead or kiss her chill hands.
Then they climbed down from the top of the pyre.

Mina remained there, alone.

Captain Samuval brought Foxfire to a halt at the foot
of the pyre. The horse, now seemingly aware that he was
on show, stood quiet with dignity and pride.

Mina's Knights gathered around the pyre. Each held
in his hand a lighted torch. The flames did not waver or
flicker, but burned steadily. The smoke rose straight into
the air.

"Let us get on with it," said Lord Targonne in annoyed
tones. "What do you wait for?"

"A moment longer, my lord," said Dogah. Raising his
voice, he shouted, "Bring the prisoner."

Targonne cast Dogah a baleful glance. "What do we
need him for?"

Because it was Mina's command, Dogah might have said.
He offered the first explanation that came into his mind.

"We plan to throw him onto the pyre, my lord," said
Dogah.

"Ah," said Targonne, "a burnt offering." He chuckled
at his little jest and was annoyed when no one else did.

Two guards led forth the elf king who had been
responsible for Mina's death. The young man was fes-
tooned in chains—fetters on his wrists and ankles were
attached to an iron belt around his waist, an iron collar

162

DRBQONS of a Lost Stall

had been locked around his neck. He could scarcely
walk for the weight and had to be assisted by his cap-
tors. His face was bruised practically beyond recogni-
tion, one eye swollen shut. His fine clothes were covered
with blood.

His guards brought him to a halt at the foot of the
pyre. The young man lifted his head. He saw Mina's
body resting atop the pyre. The elf went so white that he
was paler than the corpse. He let out a low, wretched cry
and lurched suddenly forward. His guards, thinking he
was trying to escape, seized hold of him roughly.

Silvanoshei had no thought of escape, however. He
heard them cursing him and talking of throwing him onto
the fire. He didn't care. He hoped they would, that he
might die and be with her. He stood with his head
bowed, his long hair falling over his battered face.

"Now that we are finished with the histrionics," said
Lord Targonne snappishly, "may we proceed?"

Gaidar's lips curled back from his teeth. His huge fist
clenched.

"By my beard, here come the elves," Dogah exclaimed
in disbelief.

It had been Mina's command that all elves who wanted
to attend the ceremony were to be permitted to do so, and
they were not to be harassed or threatened or harmed, but
welcomed in the name of the One God. Mina's officers
had not expected any elves would come. Fearing retribu-
tion, most elves had locked themselves in their houses,
preparing to defend their homes and families or, in some
cases, making plans to flee into the wilderness.

Yet now out of the city gates came pouring a vast
gathering of Silvanesti elves, mostly the young, who
had been Mina's followers. They bore flowers in their
hands—those flowers that had survived the ravaging
touch of the shield—and they walked with slow and

163

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl7e wan of Souls

measured tread to the tune of the mournful music of
muted harp and somber flute. The human soldiers had
good reason to resent this appearance of their enemy,
those they held responsible for their beloved comman-
der's death. A muttering arose among the troops, harden-
ing into a growl of anger and a warning to the elves to
keep their distance.

Gaidar took heart. Here was the perfect way to stall! If
the men would dedde to ignore their orders and take out
their fury on these elves, Gaidar and the other officers
could not be expected to stop them. He glanced skyward.
Blue dragons would not interfere with the slaughter of
elves. After such an unseemly disruption, the funeral
would certainly have to be postponed.

The elves proceeded toward the pyre. The shadows
of the dragons' wings flowed over them. Many blanched
and shuddered. The dragonfear that touched even
Gaidar must be horrible for these elves. For all they
knew, they would be brutally attacked by the human
soldiers who had good reason to hate them. Yet still
they came to pay homage to the girl who had touched
them and healed them.

Gaidar could not help but pay grudging homage to
their courage. So, too, did the men. Perhaps because Mina
had touched them all, human and elf felt a bond that day.
The growls of anger and muttered threats died away. The
elves took their places a respectful distance from the pyre,
as if they were aware they had no right to come closer.
They lifted their hands. A soft breeze sprang up from the
east, caught the flowers they bore, and carried them in a
cloud of fragrance to the pyre, where the white petals
floated down around Mina's body.

The chill sunlight illuminated the pyre, illuminated
Mina's face, shimmered in the golden cloth so that it
seemed to bum with its own fire.

164

DnaQONS OF a Lost Stan

"Are we expecting anyone else?" Targonne demanded
sarcastically. "Dwarves, perhaps? A contingent of
kender? If not, then get this over with, Dogah!"

"Certainly, my lord. First, you said you intended to
speak her eulogy. As you said, my lord, the troops would
appreciate hearing from you."

Targonne glowered. He was growing increasingly
nervous, and he could not explain why. Perhaps it was
the strange way these three officers stared at him, with
hatred in their eyes. Not that this was particularly
unusual. There were many people on Ansalon who had
good reason to hate and fear the Lord of the Night. What
made Targonne uneasy was the fact that he could not
enter their minds to discover what they were thinking,
what they were plotting.

Targonne felt suddenly threatened, and he could not
understand why that should make him nervous. He was
surrounded by his own bodyguard. Knights who had
good reason to make certain that he remained alive. He
had seven dragons at his command, dragons who would
make short work of humans and elves alike, if the Lord of
the Night ordered. Still he could not argue away the feel-
ing of imminent peril.

The feeling made him irritated, annoyed, and sorry he
had ever come. This hadn't turned out as he had planned.
He had come to flaunt this victory as his own, to bask in
the renewed adulation of the troops and their officers.
Instead, he found himself overshadowed by a dead girl.

Clearing his throat, Targonne straightened. In a voice
that was cold and flat, he said, "She did her duty."

The officers and men regarded him expectantly, waited
for him to go on.

"That is her eulogy," Targonne said coldly. "A fitting
eulogy for any soldier. Dogah, give the command to light
the pyre."

165

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctfe Wan of Souls

Dogah said no word, but cast a helpless look at the
other two officers. Captain Samuval was bleak, defeated.
Gaidar gazed with his soul in his eyes to the top of the
pyre, where Mina lay still, unmoving.

Or did she move? Gaidar saw a quiver in the doth of
gold that covered her. He saw color return to her wan
cheek, and his heart leaped with hope. He stared
enthralled, waiting for her to rise. She did not, and he
came to the bitter realization that the stirring of the cloth
was caused by the gentle breeze and the mockery of
warmth was the pale light of the sun.

Lifting his voice in a ragged howl of grief and rage,
Gaidar snatched a torch from the hand of one of Mina's
Knights and hurled it with all the might of his strong
right arm onto the top of Mina's funeral pyre.

The flaming torch landed at Mina's feet, set the cloth
that covered her ablaze.

Raising their own voices in hollow cries, the Knights
under Mina's command flung their own torches onto the
pyre. The oil-soaked wood burst into flame. The fires
spread rapidly, flames reaching out like eager hands to
join together and encircle the pyre. Gaidar kept watch.
He stared at the top to keep sight of her, blinking
painfully as smoke stung his eyes and cinders landed in
his fur. At last the heat was so intense that he was forced
to retreat, but he did not do so until he lost sight of Mina's
dear body in the thick smoke coiling around her.

Lord Targonne, coughing and flapping his hands at
the smoke, backed away immediately. He waited long
enough to make certain that the fire was blazing merrily,
then turned to Dogah.

"Well," said his lordship, "I'll be off—"

A shadow blotted out the sun. Bright day darkened to
night in the pause between one heartbeat and the next.
Thinking it might be an eclipse—albeit a strange and

166

DKBOONS of a Lost Stan

sudden one—Gaidar lifted amazed eyes, still stinging
from the smoke, to the heavens.

A shadow blotted out the sun, but it was not the round
shadow of the single moon. Silhouetted against tendrils
of fire was a sinuous body, a curved tail, a dragon's head.
Seen against the sun, the dragon appeared as black as
time's ending. When it spread its massive wings, the sun
vanished completely, only to reappear as a burst of Same
in the dragon's eye.

Darkness deep and impenetrable fell upon Silvanost
and, in that instant, the flames that consumed the pyre
were doused by a breath that was neither heard nor felt.

Gaidar gave a roar of triumph. Samuval dropped to
his knees, his hands covering his face. Dogah gazed at
the dragon with wonder. Mina's Knights stared upward
in awe.

The darkness grew deeper, until Targonne could
barely see those standing next to him.

"Get me out of here! Quick!" he ordered tersely.

No one obeyed his commands. His Knight escorts
stared at the strange, immense dragon that had blotted
out the sun, and they seemed, one and all, to have been
changed to stone by the sight.

Now thoroughly frightened, feeling the darkness
closing in around him, Targonne kicked at his Knights
and swore at them. Fear shook him and shredded him
and turned his bowels to water. One moment he
threatened his officers he would see them flayed alive,
the next he was promising them a fortune in steel to
save him.

The darkness grew yet deeper. White lightning flared,
splitting the unnatural night. Thunder crashed, shaking
the ground. Targonne started to yell for his dragons to
come rescue him.

The yell died in this throat.

167

DRAQONLANCE t:t)e ware of Souls

The white lightning illuminated a figure standing
atop the pyre, a figure wearing shining black armor and
shrouded in a cloth of gold that was charred and burnt.
The blue dragons flew above her, the lightning crackled
around her. Swooping low over the ash-laden pyre,
each blue dragon bowed its head to her.

"Mina!" The blue dragons sounded the paean. "Mina!"
"Mina!" Gaidar sobbed and fell to his knees.
"Mina!" whispered General Dogah in relief.
"Mina!" Captain Samuval shouted in vindication.
Behind them, in the darkness, the elves took the word
and made of it a song. "Mina ... Mina ..." The soldiers
joined in, chanting, "Mina ... Mina!"

The darkness lifted. The sun shone, and it was warm
and dazzling to the eye. The strange dragon descended
through the ethers. Such was the terror and the awe of its
coming that few in the crowd could lift their shuddering
gazes to look at it. Those who managed, and Gaidar was
one of them, saw a dragon such as they had never before
beheld on Krynn. They were not able to look on it long,
for the sight made their eyes water and bum, as if they
stared into the sun.

The dragon was white, but not the white of those
dragons who live in the lands of perpetual snow and
frost. This dragon was the white of the flame of the
forger's hottest fire. The white that is in direct opposition
to black. The white that is not the absence of color but the
blending together of all colors of the spectrum.

As the strange looking dragon drifted lower to the
ground, its wings did not stir the air, nor did the ground
shake from the impact when it landed. The blue dragons,
all seven of them, lowered their heads and spread their
wings in homage.

"Death!" they cried together in a single voice, fell and
terrible. 'The dead return!"

168

OnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

Now they could see that the dragon was not a living
dragon. It was a ghostly dragon, a dragon formed of the
souls of the chromatic dragons who had died during the
Age of Mortals, killed by their own kind.

The death dragon lifted its front clawed foot and, turn-
ing it upward, placed that foot upon the top of the pyre.
Mina stepped upon the upturned claw. The death dragon
lowered her reverently to the charred, blackened, and
ash-covered ground.

"Mina! Mina!" The soldiers were stamping their feet,
clashing sword on shield, yelling until they were hoarse,
and still the chant rang out. The elven voices had made of
her name a madrigal whose beauty enchanted even the
most obdurate and hardened human heart.

Mina gazed at them all in pleasure that warmed the
amber eyes so that they shone purest gold. Overwhelmed
by the love and the adoration, she seemed at a loss as to
how to respond. At length, she acknowledged the tribute
with an almost shy wave of her hand and a grateful smile.

She reached out and clasped the hands of Dogah and
Captain Samuval, who could not speak for their joy. Then
Mina walked over to stand in front of Gaidar.

The minotaur fell on his knees, his head bent so low
that the horns brushed the ground.

"Gaidar," said Mina gently.

He lifted his head.

Mina held out her hand. "Take it, Gaidar," she said.

He took hold of her hand, felt the flesh warm to the
touch.

"Praise the One God, Gaidar," Mina told him. "As
you promised."

"Praise the One God!" Gaidar whispered, choking.

"Will you always doubt, Gaidar?" Mina asked him.

He looked at her fearfully, afraid of her anger, but he
saw that her smile was fond and caring.

169

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl)e Ware of Souls

"Forgive me, Mina," he faltered. "I won't doubt any-
more. I promise."

"Yes, you will, Gaidar," Mina said, "but I am not angry.
Without doubters, there would be no miracles."

He pressed her hand to his lips.

"Now arise, Gaidar," said Mina, her voice hardening
as the amber in her eyes hardened. "Arise and lay hands
on the one who sought to kill me."

Mina pointed to the assassin.

She did not point at the wretched Silvanoshei, who
was staring at her with dumb amazement and disbelief.

She pointed at Targonne.

170

15

AV€NQ1N<, fl)€ D€a&




orham Targonne had no use for miracles. He had
seen them all in his time, seen the smoke and
seen the mirrors. Like everything else in this
world, miracles could be bought and sold on the open
market like fish and yesterday's fish at that, for most of
them stunk to the heavens. He had to admit that the show
he'd just witnessed was good, better than most. He
couldn't explain it, but he was convinced that the expla-
nation was there. He had to find it. He would find it in
this girl's mind.

He sent a mental probe into Mina's red-crowned head,
launched it as swift and straight as a steel-tipped arrow.
When he found out the truth, he would denounce her to
her addlepated believers. He would reveal to them how
truly dangerous she was. They would thank him....

In her mind, he saw eternity, that which no mortal is
ever meant to see.

No mortal mind can encompass the smallness that
holds the vastness.

171

DRAQONLANCE •CITC Wan oy Souls

No mortal eye can see that blinding light for the illu-
minating darkness.

Mortal flesh withers in the cooling fire of the bum-
ing ice.

Mortal ears cannot bear to hear the roaring silence of
the thundering quiet.

Mortal spirits cannot comprehend the life that begins
in death and the death that lives in life.

Certainly not a mortal mind like Targonne's. A mind
that divides honor by ambition and multiplies gain by
greed. The numbers that were the sum of his life were
halved and halved again and halved again after that, and
he was, in the end, a fraction.

The great are humbled by even a glimpse of eternity.
The mean tremble in fear. Targonne was horrified. He
was a rat in that immense vastness, a cornered rat who
could not find a comer.

Yet, even at the end, the cornered rat is a cunning rat.
Cunning was all Targonne had left to him. Looking about,
he saw that he had no friends, no allies. All he had were
those who served him out of fear or ambition or need, and
every one of these petty concerns were so much dust
swept away by an immortal hand. His guilt was plain for
even the stupidest to see. He could deny it or embrace it.

Awkwardly, the bib of his ill-fitting breastplate thump-
ing and banging against his bony knees, Targonne knelt
before Mina in an attitude of the most abject humility.

"Yes, it is true," he blubbered, squeezing out a meager
tear or two. "I sought to have you killed. I had no choice.
I was ordered to do it." He kept his head humbly low-
ered, but managed to steal a glance to see how his speech
was being received. "Malystryx ordered your death. She
fears you, and with good reason!"

Now he thought it was time he could lift his head,
and he arranged his face to match his words. "I was

172

DnacoNS of a Lost Stan

wrong. I admit it. I feared Malystryx. Now I see my fear
is unfounded. This god of yours, this One God—a most
wonderful and magnificent and powerful god." He dasped
his hands. "Forgive me. Let me serve you, Mina. Let me
serve your god!"

He looked into the amber eyes and saw himself, a tiny
vermin, scurrying frantically until the amber flowed over
him and held him immobile.

"I foretold that someday you would kneel before me,"
said Mina, and her tone was not smug, but gentle. "I for-
give you. More important, the One God forgives you and
accepts your service."

Targonne, grinning inside, started to rise.
"Gaidar," Mina continued, "your sword."
Gaidar drew a huge, curved-bladed sword, lifted it.
He held it poised a moment over Targonne's head, long
enough to allow the coward a moment to fully compre-
hend what was going to happen. Targonne's shriek of
terror, the squeal of the dying rat, was cut off by the
sweep of the blade that severed the man's head from his
neck. Blood spattered on Mina. The head rolled to Mina's
feet and lay there in a gruesome pool, facedown in the
mud and the ash.

"Hail, Mina! Lord of the Night!" General Dogah shouted.
"Hail, Mina! Lord of the Night!" The soldiers picked
up the cheer, and their voices carried it to heaven.

Amazed by what they had seen and heard, the elves
were horrified by the brutal murder, even of one who had
so richly deserved punishment. Their hymns of praise
faded out discordantly. They stared to see that Mina did
not even bother to wipe away the blood.

"What are your orders, Mina?" Dogah asked, saluting.
"You and the men under your command will remain
here to hold the land of Silvanesti in the name of the
Dark Knights of Neraka," Mina said. "You will send rich

173

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfte wan of Souls

tribute to Dragon Overlord Malystryx in my name. That
should placate her and keep her eye turned inward."

Dogah stroked his beard. "Where are we to find this
rich tribute, Mina?"

She motioned Captain Samuval to release Foxfire. The
horse danced up to her, nuzzled her. Mina stroked the horse's
neck affectionately and began to remove the saddlebags.

"Where do you suppose you will find it, Dogah?" she
asked. "In the Royal Treasury in the Tower of the Stars. In
the homes of the members of House Royal and in the
storerooms of the elven merchants. Even the poorest of
these elves," she continued, tossing the saddlebags onto
the ground, "have family heirlooms hidden away."

Dogah chuckled. "What of the elves themselves?"

Mina cast a glance at the headless corpse that was being
rolled unceremoniously onto the base of the funeral pyre.

"They promised to serve the One God, and the One
God needs them now," Mina said. "Let those who have
pledged themselves to the One God fulfill that pledge by
working with us to maintain control over the land."

'They won't do that, Mina," Dogah said grimly. 'Their
service won't extend that far."

"You will be surprised, Gaidar," said Mina. "Like all of
us, the elves have sought something beyond themselves,
something in which to believe. The One God has given
that to them, and many will come to the service of the
One God. The Silvanesti who are faithful to the One will
erect a Temple to the One in the heart of Silvanost. Elven
priests of the One will be granted the power of healing
and given the means to perform other miracles.

"First, though, Dogah, the One will expect them to
prove that loyalty. They should be the first to hand over
their riches, and they should be the ones who take the
riches from those who prove recalcitrant. The elves who
claim to be loyal to the One God will be expected to reveal

174

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

to us all those who are enemies of the One God, even if
those enemies are their own lovers, wives, fathers, or chil-
dren. All this you will ask of them, and those who are
truly faithful will make the sacrifice. If they do not, they
may serve the One God dead as well as alive."

"I understand," said Dogah.

Mina knelt to unbuckle the straps of the saddle that
endrcled Foxfire's belly. Her Knights would have leaped
to do this for her, but the moment one made a move
toward the horse. Foxfire curled back his lip and halted
the man with a jealous eye.

"I leave you in charge, Dogah. I ride this day with
those under my command for Solamnia. We must be there
in two days."

'Two days!" Gaidar protested. "Mina, Solamnia is at
the other end of the continent! A thousand miles away,
across the New Sea. Such a feat is impossible—"

Mina straightened, looked the minotaur full in the eye.

Gaidar gulped, swallowed. "Such a feat would be
impossible," he amended contritely, "for anyone but you."

"The One God, Gaidar," Mina corrected him. "The
One God."

Removing the saddle from Foxfire, she placed it on the
ground. Last, she took off the bridle and tossed it down
next to the saddle. "Pack that with the rest of my things,"
she commanded.

Putting her arms around the horse's neck, Mina spoke
softly to the animal. Foxfire listened attentively, head
bowed, ears forward to catch the slightest whisper. At
length Foxfire nodded his head. Mina kissed the horse
and stroked him lovingly. "You are in the hands of the
One God," she said. "The One God bring you safe to me
at my need."

Foxfire lifted his head, shook his mane proudly, then
wheeled and galloped off, heading for the forest. Those in

175

DRAQONLANCB 'Cl?e Wan of Souls

his path were forced to jump and scramble to get out of
his way, for he cared not whom he trampled.

Mina watched him depart, then, as if by accident, she
noticed Silvanoshei.

The elf had witnessed all that had passed with the
dazed look of one who walks in a dream and cannot wake.
He watched the fire blaze in grief that approached mad-
ness. He witnessed Mina's triumphant return to life with
disbelief that flared into joy. So convinced was Silvanoshei
of his own guilt, that when he heard her accuse her assas-
sin, he waited to die. Even now he could not comprehend
what had happened. Silvanoshei knew only that his love
was alive. He gazed at her in wonder and in despair, in
hope and in dejection, seeing all, understanding nothing.

She walked over to him. He tried to rise, but the chains
weighed him down and hobbled him so he found it diffi-
cult to move.

"Mina..." He tried to speak, but he could only mumble
through the swelling and the pain of his broken jaw.

Mina touched his forehead, and the pain vanished,
the jaw healed. The bruises disappeared, the swelling
subsided. Seizing her hands, he pressed them passion-
ately to his lips.

"I love you, Mina!"

"I am not worthy of your love," she said.

"You are, Mina! You are!" he gabbled. "I may be a king,
but you are queen—"

"You misunderstand me, Silvanoshei,' Mina said softly.
"Your love should not be for me but for the One God who
guides and directs me."

She withdrew her hands from his grasp.

"Mina!" he cried in despair.

"Let your love for me lead you to the One God, Sil-
vanoshei," Mina said to him. 'The hand of the One God
brought us together. The hand of the One God forces us to

176

DRBOONS OF a Lost Stare

separate now, but if you allow the One God to guide you,
we will be together again. You are the Chosen of the One
God, Silvanoshei. Take this and keep it in faith."

She took from her finger the ruby ring, the poison ring.
Dropping the ring in his trembling palm, she turned and
walked away without a glance.

"Mina!" Silvanoshei cried, but she did not heed him.

His manacled hands hung listlessly before him. He paid
no attention to anything going on around him. He con-
tinued to kneel on the bloody ground, clutching the ring,
staring at Mina, his heart and his soul in his eyes.

"Why did you tell him that, Mina?" Gaidar asked in a low
voice as he hurried to accompany her. "You care nothing for
the elf, that is obvious. Why lead him on? Why bother?"

"Because he could be a danger to us, Gaidar," Mina
replied. "I leave behind a small force of men to rule over
a large nation. If the elves ever find a strong leader, they
could unite and overthrow us. He has it within him to be
such a leader."

Gaidar glanced back, saw the elf groveling on the
ground. 'That sniveUng wretch? Let me slay him." Gaidar
placed his hand on the hilt of his sword that was stained
with Targonne's blood.

"And make of him a martyr?" Mina shook her head.
"No, far better for us if he is seen to worship the One
God, seen to ignore the cries of his people. For those cries
will change to curses.

"Have no fear, Gaidar," she added, drawing on a pair
of soft leather riding gloves. "The One God has seen to it
that Silvanoshei is no longer a threat."

"Do you mean the One God did this to him?" Gaidar
asked.

Mina flashed him a glance of amber. "Of course,
Gaidar. The One God guides all our destinies. His des-
tiny. Yours. Mine."

177

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct)e Ware of Souls

She looked at him long, then said softly, almost to her-
self, "I know what you are feeling. I had difficulty accept-
ing the will of the One as opposed to my own. I fought
and struggled against it for a long time. Let me tell you a
story, and perhaps you will understand.

"Once, when I was a little girl, a bird flew inside the
place where I lived. The walls were made of crystal, and
the bird could see outside, see the sun and the blue sky
and freedom. The bird hurled itself at the crystal, trying
frantically to escape back into the sunshine. We tried to
catch it, but it would not let us near. At last, wounded and
exhausted, the bird fell to the floor and lay there quiver-
ing. Goldmoon picked up the bird, smoothed its feathers
with her hand, and healed its wounds. She carried it out
into the sunlight and set it free.

"I was like that bird, Gaidar. I flung myself against the
crystal walls of my creation, and when I was battered and
bruised, the One God lifted me and healed me and now
guides me and carries me, as the One God guides and
carries us all. Do you understand, Gaidar?"

He was not sure he did. He was not sure he wanted
to, but he said, "Yes, Mina," because he wanted to please
her, to smooth the frown from her forehead and bring the
light back to her amber eyes.

She looked at him long, then she turned away, saying
briskly, "Summon the men. Have them collect their gear
and make ready to depart for Solamnia."

"Yes, Mina," said Gaidar.

She paused, looked back at him. A comer of her mouth
twitched. "You do not ask how we will get there, Gaidar,"
she said.

"No, Mina," he said. "If you tell me to fly, I trust that I
will sprout wings."

Mina laughed gaily. She was in excellent spirits,
sparkling and ebullient. She pointed to the horizon.

178

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

"There, Gaidar," she said. "There is how a minotaur
will fly."

The sun was falling toward night, sinking into a pool
of blood and fire. Gaidar saw a spectacle thrilling in its
terrible beauty. Dragons filled the sky. The sun gleamed
on red wings and blue, shining through them like fire
glowing through stained glass. The scales of the black
dragons shimmered with dark iridescence, the scales of
the green dragons were emeralds scattered against cobalt.

Red dragons—powerful and enormous, blue dragons—
small and swift, black dragons—vicious and cruel, white
dragons—cold and beautiful, green dragons—noxious
and deadly. Dragons of all colors, male and female, old and
young, they came at Mina's call. Many of these dragons
had been hiding deep in their lairs, terrified of Malys and of
Beryl, of Khellendros, one of their own who had turned on
them. They had hidden away, afraid they would find their
skulls upon one of the totems of the dragon overlords.

Then had come the great storm. Above the fearsome
winds, blasting lightning, and booming thunder, these
dragons had heard a voice telling them to prepare, to
make ready, to come when summoned.

Tired of living in fear, longing for revenge for the
deaths of their mates, their children, their comrades, they
answered the call, and now they flew to Silvanesti, their
many-colored scales forming a terrible rainbow over the
ancient homeland of the elves.

The dragons' scales glittered in the sunshine so that
each might have been encrusted with a wealth of jewels.
The shadows of their passing rippled along the ground
beneath them, flowing over hillock and farmhouse, lake
and forest.

The swift-flying blues took the lead, wing tip to wing
tip, keeping time with matching strokes, taking pride
in their precision. The ponderous reds brought up the

179

DRAQONLANCE We Wan of Souls

rear, their enormous wings moving a single sweeping
flap to every four of the faster blues. Blacks and greens
were scattered throughout.

The elves felt the terror of their coming. Many col-
lapsed, senseless, and others Hed in the madness of their
fear. Dogah sent his men after them, bidding them to
make certain no elf escaped into the wilderness.

Mina's men ran to collect their gear and any supplies
that could be carried on dragonback. They brought Mina's
maps to her, she said she needed nothing else. They were
ready and waiting to mount by the time the first of the
dragons began to circle down and land upon the battle-
field. Gaidar mounted a gigantic red. Captain Samuval
chose a blue. Mina rode the strange dragon, the dragon
she termed the "death dragon."

"We travel by darkness," said Mina. "The light of
neither moon nor star will shine this night so our journey
may remain secret."

"What is our destination?" Gaidar asked.

"A place where the dead gather," she said. "A place
called Nightlund."

Her dragon spread its ghastly wings and soared into
the air effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than the ashes
that drifted up from the pyre, where they were burning
Targonne's body. The other dragons, bearing the soldiers
of Mina's army upon their backs, took to the skies. Clouds
foamed up from the west, blotting out the sun, gathering
thick around the multitude of dragons.

Dogah returned to the command tent. He had work to
do: comandeering storehouses to hold the loot, establish-
ing slave-labor camps, interrogation centers and prisons,
brothels to keep the men entertained. He had noted, when
in Silvanost, a temple dedicated to an old god, Mishakal.
He would establish the worship of the One God there, he
derided. An appropriate place.

180

OnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

As he made his plans, he could hear the screams of
elves who were probably, even now, being dispatched
into the One God's service.

Out on the battlefield, Silvanoshei remained where
Mina had left him. He had been unable to take his eyes
from her. In despair, he had watched her depart, clinging
to the rag of hope she had left him as a child clings to the
tattered blanket he clutches to keep away the terrors of
the night. He did not hear the cries of his people. He heard
only Mina's voice.

The One God. Embrace the One God, and we will be
together again.

181

14
'Ctfe CiToseN oy tl^e ON€ QoO

H en members of the kirath and ten elves of Alhana's
ij army were hiding in the forests outside Silvanost
31 to watch the funeral. They were hiding there when
the dragons came. Wearing the magical doaks of the kirath
that made them invisible to any who might be watching
for them, the elves were able to creep within dose proxim-
ity of the funeral pyre. They saw everything that happened
but were helpless to intervene. They could do nothing to
save their people. Their numbers were too small. Help
would come later. These elves were here with one mission,
one purpose, and that was to rescue their young king.




The elves heard death all around them. The stumps of
dying trees cried out in agony. The ghost of Cyan Blood-
bane hissed and howled in the wind. These elves had
fought the dream with courage. They had fought ogres
without blanching. Forced to listen to the song of death,
they felt their palms sweat and their stomachs clench.

The elves hiding in the forest were reminded of the
dream, yet this was worse, for the dream had been a dream

182

DRBOONS of a Lost Stan

of death, and this was real. They watched their brethren
mourn the death of the strange human girl child, Mina.
As the Knights cast their torches onto the pyre, the elves
did not cheer, even in their hearts. They watched in
wary silence.

Crouched among the boughs severed from a living
aspen that had been left to wither and die, Alhana Star-
breeze saw flames crackle on the pyre and smoke begin
to rise to the heavens. She kept her gaze on her son, Sil-
vanoshei, who had been dragged in chains and now
appeared on the verge of collapse. Beside her, Samar
muttered something. He had not wanted her to come, he
had argued against it, but this time she insisted on
having her way.

"What did you say. Commander?" Kiryn whispered.
"Nothing," Samar returned, with a glance at Alhana.
He would not speak ill of Alhana's son to anyone but
himself, especially not to Kiryn, who never ceased to
defend Silvanoshei, to maintain that the king was in the
grip of some strange power.

Samar liked Kiryn. He admired the young man for
having had the wit, resourcefulness, and foresight to
escape the calamitous banquet, to seek out the kirath, and
alert them to what had happened. But Kiryn was a Sil-
vanesti, and although he claimed he had remained loyal
all these years to Alhana, Samar did not trust him.

A hand touched his arm, and in spite of himself, Samar
started, unable to repress a shudder. He looked around,
half-angry, though if he had heard the sounds of the
elven scout approaching, he would have severely repri-
manded such carelessness.

"Well," he growled, "what did you find out?"
"It is true, what we heard," the woman said, her voice
softer than the ghostly whispers. "Silvanoshei was respon-
sible for the human girl's death. He gave her a ring, a ring

183

DRAQONLANCE Vye Wan of Souls

he told people came from his mother. The ring was poi-
soned. The human died almost instantly."

"I sent no such ring!" Alhana said, seeing the cold
stares of the kirath. For years, they had been told Alhana
Starbreeze was a dark elf. Perhaps some had even believed
it. "I fight my enemies face to face. I do not poison them,
especially when I know that it is my people who will
suffer the consequences!"

'This smacks of treachery," Samar said. "Human
treachery. This Lord Targonne is known to have made his
way to the top by climbing a ladder of the corpses of
his enemies. This girl was just one more rung—"

"Commander! Look!" The scout pointed.

The elves hiding amid the shadows of the death-
singing forest watched in amazement to see the human girl
rise whole and alive from the blazing pyre. The humans
were proclaiming it a miracle. The elves were skeptical.

"Ah, I thought there would be some trick in this,"
Samar said.

Then came the strange death dragon, and the elves
turned dark and shadowed eyes to each other.

"What is this?" Alhana wondered aloud. "What does
it portend?"

Samar had no answer, m his hundreds of years, he had
roamed almost every portion of Ansalon and had
encountered nothing like this horrible creature.

The elves heard the girl accuse Targonne, and
although many could not understand her language, they
were able to guess the import of her words by the
expression on the doomed human's face. They watched
his headless corpse topple to the ground without com-
ment or surprise. Such barbarous behavior was only to
be expected of humans.

As the flight of many colored dragons formed a
hideous rainbow in the skies above Silvanesti, the song

184

DnaQONS OF a Lost Stan

of death rose to a shrieking paean. The elves shrank
among the shadows and shivered as the dragonfear swept
over them. They flattened themselves among the dead
trees. They were able to do nothing but think of death, to
see nothing but the image of their own dying.

The dragons departed, bearing the strange girl away
with them. The Dark Knights of Neraka swept down
upon the Silvanesti people, carrying salvation in one
hand, death in the other.

Alhana's heart hurt almost to breaking at the sound
of the screams of those first to fall victim to the wrath of
the Dark Knights. Smoke was already starting to rise
from the beautiful city. Yet she reached out a hand to
detain Rolan of the kirath, who was on his feet, sword
in hand.

"Where do you think you are going?" Alhana demanded.

"To save them," Rolan said grimly. "To save them or
die with them."

"A witless act. Would you throw away your life for
nothing?"

"We must do something!" Rolan cried, his face livid.
"We must help them!"

"We are thirty," Alhana answered. "The humans out-
number us dozens to one." She looked back grimly, pointed
to the fleeing Silvanesti. "If our people would stand and
fight, we might be able to help them, but—look at that!
Look at them! Some flee in confusion and panic. Others
stand and sing praises to this false god!"

"The human is clever," Samar said quietly. "With her
trickery and her promises, she seduced your people as
surely as she seduced that poor besotted boy out there.
We can do nothing to help them. Not now—not until
reason prevails. But we might be able to help him."

Tears streamed down Rolan's cheeks. Every elven
death cry seemed to strike him, for his body shuddered

185

DRAQONLANCE •Cl^e Wan of Souls

at each. He stood irresolute, blinking his eyes and watch-
ing the gray tendrils of smoke rising from Silvanost.
Alhana did not weep. She had no more tears left.

"Samar, look!" Kiryn pointed. "Silvanoshei. They are
taking him away. If we're going to do something, we'd
better do it fast, before they reach the city and lock him
up in some dungeon."

The young man stood on the battlefield in the shadow
of Mina's pyre and appeared stunned to the point of
insensibility. He did not look to see what was happen-
ing to his people. He did not make any move at all. He
stared as if transfixed at where she had stood. Four
humans—soldiers, not Knights—had been left to guard
him. Seizing hold of him, two began to drag him off.
The other two followed along, swords drawn, keeping
careful watch.

Only four of them. The rest of the Knights and soldiers
had raced off to effect the subjugation and looting of Sil-
vanost, about a mile distant. Their camp was empty,
abandoned except for these four and the prince.

"We do what we came to do," Alhana said. "We rescue
the prince. Now is our chance."

Samar rose up from his hiding place. He gave a pierc-
ing cry, that of a hawk, and the woods were alive with
elven warriors, emerging from the shadows.

Samar motioned his warriors forward. Alhana rose
too, but she remained behind a moment, placed her hand
upon Rolan's shoulder.

"Forgive me, Rolan of the Kirath," Alhana said. "I know
your pain, and I share it. I spoke in haste. There is some-
thing we can do."

Rolan looked at her, the tears still glimmering in his
eyes.

"We can vow to return and avenge the dead," she said.

Rolan gave a fierce nod.

186

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stare

Gripping her weapon, Alhana caught up with
Samar, and they soon joined the main body of the elven
warriors, who ran silently, unseen, from out the whis-
pering shadows.

Silvanoshei's captors hauled him back toward Sil-
vanost. The four men were put out, grumbling that they
were missing the fun of looting and burning the elven dty.

Silvanoshei stumbled over the uneven ground,
blind, deaf, oblivious to everything. He could not hear
the cries, he could not smell the smoke of destruction
nor see it rising from his city. He saw only Mina. He
smelled only the smoke of her pyre. He heard only her
voice chanting the litany of the One God. The god she
worshiped. The god who had brought them together.
You are the Chosen.

He remembered the night of the storm, the night the
ogres had attacked their camp. He remembered how
the storm had made his blood bum. He had likened it
to a lover. He remembered the desperate run to try to
save his people, and the lightning bolt that had sent
him tumbling down the ravine and into the shield.

The Chosen.

How had he been able to pass through the shield,
when no others could do so?

That same lightning bolt blazed through his mind.

Mina had passed through the shield.

The Chosen. The hand of the One God. An immortal
hand that had touched him with a lover's caress. The
same hand had thrown the bolt to block his path and
raised the shield to let him enter. The immortal hand had
pointed his way to Mina on the battlefield, had guided
the arrows that felled Cyan Bloodbane. The hand had
rested against his own hand and given him the strength
to uproot the lethal Shield Tree.

187

DRAQONLANCE 'CITC WaR of Souls

The immortal hand cupped around him, held him,
healed him, and he was comforted as he had been in his
mother's arms the night the assassins had tried to slay
him. He was the Chosen. Mina had told him so. He would
give himself to the One God. He would allow that com-
forting hand to guide him along the chosen path. Mina
would be there waiting for him at the end.

What did the One God want of him now? What was the
plan for him? He was a prisoner, chained and manacled.

Silvanoshei had never prayed to any god. After the
Chaos War, there had been no gods to answer prayers.
His parents had told him that mortals were on their own.
They had to make do in this world, rely on themselves. It
seemed to him, looking back, that mortals had made a
hash of things.

Perhaps Mina had been right when she told him that
he did not love her, he loved the god in her. She was so
confident, so certain, so self-possessed. She never doubted.
She was never afraid. In a world of darkness where
everyone else was stumbling blindly, she alone was
granted the gift of sight.

Silvanoshei did not even know how to pray to a god.
His parents had never spoken of the old religion. The
subject was a painful one for them. They were hurt, but
they were also angry. The gods, with their departure,
had betrayed those who had put their faith in them.

But how did he know for certain that the One God
cared for him? How did he know that he was truly the
Chosen?

He determined to test the One God, a test to reassure
himself, as a child assures himself by small tests that his
parents really do love him.

Silvanoshei prayed, humbly, "If there is something
you want me to do, I cannot do it if I am prisoner. Set me
free, and I will obey your will."

188

DnaQONS of a Lost Stan

"Sir!" shouted one of the soldiers who had been
guarding the rear. "Behind—" Whatever he had been
about to say ended in a shriek. The dp of a sword pro-
truded from his gut. He had been stabbed in the back,
the blow so fierce that it had pierced the chain mail shirt
he wore. He fell forward and was trampled under a rush
of elven warriors.

The guards holding Silvanoshei let loose as they
turned to fight. One managed actually to draw his sword,
but he could make no use of it, for Rolan sliced off his
arm. Rolan's next cut was to the throat. The guard fell in
a pool of his own gore. The other guard was dead before
he could reach his weapon. Samar's blade swept the head
from the man's neck. The fourth man was dispatched
handily by Alhana Starbreeze, who thrust her sword in
his throat.

So lost was he in religious fervor that Silvanoshei was
barely aware of what was happening, of grunts of pain
and stifled cries, the thud of bodies falling to the ground.
First he was being hauled away by soldiers, then, looking
up, he saw the face of his mother.

"My son!" Alhana cried softly. Dropping her bloody
sword, she gathered Silvanoshei into her embrace and
held him dose.

"Mother?" Silvanoshei said dazedly. He could not
understand, for at first, when the arms wrapped around
him in maternal love, he had seen another face. "Mother
..." he repeated, bewildered. "Where— How—"

"My Queen," said Samar wamingly.

"Yes, I know," said Alhana. She reluctantly released
her son. Wiping away her tears, she said, "I will tell you
everything, my son. We will have a long talk, but now is
not the time. Samar, can you remove his chains?"

"Keep watch," Samar ordered an elf. "Let me know if
anyone has spotted us."

189

DRAQONLANCE V)e Wan oy Souls

"Not likely. Commander," was the grim return. 'They
are too busy with their butchery."

Samar examined the manacles and the chains and
shook his head. "There is no time to remove these, Sil-
vanoshei, not until we are far from Silvanost and pursuit.
We will do what we can to help you along the way, but
you must be strong. Your Highness, and bear this burden
awhile longer."

Samar looked and spoke doubtfully. He had seen
Silvanoshei a sodden mess on the battlefield. He was
prepared to find the young elf shattered, demoralized,
uncaring whether he lived or died, unwilling to make an
effort to do either.

Silvanoshei stood upright. He had been confused at
first. His rescue had come too quickly. The sight of his
mother had shaken him, but now that he had time to think,
he saw with elation that the One God had been respon-
sible. The One God had answered his prayer. He was the
Chosen. The manacles cut his flesh so that it bled, but he
bore the pain gladly as a testament to his love for Mina
and his newfound faith in the One God.

"I do not need you or anyone to help me, Samar," Sil-
vanoshei said with quiet calm. "I can bear this burden for
as long and as far as necessary. Now, as you say, we must
make haste. My mother is in danger."

Enjoying Samar's look of astonishment, Silvanoshei
shoved past the startled warrior and began to hobble
clumsily toward the forest.

"Help him, Samar," Alhana ordered, retrieving her
sword. She watched her son with fondness and pride—
and faint unease. He had changed, and although she told
herself that his ordeal would have changed anyone, she
found this change disturbing. It wasn't so much that he
had grown from a boy to a man. It was that he had grown
from her boy into a man she did not know.

190

OnagoNS of a Lost Stan

Silvanoshei felt imbued with strength. The chains
weighed nothing, were gossamer and silk. He began to
run, awkwardly, occasionally tripping and stumbling, but
he was doing as well for himself as he might have done
with assistance. The elven warriors surrounded him, guard-
ing him, but no one was there to stop them. The Knights of
Neraka were acting swiftly to seize Silvanost and wrap the
dty in its own chains, forged of iron and fire and blood.

The elves and their freed captive traveled north for a
short distance, far enough that they could not smell the
smoke of destruction. They turned east and, under Rolan's
guidance, came to the river, where the kirath had boats
ready to carry the prince upstream, north to the camp of
Alhana's forces. Here they would rest for a short time.
They lit no fires, set careful watch.

Silvanoshei had managed to keep up with the rest,
although by the end of the journey his breath was coming
in painful gasps, his muscles burned, and his hands were
covered with the blood that ran from his chafed wrists. He
fell more than once, and at last, because his mother pleaded
with him, he permitted the other elves to assist him. No
word of complaint passed his lips. He held on with a grim
determination that won even Samar's approval.

Once they reached the riverbank and relative safety, the
elves hacked at his fetters with axes. Silvanoshei sat still,
unflinching, though the axe blades sometimes came per-
ilously close to cutting off a foot or slicing into his leg.
Sparks flew, but the chains would not break, and eventu-
ally, after all the axe blades were notched, the elves were
forced to give up. Without a key they could not remove the
iron manacles round Silvanoshei's ankles and his wrists.

Alhana assured her son that once they arrived at his
mother's camp, the blacksmith would be able to make a
key that would fit the locks and so remove them.

191

DRAQONLANCT tfte Wan of Souls

"Until then, we travel by boat the rest of the way. The
journey will not be nearly so difficult for you, my son."

Silvanoshei shrugged, unconcerned. He bore the pain
and discomfort with quiet fortitude. Chains clanking, he
wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down on the ground,
again without complaint.

Alhana sat beside her son. The night was hushed, as
if all living things held their breath in fear. Only the
river continued to speak, the swift-flowing water rush-
ing past them, talking to itself in a deep, sorrowful
murmur, knowing what terrible sights it would see
downstream, loath to continue on its journey, yet unable
to halt the flow.

"You must be exhausted, my son," Alhana said, her
own voice low, "and I will not keep you from your sleep
long, but I want to tell you that I understand. You have
lived through a difficult time. You have experienced events
that might have overwhelmed the best and wisest of men,
and you are only a youth. I must confess that I feared to
find you crushed by what happened this day. I was afraid
that you were so entangled in the snares of the human
witch that you would never be free of her. Her tricks are
impressive, but you must not be fooled by them. She is a
witch and a charlatan and makes people see what they
want to see. The power of the gods is gone in this world.
I see no evidence that it has returned."

Alhana paused to allow Silvanoshei to comment. The
young man was silent. His eyes, glittering with starlight,
were wide open and gazing into the darkness.

"I know that you must grieve over what is now hap-
pening in Silvanost," Alhana continued, disappointed that
he did not respond. "I promise you as I promised Rolan
of the kirath that we will come back in strength to free the
people and drive the legions of darkness from that fair
city. You will be restored as king. That is my dearest wish.

192

DnagoNS of a Lost Stare

You have proven by the courage and strength I see in you
this night that you are worthy to hold that holy trust,
assume that great responsibility."

A pale smile flickered over Silvanoshei's lips. "So I
have proven myself to you, have I, Mother? You think
that at last I am worthy of my heritage?"

"You did not need to prove yourself to me, Silvano-
shei," said Alhana, regretting her words the moment she
had spoken them. She faltered, tried to explain. "If I gave
you that impression, I never meant to. I love you, my son.
I am proud of you. I think that the strange and terrible
events of which you have been a part have forced you to
grow up rapidly. You have grown, when you might have
been crushed by them."

"I am glad to have earned your good opinion. Mother,"
Silvanoshei said.

Alhana was bewildered and hurt by his cool and
detached demeanor. She did not understand but, after
some thought, put it down to the fact that he had endured
much and must be worn out. Silvanoshei's face was
smooth and placid. His eyes were fixed on the night sky
with such intensity that he might have been counting
every single pinpoint of bright, white light.

"My father used to tell a story. Mother," said Sil-
vanoshei, just as she was about to rise. The prince rolled
over on his side, his chains clanking and rattling, a dis-
cordant sound in the still night. "A story of a human
woman—I can't recall her name. She came to the Qua-
linesti elves during another time of turmoil and danger,
bearing a blue crystal staff, saying that she was sent to
them by the gods. Do you recall this story. Mother?"

"Her name was Goldmoon," said Alhana. 'The story
is a true one."

"Did the elves believe her when she said that she came
bearing a gift of the gods?"

193

DRAQONLANCE "CITC Wan oy Souls

"No, they did not," Alhana said, troubled.

"She was termed a witch and a charlatan by many
elves, among them my own father. Yet she did bring a gift
from the gods, didn't she?"

"My son," Alhana began, "there is a difference—"

"I am very tired. Mother." Silvanoshei drew his blan-
ket up over his shoulders and rolled over, so that his back
was to her. "May your rest be blessed," he added.

"Peaceful rest, my son," said Alhana, bending down to
kiss his cheek. "We will speak of this more in the mom-
ing, but I would remind you that the Dark Knights are
killing elves in the name of this so-called One God."

There came no sound from the prince except the bitter
music of the chains. Either he stirred in discomfort, or he
was settling himself for sleep. Alhana had no way of
telling, for Silvanoshei's face was hidden from her.

Alhana made the rounds of the camp, checking to see
that those who stood guard duty were at their posts.
Assured that all were watchful and alert, she sat down at
the river's edge and thought with despair and anger of
the terror that reigned in Silvanost this night.

The river mourned and lamented with her until she
imagined that she began to hear words in its murmurings.

Sleep, love; forever sleep
Your soul the night will keep
Embrace the darkness deep
Sleep, love; forever sleep.

The river left its banks. Dark water overflowed, rose
up, and drowned her.

Alhana woke with a start to find it was morning. The
sun had lifted above the treetops. Drifting clouds raced
past, hiding the sun from sight, then restoring it to

194

DnaeoNS OF a Lost Stan

view, so that it seemed as if the orb were winking at some
shared joke.

Angry that she had been so undisciplined as to let
herself slumber when danger was all around them, she
jumped to her feet. To her dismay, she found that she was
not the only one who had slept at her post. Those on
guard duty slumbered standing up, their chins on their
chests, their eyes closed, their weapons lying on the
ground at their feet.

Samar lay beside her. His hand was outstretched, as if
he had been about to speak to her. Sleep had felled him
before he could say a word.

"Samar!" she said, shaking him. "Samar! Something
strange has happened to us."

Samar woke immediately, flushed in shame to find
that he had failed in his duty. He gave an angry roar that
roused every elf.

"I am at fault," he said, bitterly chagrined. It is a
wonder to me that our enemies did not take advantage of
our weakness to slit our throats! I had intended to leave
with the dawn. We have a long journey, and we have lost
at least two hours of travel. We must make—"

"Samar!" Alhana cried, her voice piercing his heart.
"Come quickly! My son!"

Alhana pointed to an empty blanket and four broken
manacles—manacles no axe had been able to cut. In the
dirt near the blanket were deep prints of two booted feet
and prints of a horse's hooves.

"They have taken him," she said, frightened. "They
have taken him away in the night!"

Samar tracked the hoof prints to the water's edge, and
there they vanished. He recalled, with startling clarity,
the red horse that had galloped riderless into the forest.

"No one took him. My Queen," Samar said. "One came
to fetch him. He went eagerly, I fear."

195

DRAQONLANCE 'o^e wan oy Souls

Alhana stared across the sun-dappled river, saw it
bright and sparkling on the surface, dark and wild and
dangerous beneath. She recalled with a shudder the
words she had heard the river sing last night.

Sleep, love. Forever sleep.

196

15

PRISONCRS, Qt^osts, fl)e DcaO,
aN& tl)e LiviNQ




alin Majere was no longer a prisoner in the
Tower of High Sorcery. That is to say, he was
and he was not. He was not a prisoner in that he
was, not confined to a single room in the Tower. He was
not chained or bound or physically restrained in any
way. He could roam freely about the Tower but no far-
ther. He could not leave the Tower. A single door at the
lower level of the Tower permitted entry and egress, and
that was enchanted, sealed shut by a wizard lock.

Palin had his own room with a bed but no chair and
no desk. The room had a door but no window. The room
had a fire grate, but no fire, and was chill and dank. For
food, there were loaves of bread, stacked up in what
had once been the Tower's pantry, along with crockery
bowls—most of which were cracked and chipped—
filled with dried fruit. Palin recognized bread that had
been created by magic and not the baker, because it
was tasteless and pale and had a spongy texture. For
drink, there was water in pitchers that continually refilled

197

DRAQONLANCE •Cl^e WBR OF Souls

themselves. The water was brackish and had an unpleas-
ant odor.

Palin had been reluctant to drink it, but he could find
nothing else, and after casting a spell on it to make certain
it did not contain some sort of potion, he used it to wash
down the knots of bread that stuck in his throat. He cast a
spell and summoned a fire into existence, but it didn't
help lift the atmosphere of gloom.

Ghosts haunted the Tower of High Sorcery. Not the
ghosts of the dead who had stolen his magic. Some sort of
warding spell kept them at bay. These ghosts were ghosts
of his past. At this turning, he encountered the ghost of
himself inside this Tower, arriving to take the dread Test
of magic. At that turning, he imagined the ghost of his
uncle, who had predicted a future of greatness for the
young mage. Here he found the ghost of Usha when he
had first met her: beautiful, mysterious, fond, and loving.
The ghosts were sorrowful, shades of promise and hope,
both dead. Ghosts of love, either dead or dying.

Most terrible was the ghost of the magic. It whispered
to him from the cracks in the stone stairs, from the torn
threads in the carpet, from the dust on the velvet curtains,
from the lichen that had died years ago but had never
been scraped off the wall.

Perhaps because of the presence of the ghosts, Palin
was strangely at home in the Tower. He was more at
home here than he was at his own light, airy, and com-
fortable home in Solace. He didn't enjoy admitting that to
himself. He felt guilty because of it.

After days of wandering alone through the Tower,
locked up with himself and the ghosts, he understood
why this chill, dread place was home. Here in the Tower
he had been a child, a child of the magic. Here the magic
had watched over him, guided him, loved him, cared for
him. Even now he could sometimes smell the scent of

198

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

faded rose petals and would recall that time, that happy
time. Here in the Tower all was quiet. Here no one had
any claim on him. No one expected anything of him. No
one looked at him with pity. He disappointed no one.

It was then he realized he had to leave. He had to
escape from this place, or he would become just another
ghost among many.

Having spent the greater portion of his four days as a
prisoner roaming the Tower, much as a ghost might roam
the place it was doomed to frequent, he was familiar
with the physical layout of the Tower. It was similar to
what he remembered, but with differences. Every Master
of the Tower altered the building to suit his or her needs.
Raistlin had made the Tower of High Sorcery his own
when he was Master. He had shared it with no one except
a single apprentice, Dalamar, the undead who served
them, and the Live Ones, poor, twisted creatures who
lived out their miserable, misbegotten lives below the
surface of the ground in the Chamber of Seeing.

Upon Raistlin's death, Dalamar was made Master of
the Tower of High Sorcery. The Tower had been located
in the lord city of Palanthas, which considered itself the
center of the known world. Previously the Tower of High
Sorcery had been a sinister object, one of foreboding and
terror. Dalamar was a forward-thinking mage, despite
being an elf and a Black Robe (or perhaps because he was
an elf and a Black Robe). He wanted to flaunt the power
of mages, not hide it, and so he had opened the Tower to
students, adding rooms in which his apprentices could
live and study.

Fond of comfort and luxury as any elf, he had brought
into the Tower many objects that he collected over his
travels: the wondrous and the hideous, the beautiful and
the awful, the plain and the curious. The objects were all
gone, at least so far as Palin could discover. Dalamar

199

DRAQONLANCE Vfe Wan of Souls

might have stashed them in his chamber, which was also
wizard-locked, but Palin doubted it. He had the impres-
sion that if he entered Dalamar's living quarters he
would find them as bare and empty as the rest of the dark
and silent rooms in the Tower. These things were part of
the past. Either they had been broken in the cataclysmic
upheaval of the Tower's move from Palanthas, or their
owner had cast them off in pain and in anger. Palin
guessed the latter.

He recalled very well when he had heard the news that
Dalamar had destroyed the Tower, rather than permit the
great blue dragon Khellendros to seize control of it. The
citizens of Palanthas woke to a thundering blast that
shook houses, cracked streets, broke windows. At first, the
people thought they were under attack by dragons, but
after that initial shock, nothing further happened.

The next morning, they were awestruck and aston-
ished and generally pleased to find that the Tower of High
Sorcery—long considered an eyesore and a haven of evil—
had disappeared. In its place was a reflecting pool where,
if one looked, it was said one could see the Tower in the
dark waters. Thus many began to circulate rumors that
the Tower had imploded and sunk into the ground. Palin
had never believed those rumors, nor, as he had discussed
with his longtime friend and fellow mage Jenna, did he
believe Dalamar was dead or the Tower destroyed.

Jenna had agreed with him, and if anyone would know
it would be she, for she had been Dalamar's lover for
many years and was the last to see him prior to his depar-
ture more than thirty years ago.

"Perhaps not so long ago as that," Palin muttered to
himself, staring in frustration and simmering anger out
the window. "Dalamar knew exactly where to find us.
Knew where to lay his hands on us. Only one person could
have told him. Only one person knew: Jenna."

200

OnaooNS of a Lost StaR

He probably should be glad the powerful wizard had
rescued them. Otherwise he and Tasslehoff would be
sitting in the dragon Beryl's prison cell under far less
propitious circumstances. Palin's feelings of gratitude
toward Dalamar had effectively evaporated by now.
Once he might have shaken Dalamar's hand. Now, he
wanted only to wring the elf's neck.

The Tower's relocation from Palanthas to wherever it
was now—Palin hadn't the vaguest idea, he could see
nothing but trees around it—had brought about other
changes. Palin saw several large cracks in the walls,
cracks that might have alarmed him for his own safety
had he not been fairly certain (or at least hoped) that
Dalamar had shored up the walls with magic. The spiral
staircase had always been treacherous to walk, but now
was doubly so, due to the fact that some of the stairs had
not survived the move. Tasslehoff climbed nimbly up and
down the stairs like a squirrel, but Palin held his breath
every time.

Tasslehoff—who had explored every inch of the Tower
during the first hour of his arrival—reported that the
entrance to one of the minarets was completely blocked
off by a caved-in wall and that the other minaret was
missing half the roof. The fearful Shoikan Grove that
had once so effectively guarded the Tower had been left
behind in Palanthas, where it stood now as a sad curios-
ity. The Tower was surrounded by a new grove—a grove
of immense cypress trees.

Having lived among the vallenwoods all his life, Palin
was accustomed to gigantic trees, but he was impressed
by the cypresses. Most of the trees stood far taller than the
Tower, which was dwarfed by comparison. The cypresses
held their enormous green-clothed arms protectively
over the Tower, shielding it from the view of roaming
dragons, particularly Beryl, who would have given her

201

DRAQONLANCE X:l7e Wan of Souls

fangs and her claws and her green scaly tail thrown into
the bargain for knowledge of the whereabouts of the
Tower that had once reigned so proudly in Palanthas.

Peering out of one of the few upper-story windows
still in existence in the Tower—many others that he had
remembered had been sealed up—Palin looked out upon a
thick forest of cypress that rolled in undulating waves of
green to the horizon. No matter what direction he looked,
he saw only those spreading green boughs, an ocean of
limbs and branches, leaves and shadow. No path cut
through these boughs, not even an animal path, for the
forest was eerily quiet. No bird sang, no squirrel scolded,
no owl hooted, no dove mourned. Nothing living roamed
the forest. The Tower was not a ship bobbing upon this
ocean. It was submerged in the depths, lost to the sight and
knowledge of those who lived in the world beyond.

The forest was the province of the dead.

One of the remaining windows was located at the very
bottom of the Tower, a few feet from the massive oaken
door. The window looked out upon the forest floor, a
floor that was thick with shadow, for sunlight very rarely
managed to penetrate through the leaves that formed a
canopy above.

Amid the shadows, the souls roamed. The aspect was
not a pleasant one. Yet Palin found himself fascinated,
and often he would stand here, shivering in the cold, his
arms folded for warmth in the sleeves of his robes, gazing
out upon the restless, ever-moving, ever-shifting congre-
gation of the dead.

He would watch until he could stand it no more, then
he would turn away, his own soul riven with pity and
horror, only to be drawn back again.

The dead could not enter the Tower seemingly. Palin
did not sense them near him as he had felt them in the
citadel. He did not feel that strange tickling sensation

202

DnaQONS op a Lost Stan

when he used his magic to cast spells, a sensation he had
set down as gnats or bits of cobweb or a straggling strand
of hair or any of a hundred other ordinary occurrences.
Now he knew that what he had felt had been the hands of
the dead, stealing the magic from him.

Locked up in the Tower alone with Tasslehoff, Palin
guessed that it was Dalamar who had been giving the dead
their orders. Dalamar had been usurping the magic. Why?
What was he doing with it? Certainly, Palin thought sar-
donically, Dalamar was not using the magic to redecorate.

Palin might have asked him, but he could not find
Dalamar. Nor could Tasslehoff, who had been recruited
to help in the search. Admittedly, there were many doors
in the Tower that were magically locked to both Palin and
the kender—especially the kender.

Tasslehoff put his ear to these doors, but not even the
kender with his sharp hearing had been able to detect any
sounds coming from behind any of them, including one
that led to what Palin remembered were Dalamar's pri-
vate chambers.

Palin had knocked at this door, knocked and shouted,
but he had received no answer. Either Dalamar was
deliberately ignoring him, or he was not there. Palin had
first thought the former and was angry. Now he was
starting to think the latter, and he was uneasy. The notion
came to his mind that he and Tas had been brought here,
then abandoned, to live out their days as prisoners in this
Tower, surrounded and guarded by the dead.

"No," Palin amended, talking softly to himself as he
stared out the window on the lower floor, "the dead are
not guards. They, too, are prisoners."

The souls clogged the shadows beneath the trees,
unable to find rest, unable to find peace, wandering in
aimless, constant motion. Palin could not comprehend
the numbers—thousands, thousands of thousands, and

203

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl^e wan of Souls

thousands more beyond that. He saw no one he recog-
nized. At first, he had hoped to find his father again, hoped
that Caramon could give him some answers to the myriad
questions teeming in his son's fevered mind. Palin soon
came to realize that his search for one soul among the
countless many was as hopeless as searching for a single
grain of sand on a beach. If Caramon had been free to come
to Palin, his father would surely have done so.

Palin recalled vividly now the vision he had seen of
his father in the Citadel of Light. In that vision, Caramon
had fought his way to his son through a mass of dead
pressing around Palin. Caramon had been trying to tell
his son something, but before he could make himself
understood, he had been seized by some unseen force
and dragged away.

"I think it's awfully sad," said Tasslehoff. He stood with
his forehead pressed against the window, peering out the
glass. "Look, there's a kender. And another. And another.
Hullo!" Tasslehoff tapped with his hands on the window.
"Hullo, there! What have you got in your pouches?"

The spirits of the dead kender ignored this customary
kender greeting—a question no living kender could have
resisted—and were soon lost in the crowd, disappearing
among the other souls: elves, dwarves, humans, mino-
taurs, centaurs, goblins, hobgoblins, draconians, gully
dwarves, gnomes, and other races—races Palin had never
before seen but had only read about. He saw what he
thought were the souls of the Theiwar, the dark dwarves,
a cursed race. He saw the souls of the Dimemesti, elves
who live beneath the sea and whose very existence had
long been disputed. He saw souls of the Thanoi, the
strange and fearsome creatures of Ice Wall.

Friend and foe were here. Goblin souls passed shoul-
der to shoulder with human souls. Draconian souls drifted
near elven souls. Minotaur and dwarf roamed side by

204

ORBOONS of a Lost Stare

side. No one soul paid attention to another. One was not
aware of the other or seemed to know the other existed.
Each ghostly soul went on his or her way, intent upon
some quest—some hopeless quest by the looks of it, for
on the face of every spirit Palin saw searching and long-
ing, dejection and despair.

"I wonder what it is they're all looking for," Tassle-
hoff said.

"A way out," replied Palin.

He slung over his shoulder a pack containing several
loaves of the magicked bread and a waterskin. Making
up his mind, not taking time to think for fear he would
argue himself out of his decision, he walked to the
Tower's main door.

"Where are you going?" asked Tas.

"Out," said Palin.

"Are you taking me with you?"

"Of course."

Tas looked longingly at the door, but he held back, hov-
ering near the stairs. "We're not going back to the dtadel
to look for the Device of Time Journeying, are we?"

"Whafs left of it?" Palin returned bitterly. "If any of it
remained undamaged, which I doubt, the bits and pieces
were probably picked up by Beryl's draconians and are
now in her possession."

"That's good," Tas said, heaving a relieved sigh.
Absorbed in arranging his pouches for the journey, he
missed Palin's withering glare. "Very well, I'll go along.
The Tower was an extremely interesting place to visit,
and I'm glad we came here, but it does get boring after
awhile. Where do you suppose Dalamar is? Why did he
bring us here and then disappear?"

"To flaunt his power over me," said Palin, coming to
stand in front of the door. "He imagines that I am fin-
ished. He wants to break my spirit, force me to grovel to

205

DRAQONLANCE 'Qie Wan of Souls

him, beg him to release me. He will find that he has caught
a shark in his net, not a minnow. I had once thought he
might be of some help to us, but no more. I will not be a
pawn in his khas game."

Palin looked very hard at the kender. "You don't have
any magical objects on you? Nothing you've discovered
here in the Tower?"

"No, Palin," said Tas with round-eyed innocence. "I
haven't discovered anything. Like I said, it's been
pretty boring."

Palin persisted. "Nothing you've found that you are
intending to return to Dalamar, for example? Nothing
that fell into your pouches when you weren't looking?
Nothing that you picked up so that someone wouldn't
trip over it?"

"Well..." Tas scratched his head. "Maybe ..."

'This is very important, Tas," Palin said, his tone seri-
ous. He cast a glance out the window. "You see the dead
out there? If we have anything magic, they will try to take
it from us. Look, I have removed all my rings and my
earring that Jenna gave me. I have left behind my pouches
of spell components. Just to be safe, why don't you leave
your pouches here, as well? Dalamar will take good care
of them," he added in reassuring tones, for Tas was
clutching his pouches next to his body and staring at him
in horror.

"Leave my pouches?" Tas protested in agony. Palin
might as well have asked the kender to leave his head or
his topknot. "Will we come back for them?"

"Yes," said Palin. Lies told to a kender are not really
lies, more akin to self-defense.

"I guess ... in that case . . . since it is important..."
Tas removed his pouches, gave each of them a fond, part-
ing pat, then stowed them safely in a dark comer beneath
the stair. "I hope no one steals them."

206

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

"I don't think that's likely. Stand over there by the
stairs, Tas, where you will be out of the way, and do not
interrupt me. I'm going to cast a spell. Alert me if you see
anyone coming."

"I'm the rear guard? You're posting me as rear guard?"
Tas was captivated and immediately forgot about the
pouches. "No one ever posted me as rear guard before!
Not even Tanis."

"Yes, you're the ... er ... rear guard. You must keep
careful watch, and not bother me, no matter what you
hear or see me doing."

"Yes, Palin. I will," Tasslehoff promised solemnly, and
took up his position. He came bouncing back again.
"Excuse me, Palin, but since we're alone here, who is it
I'm supposed to be rear-guarding against?"

Palin counseled patience to himself, then said, "If,
for example, the wizard-lock includes magical guards,
casting a counterspell on the lock might cause these
guardians to appear."

Tas sucked in a breath. "Do you mean like skeletons
and wraiths and liches? Oh, I hope so—that is, no I don't,"
he amended quickly, catching sight of Palin's baleful
expression. "I'll keep watch. I promise."

Tas retreated back to his post, but just as Palin was
calling the words to the spell to his mind, he felt a tug on
his sleeve.

"Yes, Tas?" Palin fought the temptation to toss the
kender out the window. "What is it now?"

"Is it because you're afraid of the wraiths and liches
that you haven't tried to escape before this?"

"No, Tas," said Palin quietly. "It was because I was
afraid of myself."

Tas considered this. "I don't think I can rear guard you
against yourself, Palin."

"You can't, Tas," Palin said. "Now return to your post."

207

DRAQONLANCE 'OTG wan OF Souls

Palin figured that he had about fifteen seconds of
peace before the novelty of being rear guard wore off and
Tasslehoff would again be pestering him. Approaching
the door, he closed his eyes and extended his hands.

He did not touch the door. He touched the magic that
enchanted the door. His broken fingers ... He remem-
bered a time they had been long and delicate and supple.
He felt for the magic, groped for it like a blind man.
Sensing a tingling in his fingertips, his soul thrilled. He
had found a thread of magic. He smoothed the thread
and found another thread and another until the spell
rippled beneath his touch. The fabric of the magic was
smooth and sheer, a piece of cloth cut from a bolt and
hung over the door.

The spell was not simple, but it was certainly not that
complex. One of his better students could have undone
this spell. Palm's anger increased. Now his pride was hurt.

"You always did underestimate me," Palin muttered
to the absent Dalamar. He plucked a thread, and the
fabric of magic came apart in his hands.

The door swung open.

Cool air, crisp with the sharp smell of the cypress,
breathed into the Tower, as one might try to breathe life
through the lips of a drowned man. The souls in the
shadows of the trees ceased their aimless roaming, and
hundreds turned as one to stare with their shadowed
eyes at the Tower. None moved toward it. None made
any attempt to approach it. They hung, wavering, in the
whispering air.

"I will use no magic," Palin told them. "I have only
food in my pack, food and water. You will leave me
alone." He motioned to Tas, an unnecessary gesture,
since the kender was now dancing at his side. "Keep
near me, Tas. This is no time to go off exploring. We must
not get separated."

208

OnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

"I know/' said Tas excitedly. "I'm still the rear guard.
Where is it we're going, exactly?"

Palin looked out the door. Years ago, there had been
stone stairs, a courtyard. Now his first step out of the
Tower of High Sorcery would fall onto a bed of brown,
dead cypress needles that surrounded the Tower like a
dry moat. The cypress trees formed a wall around the
brown moat, their branches serving as a canopy under
which they would walk. Standing in the shadows of the
trees, watching, were the souls of the dead.

"We're going to find a path, a trail. Anything to lead us
out of this forest," Palin said.

Thrusting his hands in the sleeves of his robes, to
emphasize the fact that he was not going to use them, he
strode out the door and headed straight for the tree line.
Tas followed after, discharging his role as rear guard by
attempting to look backward while walking forward, a
feat of agility that apparently took some practice, for Tas
was having a difficult time of it.

"Stop that!" said Palin through clenched teeth the
second time Tasslehoff bumbled into him. They were
nearing the tree line. Palin removed his hand from his
sleeve long enough to grasp Tas by the shoulder and
forcibly turn him around. "Face forward."

"But I'm the rear—" Tas protested. He interrupted
himself. "Oh, I see. It's whafs in front of us you're wor-
ried about."

The dead had no bodies. These they had left behind,
abandoning the shells of cold flesh as butterflies leave the
cocoon. Once, like butterflies, these spirits might have
flown free to whatever new destination awaited them.
Now they were trapped as in an enormous jar, constrained
to wander aimlessly, searching for the way out.

So many souls. A river of souls, swirling about the
boles of the cypress trees, each one a drop of water in a

209

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct?c Wan of Souls

mighty torrent. Palin could barely distinguish one from
another. Faces flitted past, hands or arms or hair trailing
like diaphanous silken scarves. The faces were the most
terrible, for they all looked at him with a hunger that
caused him to hesitate, his steps to slow. Whispered breath
that he had mistaken for the wind touched his cheek. He
heard words in the whispers and shivered.

The magic, they said. Give us the magic. They looked at
him. They paid no attention to the kender. Tasslehoff was
saying something. Palin could see his mouth moving and
almost hear the words, but he couldn't hear. It was as if
his ears were stuffed with the whispers of the dead.

"I have nothing to give you," he told the souls. His
own voice sounded muffled and faraway. "I have no
magical artifacts. Let us pass."

He came to the tree line. The whispering souls were a
white, frothing pool among the shadows of the trees. He
had hoped that the souls would part before him, like the
early morning fog lifting from the valleys, but they
remained, blocking his way. He could see dimly through
them, see more trees with the eerie white mist of souls
wavering beneath. He was reminded of the hordes of
mendicants that crowded the streets of Palanthas, grimy
hands outstretched, shrill voices begging.

He halted, cast a glance back at the Tower of High
Sorcery, saw a broken, crumbling ruin. He faced forward.

They did not harm you in the past, he reminded him-
self. You know their touch. It is unpleasant but no worse
than walking into a cobweb. If you go back there, you
will never leave. Not until you are one of them.

He walked into the river of souls.

Chill, pale hands touched his hands, his arms. Chill,
pale eyes stared at him. Chill, pale lips pressed against
his lips, sucked the breath from him. He could not move
for the swirling souls that had hold of him and were

210

DnagoNS of a Lost Stan

dragging him under. He could hear nothing except the
whispered roar of their terrible voices. He turned, trying
to find the way back, but all he saw were eyes, mouths,
and hands. He turned and turned again, and now he was
disoriented and confused, and there were more of them
and still more.

He couldn't breathe, he couldn't speak, he couldn't cry
out. He fell to the ground, gasping for air. They rose and
ebbed around him, touching, pulling, yanking. He was
shredded, torn asunder. They searched through the fibers
of his being.

Magic ... magic ... give us the magic....

He slipped beneath the awful surface and ceased to
struggle.

Tasslehoff saw Palin walk into the shadows of the
trees, but the kender did not immediately follow after
him. Instead he attempted to gain the attention of several
dead kender, who were standing beneath the trees,
watching Palin.

"I say," said Tas very loudly, over the sound of buzzing
in his ears, a sound that was starting to be annoying, "have
you seen my friend, Caramon? He's one of you."

Tas had been about to tell them that Caramon was
dead, like them, but he refrained, thinking that it might
make them sad to be reminded of the fact.

"He's a really big human, and the last time I saw him
alive he was very old, but now that he's dead—no
offense—he looks young again. He has curly hair and a
very friendly smile."

No use. The kender refused to pay the least bit of
attention to him.

"I hate to tell you this, but you are extremely rude,"
Tas told the kender as he walked past. He might as well
follow Palin, since no one was going to talk to him. "One

211

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct?e Ware Of Souls

would think you'd been raised by humans. You must not
be from Kendermore. No Kendermore kender would act
that— Now thafs odd. Where did he go?"

Tas searched the forest ahead of him as well as he could,
considering the poor ghosts, who were whirling about in a
frenetic manner, enough to make a fellow dizzy.

"Palin! Where are you? I'm supposed to be the rear
guard, and I can't be the rear guard if you're not in front."

He waited a bit to see if Palin answered his call, but if
the sorcerer did, Tas probably wouldn't be able to hear it
over the buzzing that was starting to give him a pain in the
head. Putting his fingers in his ears to try to shut out the
sound, Tas turned to look behind him, thinking that per-
haps Palin had forgotten something and gone back to the
Tower to fetch it. Tas could see the Tower, looking small
beneath the cypress trees, but no sign of Palin.

"Drat it!" Tas took his fingers out of his ears to wave
his hands, trying to disperse the dead who were really
making a most frightful nuisance of themselves. "Get out
of here. I can't see a thing. Palin!"

It was like walking through a thick fog, only worse,
because fog didn't look at you with pleading eyes or try
to grab hold of you with wispy hands. Tasslehoff groped
his way forward. Tripping over something, probably a
tree root, he fell headlong on the forest floor. Whatever he
had fallen over jerked beneath his legs. Ifs not a tree root,
he thought, or if it is, the root belongs to one of the more
lively varieties of tree.

Tas recognized Palin's robes, and after a moment
more, he recognized Palin. He hovered over his friend
in consternation.

Palin's face was exceedingly white, more white than
the spirits surrounding him. His eyes were closed. He
gasped for air. One hand clutched at this throat, the other
clawed at the dirt.

212

DnaooNS of a Lost Stan

"Get away, you! Go! Leave him alone," Tas cried,
endeavoring to drive away the dead souls, who seemed
to be wrapping themselves around Palin like some evil
web. "Stop it!" the kender shouted, jumping up and
stamping his foot. He was starting to grow desperate.
"You're killing him!"

The buzzing sound grew louder, as if hornets were
flying into his ears and using his head for a hive. The
sound was so awful that Tasslehoff couldn't think, but
he realized he didn't have to think. He only had to
rescue Palin before the dead turned him into one of
themselves.

Tas glanced behind him again to get his bearings. He
could see the Tower or catch glimpses of it, at any rate,
through the ever-shifting mist of the souls. Running
around to Palin's head, Tas took hold of the man by the
shoulders. The kender dug his heels into the ground
and gave a grunt and a heave. Palin was not large as
humans went—Tas envisioned himself trying to drag
Caramon—but he was a full-grown man and deadweight,
at this point more dead than alive. Tas was a kender and
an older kender at that. He dragged Palin over the
rough, needle-strewn ground and managed to move
him a couple of feet before he had to drop him and stop
to catch his breath.

The dead did not try to stop Tas, but the buzzing
noise grew so loud that he had to grit his teeth against
it. He picked up Palin again, glanced behind once more
to reassure himself that the Tower was still where he
thought it was, and gave another tug. He pulled and
panted and floundered, but he never lost his grip on
Palin. With a final great heave that caused his feet to
slip out from under him, he dragged Palin out of the
forest onto the bed of brown needles that surrounded
the Tower.

213

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctfe Wan of Souls

Keeping a wary eye on the dead, who hovered in the
dark shadows beneath the trees, watching, waiting, Tas
crawled around on all fours to look anxiously at his friend.

Palin no longer gasped for air. He gulped it down
thankfully. His eyes blinked a few times, then opened
wide with a look that was wild and terrified. He sat up
suddenly with a cry, thrusting out his arms.

"Ifs all right, Palin!" Tas grabbed hold of one of Palin's
flailing hands and clutching it tightly. "You're safe. At
least I think you're safe. There seems to be some sort of
barrier they can't cross."

Palin glanced over at the souls writhing in the dark-
ness. Shuddering, he averted his gaze, looked back at the
door to the Tower. His expression grew grim, he stood
up, brushing brown needles from his robes.

"I saved your life, Palin," Tas said. "You might have
died out there."

"Yes, Tas, I might have," Palin said. "Thank you."
Stopping, he looked down at the kender, and his grim
expression softened. He put a hand on Tas's shoulder.
"Thank you very much."

He glanced again at the Tower, and the grimness
returned. A frown caused the lines on his face to turn
dark and jagged. He continued to stare fixedly at the
Tower and, after drawing in a few more deep breaths, he
walked toward it. He was very pale, almost paler than
when he had been dying, and he looked extremely deter-
mined. As determined as Tas had ever seen anyone.

"Where are you going now?" Tas asked, game for
another adventure, although he wouldn't have minded a
brief rest.

"To find Dalamar."

"But we've looked and looked—"

"No, we haven't," Palin said. He was angry now,
and he intended to act before his anger cooled. "Dalamar

214

DRBOONS OF a Lost Stan

has no right to do this! He has no right to imprison these
wretched souls."

Sweeping through the Tower door, Palin began to
climb the spiral staircase that led into the upper levels of
the building. He kept close to the wall that was on his
right, for the stairs had no railing on his left. A misstep
would send him plummeting down into darkness.

"Are we going to free them?" Tas asked, clambering
up the staircase behind Palin. "Even after they tried to
kill you?"

"They didn't mean to/' Palin said. "They can't help
themselves. They are being driven to seek out the
magic. I know now who is behind it, and I intend to
stop him."

"How will we do that?" Tas asked eagerly. Palin hadn't
exactly included him in this adventure, but that was
probably an oversight. "Stop him, I mean? We don't even
know where he is."

"I'll stop him if I have to tear this Tower down stone
by stone," was all Palin would say.

A long and perilous climb up the spiral staircase
through the near darkness brought them to a door.

"I already tried this," Tas announced. Examining it, he
gave it an experimental shove. "It won't budge."

"Oh, yes, it will," said Palin.

He raised his hands and spoke a word. Blue light
began to glow, flames crackled from his fingers. He
drew a breath and reached out toward the door. The
flames burned brighter.

Suddenly, silently, the door swung open.

"Stop, Tas!" Palin ordered, as the kender was about to
bound inside.

"But you opened it," Tas protested.

"No," said Palin, and his voice was harsh. The blue
flames had died away. "No, I didn't."

215

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct»e Wan of Souls

He took a step forward, staring intently into the room.
The few rays of sunlight that managed to struggle through
the heavy, overhanging boughs of the cypress trees had to
work to penetrate the years of silt and mud that covered
the windows outside and the layer of dust that caked the
inside. No sound came from within.

"You stay out in the hall, Tas."

"Do you want me to be rear guard again?" Tas asked.

"Yes, Tas," said Palin quietly. He took another step for-
ward. His head cocked, he was listening for the slightest
sound. He moved slowly into the room. "You be the rear
guard. Let me know if you see anything coining."

"like a wraith or a ghoul? Sure, Palin."

Tas stood in the hall, hopping from one foot to the
other, trying to see what was happening in the room.

"Rear guard is a really important assignment," Tassle-
hoff reminded himself, fidgeting, unable to hear or see
anything. "Sturm was always rear guard. Or Caramon. I
never got to be rear guard because Tanis said kender
don't make good rear guards, mainly because they never
stay in the rear—

"Don't worry! I'm coming, Palin!" Tas called, giving
up. He dashed into the room. "Nothing's sneaking up
behind us. Our rears are safe. Oh!"

Tas came to a halt. He didn't have much choice in the
matter. Palin's hand had a good, strong hold on his shoulder.

The room's interior was gray and chill, and even on
the warmest, brightest summer day would always be
gray and chill. The wintry light illuminated shelves con-
taining innumerable books. Next to these were the scroll
repositories, like honeycombs, a few filled, but most
empty. Wooden chests stood on the floor, their ornate
carvings almost obliterated by dust. The heavy curtains
that covered the windows, the once-beautiful rugs on the
floors, were dust-covered, the fabric rotting and frayed.

216

DRBOONS of a Lost Stan

At the far end of the room was a desk. Someone was
sitting behind the desk. Tas squinted, tried to see in the
dim, gray light. The someone was an elf, with long, lank
hair that had once been black but now had a gray, jagged
streak that ran from the forehead back.

"Who's that?" he asked in a loud whisper.

The elf sat perfectly still. Tas, thinking he was asleep,
didn't want to wake him.

"Dalamar," said Palin.

"Dalamar!" Tas repeated, stunned. He twisted his head
to look up at Palin, thinking this might be a joke. If it was,
Palin wasn't laughing. "But that can't be right! He's not
here. I know because I banged on the door and shouted
'Dalamar' real loud, like that, and no one answered."

"Dalamar!" Tas raised his voice. "Hullo! Where have
you been?"

"He can't hear, Tas," Palin said. "He can't see you or
hear you."

Dalamar sat behind his desk, his thin hands folded
before him, his eyes staring straight ahead. He had not
moved as they entered. His eyes did not shift, as they
surely must have, at the sound of the kender's shrill
voice. His hands did not stir, his fingers did not twitch.

"Maybe he's dead," Tas said, a funny feeling squirm-
ing in his stomach. "He certainly looks dead, doesn't
he, Palin?"

The elf sat unmoving in the chair.

"No," said Palin. "He is not dead."

"Ifs a funny way to take a nap, then," Tas remarked.
"Sitting straight up. Maybe if I pinched him—"

"Don't touch him!" Palin warned sharply. "He is in
stasis."

"I know where that is," Tas stated. "It's north of Flot-
sam, about fifty miles. But he's not in Stasis, Palin. He's
right here."

217

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl7e wan of Souls

The elf's eyes, which had been open and unseeing,
suddenly closed. They remained closed for a long, long
time. He was coming back from the stasis, back from the
enchantment that had taken his spirit out into the world,
leaving his body behind. He drew air in through his
nose, keeping his lips pressed tightly shut. His fingers
curled, and he winced, as if in pain. He curled them and
uncurled them and began to rub them.

"The circulation stops," Dalamar said, opening his
eyes and looking at Palin. "It is quite painful."

"My heart bleeds for you," said Palin.

Dalamar's gaze went to Palin's own broken, twisted
fingers. He said nothing, continued to rub his hands.

"Hullo, Dalamar!" Tas said cheerfully, glad for a chance
to be included in the conversation. "It's nice to see you
again. Did I tell you how much you have changed from the
time I saw you at Caramon's first funeral? Do you want
to hear about it? I made a really good speech, and then it
began to rain and everyone was already sad, and that
made it sadder, but then you cast a magic spell, a won-
derful spell that made the raindrops sparkle and the sky
was filled with rainbows—"

"No!" Dalamar said, making a sharp, cutting motion
with his hand.

Tas was about to go on to the other parts of the funeral,
since Dalamar didn't want to talk about the rainbows,
but the elf gave him a peculiar look, raised his hand,
and pointed.

Perhaps I'm going to Stasis, Tas thought, and that was
the last conscious thought he had for a good, long while.

218

16

A BOR€t» K€NO€R




alin placed the comatose kender in one of the
shabby, dust-covered and mildewed chairs
that stood at the far end of the library, a portion
that was in shadow. Affecting to be settling Tas, Palin took
the opportunity to look closely at Dalamar, who remained
seated behind the desk, his head bowed into his hands.

Palin had seen the elf only briefly on first arriving. He
had been shocked then at the ruinous alteration in the fea-
tures of the once handsome and vain elven wizard: the
gray-streaked black hair, the wasted features, the thin
hands with their branching blue veins like rivers drawn
on a map, rivers of blood, rivers of souls. And this, their
master ... Master of the Tower.

Struck by a new thought, Palin walked over to the
window and looked down into the forest below, where
the dead flowed still and silent among the boles of the
cypress trees.

"The wizard-lock on the door below," Palin said
abruptly. "It was not meant to keep us in, was it?"

219

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctie wan o<" Souls

No answer came from Dalamar. Palin was left to answer
himself. "It was meant to keep them out. If that is true,
you might want to replace it."

Dalamar, a grim look on his face, left the room. He
returned long moments later. Palin had not moved. Dala-
mar came to stand beside him, looked into the mist of
swirling souls.

'They gather around you," Dalamar said softly. "Their
grave-cold hands clasp you. Their ice lips press against
your flesh. Their chill arms embrace you, dead fingers
clutch at you. You know!"

"Yes," said Palin. "I know." He shook off the remem-
bered horror. "You can't leave, either."

"My body cannot leave," Dalamar corrected. "My spirit
is free to roam. When I depart, I must always come back."
He shrugged. "What is it the Shalafi used to say? 'Even
wizards must suffer.' There is always a price." Dalamar
lowered his gaze to Palin's broken fingers. "Isn't there?"

Palin thrust his hands into the sleeves of his robes.
"Where has your spirit been?"

'Traveling Ansalon, investigating this fantastical time-
traveling story of yours," Dalamar replied.

"Story? I told you no story," Palin returned crisply. "I
haven't spoken one word to you. You've been to see Jenna.
She was the one who told you. And she said that she
hadn't seen you in years."

"She did not lie, Majere, if thafs what you're insinuat-
ing, although I admit she did not tell you all the truth. She
has not seen me, at least not my physical form. She has
heard my voice, and that only recently. I arranged a meet-
ing with her after the strange storm that swept over all
Ansalon in a single night."

"I asked her if she knew where to find you."

"Again, she told you the truth. She does not know
where to find me. I did not tell her. She has never been

220

DnaQONB of a Lost Stan

here. No one has been here. You are the first, and believe
me"—Dalamar's brows constricted—"if you had not
been in such dire straits, you would not be here now. I do
not pine for company," he added with a dark glance.

Palm was silent, uncertain whether to believe him or not.

"For mercy's sake, don't sulk, Majere," Dalamar said,
willfully misinterpreting Palm's silence. "Ifs undignified
for a man of your age. How old are you anyway? Sixty,
seventy, a hundred? I can never tell with humans. You
look ancient enough to me. As for Jenna 'betraying' your
confidence, it is well for you and the kender that she did,
else I would have not taken an interest in you, and you
would now be in Beryl's tender care."

"Do not try to taunt me by remarking on the fact that
I am old," Palin said calmly. "I know I have aged. The
process is natural in humans, m elves, it is not. Look in a
mirror, Dalamar. If the years have taken a toll on me, they
have taken a far more terrible toll on you. As for pride"—
Palin shrugged in his turn—"I lost that a long time ago. It
is hard to remain proud when you can no longer summon
magic enough to heat my morning tea. I think you have
reason to know that."

"Perhaps I do," Dalamar replied. "I know that I have
changed. The battle I fought with Chaos stole hundreds
of years from me, yet I could live with that. I was victori-
ous, after all. Victor and loser, all at the same time. I won
the war and was defeated by what came after. The loss
of the magic.

"I risked my life for the sake of the magic," Dalamar
continued, his voice low and hollow. "I would have given
my life for the sake of the magic. What happened? The
magic departed. The gods left. They left me bereft, pow-
erless, helpless. They left me—ordinary!"

Dalamar breathed shallowly. "All that I gave up for
the magic—my homeland, my nation, my people ... I

221

DRAQONLANCE •ci7e wan OF Souls

used to consider I had made a fair trade. My sacrifice—
and it was a wrenching sacrifice, though only another elf
would understand—had been rewarded. But the reward
was gone, and I was left with nothing. Nothing. And
everyone knew it.

"It was then I began to hear rumors—rumors that Khel-
lendros the Blue was going to seize my Tower, rumors that
the Dark Knights were going to attack it. My Tower!" Dala-
mar gave a vicious snarl. His thin fist clenched. Then, his
hand relaxed, and he gave a grating laugh.

"I tell you, Majere, gully dwarves could have taken
over my Tower, and I could have done nothing to stop
them. I had once been the most powerful wizard in
Ansalon, and now, as you said, I could not so much as
boil water."

"You were not alone." Palin was unsympathetic. "All
of us were affected the same way."

"No, you weren't," Dalamar retorted passionately.
"You could not be. You had not sacrificed as I had sacri-
ficed. You had your father and mother. You had a wife
and children."

"Jenna loved you—" Palin began.

"Did she?" Dalamar grimaced. "Sometimes I think
we only used each other. She could not understand me
either. She was like you, with her damnable human hope
and optimism. Why are you humans like that? Why do
you go on hoping when it is obvious that all hope is lost?
I could not stomach her platitudes. We quarreled. She
left, and I was glad to see her leave. I had no need of her.
I had no need of anyone. It was up to me to protect my
Tower from those great, bloated wyrms, and I did what I
had to do. The only way to save the Tower was to appear
to destroy it. And I did so. My plan worked. No one
knows the Tower is here. No one will, unless I want it to
be found."

222

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

"Moving the Tower must have taken an immense
amount of magical power—a bit more than would be
required to boil water," Palm observed. "You must have
had some of the old magic left to you."

"No, I assure you, I did not," Dalamar said, his pas-
sion cooling. "I was as barren as you."

He gave Palin a sharp and meaningful glance. "Like
you, I understood magic was in the world, if one knew
where to look for it."

Palin avoided Dalamar's intense gaze. "I do not know
what you're implying. I discovered the wild magic—"

"Not alone. You had help. I know, because I had the
same help. A strange personage known as the Shadow
Sorcerer."

"Yes!" Palin was astonished. "Hooded and cloaked in
gray. A voice that was as soft as shadow, might have
belonged to either man or woman."

"You never saw a face—"

"But I did," Palin protested. "In that last terrible
battle, I saw she was a woman. She was an agent of the
dragon Malystryx—"

"Indeed?" Dalamar lifted an eyebrow. "In my last
'terrible' battle, I saw that the Shadow Sorcerer was a
man, an agent for the dragon Khellendros who, according
to my sources, had supposedly left this world in search of
the soul of his late master, that demon-witch Kitiara."

'The Shadow Sorcerer taught you wild magic?"

"No," Dalamar replied. "The Shadow Sorcerer taught
me death magic. Necromancy."

Palin looked back out the window to the roaming
spirits. He looked around the shabby room with its
books of magic that were so many ghosts, lined up on
the shelves. He looked at the elf, who was thin and
wasted, like a gnawed bone. "What went wrong?" he
asked at last.

223

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct)e Wan of Souls

"I was duped/' Dalamar returned. "I was given to
believe I was master of the dead. Too late, I discovered I
was not the master. I was the prisoner. A prisoner of my
own ambition, my own lust for power.

"It is not easy for me to say these things about myself,
Majere," Dalamar added. "It is especially hard for me to say
them to you, the darling child of magic. Oh, yes. I knew.
You were the gifted one, beloved of Solinari, beloved of
your Uncle Raistfin. You would have been one of the great
archmages of all time. I saw that. Was I jealous? A little.
More than a little. Especially of Raistlin's care for you.
You wouldn't think I would want that, would you? That
I would hunger for his approval, his notice. But I did."

"All this time," said Palin, his gaze returning to the
trapped souls, "I have been jealous of you."

"The silence of the empty Tower twined around them.

"I wanted to talk to you," Palin said at last, almost
loathe to break that binding silence. "To ask you about
the Device of Time Journeying—"

"Rather late for that now," Dalamar interrupted, his
tone caustic. "Since you destroyed it."

"I did what I had to do," Palin returned, stating it as
fact, not apology. "I had to save Tasslehoff. If he dies in a
time that is not his own, our time and all in it will end."

"Good riddance." Dalamar gave a wave of his hand,
walked back to his desk. He walked slowly, his shoulders
stooped and rounded. "Oblivion would be welcome."

"If you truly thought that you would be dead by
now," Palin returned.

"No," said Dalamar, stopping to glance out another
window. "No, I said oblivion. Not death." He returned to
his desk, sank down into the chair. "You could leave. You
have the magical earring that would carry you through the
portals of magic back to your home. The earring will work
here. The dead cannot interfere."

224

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stare

'The magic wouldn't carry Tasslehoff/' Palin pointed
out, "and I won't leave without him."

Dalamar regarded the slumbering kender with a spec-
ulative, thoughtful gaze. "He is not the key," he said mus-
ingly, "but perhaps he is the picklock."

Tasslehoff was bored.

Everyone on Krynn either knows, or should know,
how dangerous a bored kender can be. Palin and Dala-
mar both knew, but unfortunately they both forgot. Their
combined memory lapse is perhaps understandable,
given their preoccupation with trying to find the answers
to their innumerable questions. What was worse, not
only did they forget that a bored kender is a dangerous
kender, they forgot the kender completely. And that is
well nigh inexcusable.

The reunion of these old friends had gotten off to a
pretty good start, at least as far as Tas was concerned.
He had been awakened from his unexpected nap in
order to explain his role in the important events that had
transpired of late. Perching on the edge of Dalamar's
desk and kicking his heels against the wood—until
Dalamar curtly told him to stop—Tasslehoff gleefully
joined in the conversation.

He found this entertaining for a time. Palin described
their visit to Laurana in Qualinesti, his discovery that
Tasslehoff was really Tasslehoff and the revelation about
the Device of Time Journeying, and his subsequent deci-
sion to travel back in time to try to find the other time
Tasslehoff had told him about. Since Tasslehoff had been
intimately involved in all this, he was called upon to pro-
vide certain details, which he was happy to do.

He would have been more happy had he been allowed
to tell his complete tale without interruption, but Dalamar
said he didn't have time to hear it. Having always been

225

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl)e Wan of Souls

told when he was a small kender that one can't have
everything (he had always wondered why one couldn't
have everything but had at last arrived at the conclusion
that his pouches weren't big enough to hold it all), Tas had
to be content with telling the abbreviated version.

After he had described how he had come to Cara-
mon's first funeral and found Dalamar head of the Black
Robes, Palin head of the White Robes, and Silvanoshei
king of the united elven nations, and the world mostly
at peace and there were no—repeat—no humungous
dragons running about killing kender in Kendermore,
Tasslehoff was told that his observations were no longer
required. In other words, he was supposed to go sit in a
chair, keep still, and answer questions only when he
was asked.

Going back to the chair that stood in a shadowy comer,
Tasslehoff listened to Palin telling about how he had used
the Device of Time Journeying to go back into the past,
only to find that there wasn't a past. That was interesting,
because Tasslehoff had been there to see that happen, and
he could have provided eyewitness testimony if anyone
had asked him, which no one did. When he volunteered,
he was told to be quiet.

Then came the part where Palin said how the one
thing he knew for a fact was that Tasslehoff should have
died by being squished by Chaos and that Tasslehoff had
not died, thus implying that everything from humungous
dragons to the lost gods was all Tasslehoff's fault.

Palin described how he—Palin—had told him—
Tasslehoff—that he had to use the Device of Time Journey-
ing to return to die and that Tasslehoff had most strongly
and—logically, Tas felt compelled to point out—refused
to do this. Palin related how Tasslehoff had fled to the
citadel to seek Goldmoon's protection by telling Gold-
moon that Palin was trying to murder him. How Palin

226

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

had arrived to say that, no, he was not and found Gold-
moon growing younger, not older. That caused the con-
versation to take a bit of a detour, but they soon—too
soon, as far as Tas was concerned—returned to the
main highway.

Palin told Dalamar that Tasslehoff had finally come
to the conclusion that going back in time was the only
honorable thing to do—and here Palin most generously
praised the kender for his courage. Then Palin explained
that before Tas could go back, the dead had broken the
Device of Time Journeying and they had been attacked
by draconians. Palin had been forced to use the pieces of
the device to fend off the draconians, and now pieces of the
device were scattered over most of the Hedge Maze, and
how were they going to send the kender back to die?

Tasslehoff rose to present the novel idea that perhaps
the kender should not be sent back to die, but at this junc-
ture Dalamar fixed Tas with a cold eye and said that in
his opinion the most important thing they could do to
help save the world, short of slaying the humungous
dragons, was to send Tasslehoff back to die and that they
would have to figure out some way to do it without the
Device of Time Journeying.

Dalamar and Palin began snatching books from the
shelves, paging through them, muttering and mumbling
about rivers of time and Graygems and kender jumping
in and mucking things up and a lot of other mind-
numbing stuff. Dalamar magicked up a fire in the large
fireplace, and the room that had been cold and dank,
grew warm and stuffy, smelling of vellum, mildew, lamp
oil, and dead roses. Since there was no longer anything
of interest to see or hear, Tasslehoff's eyes decided to
dose. His ears agreed with his eyes, and his mind agreed
with his ears, and all of them took another brief nap, this
one of his own choosing.

227

DRAQONLANCE 1:176 Wan of Souls

Tas woke to something poking him uncomfortably in
the posterior. His nap had apparently not been as brief as
he thought, for it was dark outside the window—so dark
that the darkness had overflowed from outside and was
now inside. Tasslehoff could not see a thing. Not himself,
not Dalamar, and not Palin.

Tasslehoff squirmed about in the chair in order to stop
whatever was sticking him in a tender region from stick-
ing him. It was then, after he woke up a bit, that he real-
ized the reason he couldn't see either Palin or Dalamar
was that they were no longer in the room. Or, if they were,
they were playing at hide and seek, and while that was a
charming and amusing game, the two of them didn't
seem the type to go in for it.

Leaving his chair, Tasslehoff fumbled his way to
Dalamar's desk, where he found the oil lamp. A few
embers remained in the fireplace. Tas felt about on the
desk until he discovered some paper. Hoping that the
paper didn't have a magic spell written on it or if did, it
was a spell that Dalamar didn't want anymore, Tas
stuck the end of the paper in the fireplace, lit it, and lit
the oil lamp.

Now that he could see, he reached into his back pocket
to find out what had been poking him. Taking out the
offending object, he held it to the oil lamp.

"Uh, oh!" Tas exclaimed.

"Oh, no!" he cried.

"How did you get here?" he wailed.

The thing that had been poking him was the chain
from the Device of Time Journeying. Tas threw it onto
the desk and reached back into his pocket. He pulled out
another piece of the device, then another and another. He
pulled out all the jewels, one by one. Spreading the pieces
on the desk, he gazed at them sadly. He might have actu-
ally shaken his fist at them, but such a gesture would not

228

DRBOONS of a Lost Stan

have been worthy of a Hero of the Lance, and so we will
say here that he did not.

As a Hero of the Lance, Tas knew what he should do.
He should gather up all the pieces of the device in his
handkerchief (make that Palin's handkerchief) take them
straightway to wherever Palin and Dalamar were, and
hand them over and say, quite bravely, that he was pre-
pared to go back and die for the world. That would be a
Noble Deed, and Tasslehoff had been ready once before
to do a Noble Deed. But one had to be in the proper mood
for being Noble, and Tas discovered he wasn't in that
mood at all. He supposed that one also had to be in the
proper mood to be stepped on by a giant, and he wasn't
in that particular mood either. After seeing the dead
people roaming about aimlessly outside—especially the
dead kender, who didn't even care what they had in
their pouches—Tasslehoff was in the mood to live and
go on living.

He knew this was not likely to happen if Dalamar and
Palin discovered that he had the magical device in his
pocket, even if it was broken. Fearing that any moment
Palin and Dalamar might remember they'd left him here
and come back to check on him or offer him dinner,
Tasslehoff hurriedly gathered up the pieces of the magical
device, wrapped them in the handkerchief, and stuffed
them in one of his pouches.

That was the easy part. Now came the hard part.

Far from being Noble, he was going to be Ignoble. He
thought that was the right word. He was going to Escape.

Leaving by the front door was out. He had tried the
windows already, and they were no help. You couldn't
even break them by heaving a rock through the glass like
you could an ordinary, respectable window. Tas had
heaved, and the rock had bounced off and landed on his
foot, smashing his toes.

229

DRAQONLANCE T:t»e Ware of Souls

"I have to consider this logically," Tas said to himself.
It may be noted as a historical fact that this was the only
time a Render ever said such a thing and only goes to
show how truly dire was the situation in which he found
himself. "Palm got out, but he's a wizard, and he had to
use magic to do it. However, using logic, I say to myself—
if nothing but a wizard can get out can anything other
than a wizard get in? If so, what and how?"

Tas thought this over. While he thought, he watched the
embers glow in the fireplace. Suddenly he let out a cry and
immediately dapped his hand over his mouth, afraid that
Palin and Dalamar would hear and remember him.

"I've got it!" he whispered. "Something does get in! Air
gets in! And it goes out, too. And where it goes, I can go."

Tasslehoff kicked and stomped on the embers until
they went out. Picking up the oil lamp, he walked into
the fireplace and took a look around. It was a large fire-
place, and he didn't have to stoop all that much to get
inside. Holding the lamp high, he peered up into the
darkness. He was almost immediately forced to lower
his head and blink quite frantically until he dislodged
the soot that had fallen into his eyes. Once he could see
again, he was rewarded by a lovely sight—the wall of
the chimney was not smooth. Instead it was nubbly,
wonderfully nubbly, with the ends and fronts and sides
of large stones sticking out every which way.

"Why, I could climb up that wall with one leg tied
behind my back," Tasslehoff exclaimed.

This not being something he did on a regular basis, he
decided that it would be far more efficient to use two
legs. He couldn't very well climb and hang onto the oil
lamp, so he left that on the desk, thoughtfully blowing
out the flame first so that he wouldn't set anything on
fire. Entering the chimney, he found a good foot- and
handhold right off and began his climb.

230

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

He had gone only a short distance—moving slowly
because he had to feel his way in the darkness and
pausing occasionally to wipe gunk out of his eyes—
when he heard voices coming from below. Tasslehoff
froze, clinging like a spider to the wall of the chimney,
afraid to move lest he send a shower of soot raining
down into the fireplace. He did think, rather resentfully,
that Dalamar might at least have spent some magic on a
chimney sweep.

The voices were raised and heated.

"I tell you, Majere, your story makes no sense! From
all we have read, you should have seen the past flow by
you like a great river. In my opinion, you simply miscast
the spell."

"And I tell you, Dalamar, that while I may not have
your vaunted power in magic, I did not miscast the spell.
The past was not there, and it all goes wrong at the very
moment Tasslehoff was supposed to die."

"From what we have read in Raistlin's journal, the
death of the kender should be a drop in time's vast river
and should not affect time one way or the other."

"For the fourteenth time the fact that Chaos was
involved alters matters completely. The kender's death
becomes vitally important. What of this future he says he
visited? A future in which everything is different?"

"Bah! You are gullible, Majere! The kender is a liar. He
made it all up. Where is that blasted scroll? That should
explain everything. I know it is here somewhere. Look
over there in that cabinet."

Tasslehoff was understandably annoyed to hear him-
self referred to as a liar. He considered dropping down
and giving Dalamar and Palin both a piece of his mind
but reflected that, if he did so, it would be difficult to
explain why exactly he'd gone up the chimney in the first
place. He kept quiet.

231

DRAQONLANCE Vie Wan of Souls

"It would help if I knew what I was looking for."

"A scroll! I suppose you know a scroll when you see one."

"Just find the damn thing!" Tasslehoff muttered. He
was growing quite weary of hanging onto the wall. His
hands were starting to ache, and his legs to quiver, and he
feared he wasn't going to be able to hold on much longer.

"I know what a scroll looks like, but—" A pause.
"Speaking of Tasslehoff, where is he? Do you know?"

"I neither know nor care."

"When we left, he was asleep in the chair."

"Then he's probably gone to bed, or he's attempting to
pick the lock of the door to the laboratory again."

"Still, don't you think we should—"

"Found iti This is it!" The sound of paper being unrolled.
"A Treatise on Time Journeying Dealing Specifically with the
Unacceptability of Permitting Any Member of the Graygem
Races to Journey Back in Time Due to the Unpredictability of
Their Actions and How This Might Affect Not Only the Past
but the Future."

"Who's the author?"

"Marwort."

"Marwort! Who termed himself Marwort the Illustri-
ous? The Kingpriesfs pet wizard? Everyone knows that
when he wrote about the magic, the Kingpriest guided
his hand. Of what use is this? You can't believe a word
that traitor says."

"So the history of our Order has recorded, and there-
fore no one studies him. But I have often found what he
has to say interesting—if one reads between the lines. For
example, notice this paragraph. The third one down."

Tasslehoff's stiff fingers began to slip. He gulped and
readjusted his hold on the stones and wished Palin and
Dalamar and Marwort gone with all his heart and soul.

"I can't read by this light," Palin said. "My eyes are not
what they used to be. And the fire has gone out."

232

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stall

"I could light the fire again," Dalamar offered.

Tasslehoff nearly lost his grip on the stones.

"No," said Palin. "I find this room depressing. Let us
take it back where we can be comfortable."

They doused the light, leaving Tas in darkness. He
heaved a sigh of relief. When he heard the door close, he
began his climb once again.

He was not a young, agile kender anymore, and he
soon found that climbing chimneys in the dark was wear-
ing work. Fortunately, he had reached a point in the
chimney where the walls started to narrow, so that at
least he could lean his back against one wall while keep-
ing himself from slipping by planting his feet firmly
against the wall opposite.

He was hot and tired. He had grime in his eyes and
soot up his nose and his mouth. His legs were scraped,
his fingers rubbed raw, his clothes ripped and torn. He
was bored of being in the dark, bored of the stones, bored
of the whole business—and he didn't appear to be any
closer to the way out than when he'd started.

"I really don't see why it is necessary to have this
much chimney," Tasslehoff muttered, cursing the Tower's
builder with every grimy foothold.

Just when he thought that his hands were going to
refuse to clamp down on another stone and that his legs
were going to drop off and fall to the bottom, something
filled his nose, and for a change it wasn't soot.

"Fresh air!" Tasslehoff breathed deeply, and his spir-
its revived.

The whiff of fresh air wafting down from above lent
strength to Tasslehoff's legs and banished the aches from
his fingers. Peering upward in hope of seeing stars or
maybe the sun—for he had the notion that he'd been
climbing for the past six months or so—he was disap-
pointed to see only more darkness. He'd had darkness

233

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct)e Wan of Souls

enough to last a lifetime, maybe even two lifetimes. How-
ever, the air was fresh, and that meant outside air, so he
clambered upward with renewed vigor.

At length, as all things must do, good or otherwise, the
chimney came to an end.

The opening was covered with an iron grate to keep
birds and squirrels and other undesirables from nesting
in the chimney shaft. After what Tasslehoff had already
been through, an iron grate was nothing more than a
minor inconvenience. He gave it an experimental shove,
not expecting anything to come of it. Luck was with him,
however. The bolts holding the grate in place had long
since rusted away—probably sometime prior to the First
Cataclysm—and at the kender's enthusiastic push the
gate popped off.

Tasslehoff was unprepared for its sudden departure.
He made a desperate grab but missed, and the grate went
sailing into the air. The kender froze again, squinched
shut his eyes, hunched his shoulders, and waited for the
grate to strike the ground at the bottom with what would
undoubtedly be a clang loud enough to wake any of the
dead who happened to be snoozing at the moment.

He waited and waited and kept on waiting. Consider-
ing the amount of chimney he'd had to climb, he sup-
posed it must be a couple of hundred miles to the bottom
of the Tower, but, after awhile, even he was forced to admit
that if the grate had been going to clang it would have
done so by now. He poked his head up out of the hole
and was immediately struck in the face by the end of a
tree branch, while the sharp pungent smell of cypress
cleaned the soot from his nostrils.

He shoved aside the tree branch and looked around
to get his bearings. The strange and unfamiliar moon of
this strange and unfamiliar Krynn was very bright this
night, and Tasslehoff was at last able to see something,

234

DnaooNS of a Lost Stare

although that something was only more tree branches.
Tree branches to the left of him, tree branches to the
right. Tree branches up, and tree branches down. Tree
branches as far as the eye could see. He looked over the
edge of the chimney and found the grate, perched in a
branch about six feet below him.

Tasslehoff tried to determine how far he was from the
ground, but the branches were in the way. He looked to
the side and located the top of one of the Tower's two
broken minarets. The top was about level with him. That
gave him some idea of how far he had climbed and, more
importantly, how far the ground was below.

That was not a problem, however, for here were all
these handy trees.

Tasslehoff pulled himself out of the chimney. Finding
a sturdy limb, he crawled carefully out on it, testing his
weight as he went. The limb was strong and didn't so
much as creak. After chimney climbing, tree climbing
was simple. Tasslehoff shinnied down the trunk, lowered
himself from limb to friendly and supportive limb, and
finally, as he gave a sigh of exultation and relief, his feet
touched firm and solid ground.

Down here, the moonlight was not very bright, hardly
filtering through the thick leaves at all. Tas could make
out the Tower but only because it was a black, hulking
blot amongst the trees. He could see, very far up, a patch
of light and figured that must be the window in Dala-
mar's private chamber.

"I've made it this far, but I'm not out of the woods yet,"
he said to himself. "Dalamar told Palin we were near
Solanthus. I recall someone saying something about the
Solamnic Knights having a headquarters at Solanthus, so
that seems like a good place to go to find out what's
become of Gerard. He may be dull, and he certainly is ugly,
and he doesn't like kender, but he is a Solamnic Knight,

235

DRAQONLANCE Ore wan of Souls

and one thing you can say about Solamnic Knights is that
they aren't the type to send a fellow back in time to be
stepped on. I'll find Gerard and explain everything to
him, and I'm sure he'll be on my side."

Tasslehoff remembered suddenly that the last time
he'd seen Gerard, the Knight had been surrounded by
Dark Knights firing arrows at him. Tas was rather down-
hearted at this thought, but then it occurred to him that
Solamnic Knights were plentiful and if one was dead,
you could always find another.

The question now was, how to find his way out of
the forest.

All this time he'd been on the ground, the dead were
flowing around him like fog with eyes and mouths and
hands and feet, moving past him and over him, but he
hadn't really taken any notice, he'd been too busy think-
ing. He noticed now. Although being surrounded by
dead people with their sad faces and their hands that
plucked at one of his pouches wasn't the most comfort-
able experience in the world, he thought perhaps they
might make up for being so extremely cold and creepy by
providing him with directions.

"I say, excuse me, sir— Madam, excuse me— Hob-
goblin, old chum, could you tell me— I beg your pardon,
but that's my pouch. Hey, kid, if I give you a copper
would you show— Kender! Fellow kender! I need to
find a way to reach— Drat," Tasslehoff said after several
moments spent in a futile attempt to converse with the
dead. "They don't seem to see me. They look right through
me. I'd ask Caramon, but just when he might be useful,
he isn't around. I don't mean to be insulting," he added
in irritable tones, trying without success to find a path
through the cypress trees that pressed thick around him,
"but there really are a lot of you dead people! Far more
than is necessary."

236

DRBOONS of a Lost Stan

He continued searching for a path—any sort of a
path— but without much luck. Walking in the dark was
difficult, although the dead were lit with a soft white
light that Tas thought was interesting at first but after
awhile, seeing that the dead looked very lost, sorrowful,
and terrified, he dedded that darkness—any darkness—
would be preferable.

At least, he could put some distance between himself
and Palm and Dalamar. If he, a kender who was never
lost, was lost in these trees, he had no doubt that a mere
human and a dark elf—wizards though they might be—
would be just as lost and that by losing himself he was
also losing them.

He kept going, bashing into trees and knocking his
head against low branches, until he took a nasty tumble
over a tree root and fell down onto a bed of dead cypress
needles. The needles were sweet-smelling, at least, and
they were decently dead—all brown and crispy—not like
some other dead he could mention.

His legs were pleased that he wasn't using them any-
more. The brown needles were comfortable, after you got
used to them sticking you in various places, and, all in all,
Tasslehoff dedded that since he was down here he might
as well take this opportunity to rest.

He crawled to the base of the tree trunk, settled him-
self as comfortably as possible, pillowing his head on a
bed of soft green moss. It was not surprising, therefore,
that the last thing he thought of, as he was drifting off to
sleep, was his father.

Not that his father was moss-covered.

It was his father telling him, "Moss always grows on
the side of a tree fadng—"

Fadng...

Tas dosed his eyes.

Now, if he could just remember what direction...

237

DRAQONLANCE 'CITC Wan of Souls

"North," he said and woke himself up.

Realizing that he now could tell what direction he was
traveling, he was about to roll over and go back to sleep
when he looked up and saw one of the ghosts standing
over him, staring down at him.

The ghost was that of a kender, a kender who appeared
vaguely familiar to Tas, but then most kender appear
familiar to their fellow kender since the odds are quite
likely that in all their ambulations, they must have run
into each other sometime.

"Now, look," said Tasslehoff, sitting up. "I don't mean
to be rude, but I have spent most of the day escaping
from the Tower of High Sorcery, and—as I am certain you
know—escaping from sorcerous towers makes a fellow
extremely tired. So if you don't mind, I'm just going to go
to sleep."

Tas shut his eyes, but he had the feeling the ghost of
the kender was still there, still looking down at him. Not
only that, but Tas continued to see the ghost of the kender
on the backs of his eyelids, and the more he thought
about it the more he was quite certain he had definitely
met that kender somewhere before.

The kender was quite a handsome fellow with a taste
in clothes that others might have considered garish and
outlandish but that Tasslehoff considered charming. The
kender was festooned with pouches, but that wasn't
unusual. What was unusual was the expression on the
kender's face—sad, lost, alone, seeking.

A cold chill shivered through Tasslehoff. Not a
thrilling, exdted chill, like you feel when you're about to
pull the glittering ring off the bony finger of a skeleton
and the finger twitches! This was a nasty, sickening kind
of chill that scrunches up the stomach and squeezes the
lungs, making it hard to breathe. Tas thought he would
open his eyes, then he thought he wouldn't. He squinched

238

DRBOONS of a Lost Stan

them shut very hard so they wouldn't open by them-
selves and curled into an even tighter ball. He knew
where he had seen that kender before.

"Go away," he said softly. "Please."

He knew quite well, though he couldn't see, that the
ghost hadn't gone away.

"Go away, go away, go away!" Tas cried frantically, and
when that didn't work, he opened his eyes and jumped to
his feet and yelled angrily at the ghost, "Go away!"

The ghost stood staring at Tasslehoff.

Tasslehoff stood staring at himself.

"Tell me," Tas said, his voice quivering, "why are
you here? What do you want? Are you . . . are you mad
because I'm not dead yet?"

The ghost of himself said nothing. It stared at Tas a
little longer, then turned and walked away, not as if it
wanted to but because it couldn't help itself. Tas watched
his own ghost join a milling throng of other restless spir-
its. He watched until he could no longer distinguish his
ghost from any other.

Tears stung his eyes. Panic seized him. He turned and
ran as he had never run before. He ran and ran, not look-
ing where he was going, smashing into bushes, caroming
off tree trunks, falling down, getting up, running some
more, running and running until he fell down and couldn't
get up because his legs wouldn't work anymore.

Exhausted, frightened, horrified, Tasslehoff did some-
thing he had never done.

He wept for himself.

239

17

MfetakeN IDeNtity




hile Tasslehoff was recalling with fond nostalgia
his travels with Gerard, it may be truthfully
stated that at this time Gerard was not thinking
fond thoughts about the Render. He wasn't thinking any
sort of thoughts about the kender at all. Gerard assumed,
quite confidently, that he would never have anything
more to do with kender and put Tasslehoff out of his
mind. The Knight had far more important and worrisome
matters to consider.

Gerard wanted desperately to be back in Qualinesti,
assisting Marshal Medan and Gilthas to prepare the city
for the battle with Beryl's forces. In his heart, he was there
with the elves. In reality, he was on the back of the blue
dragon. Razor, flying north—the exact opposite direction
from Qualinesti, heading for Solanthus.

They were passing over the northern portion of
Abanasinia—Gerard was able to see the vast shining
expanse of New Sea from the air—when Razor started
to descend. The dragon informed Gerard that he needed

240

DnaqoNS Of a Lost Stan

to rest and eat. The flight over New Sea was long, and
once they started out over the water there would be
nowhere to stop until they reached land on the other side.

Although he grudged the time, Gerard was in whole-
hearted agreement that the dragon should be well-rested
before the flight. The blue extended his wings to slow his
descent and began to circle around and around, dropping
lower with every rotation, his destination a large expanse
of sandy beach. The sea was entrancing seen from above.
Sunlight striking the water made it blaze like molten fire.
The dragon's flight seemed leisurely to Gerard until Razor
drew closer to the ground, or rather, when the ground
came rushing up to meet them.

Gerard had never been so terrified in his life. He had
to damp his teeth tightly shut to keep from shrieking at
the dragon to slow down. The last few yards, the ground
leaped up, the dragon plummeted down, and Gerard
knew he was finished. He considered himself as brave as
the next man, but he couldn't help but shut his eyes until
he felt a gentle bump that rocked him slightly forward in
the saddle. The dragon settled his muscular body com-
fortably, folded his wings to his sides and tossed his head
with pleasure.

Gerard opened his eyes and spent a moment recover-
ing from the ordeal, then climbed stiffly from the saddle.
He'd been afraid to move during much of the flight for
fear he'd fall, and now his muscles were cramped and
sore. He hobbled around for a bit, groaning and stretch-
ing out the kinks. Razor watched him with condescend-
ing, if respectful, amusement.

Razor lumbered off to find something to eat. The dragon
looked dumsy on land, compared to the air. Trusting that
the dragon would keep watch, Gerard wrapped himself
in a blanket and lay down on the sun-warmed sand. He
meant only to rest his eyes....

241

DRAQONLANCE 'cire WBR or Souls

Gerard woke from the sleep he had never meant to
take to find the dragon basking in sunlight, gazing out
across the water. At first, Gerard thought he had been
napping only a few hours, then he noted that the sun was
in a much different portion of the sky.

"How long have I been asleep?" he demanded, clam-
bering to his feet and shaking the sand out of his leathers.

"All the night and much of the morning," the dragon
replied.

Cursing the fact that he had wasted time sleeping,
noting that he had left the dragon burdened with the
saddle, which was now knocked askew, Gerard began to
apologize, but Razor passed it off.

At that, the dragon appeared uneasy, as if something
were preying on his mind. Razor looked often at Gerard
as if about to speak and then seemingly decided against
it. He snapped his mouth shut and twitched his tail mood-
ily. Gerard would have liked to have encouraged the
dragon's confidences, but he did not feel they knew each
other that well, so he said nothing.

He had a bad several minutes tugging and pulling the
saddle back into position and redoing some of the har-
ness, all the while conscious of more precious time slip-
ping by. At last he had the saddle positioned correctly, or
at least so he hoped. He had visions of his grand plans
ending in failure as the saddle slid off the dragon in mid-
flight, dumping Gerard to an ignominious death.

Razor was reassuring, however, stating that the saddle
felt secure to him, and Gerard trusted to the dragon's
expertise, having none of his own. They flew off just as dusk
was settling over the sea. Gerard was concerned about
flying at night, but as Razor sensibly pointed out, night
flying was much safer these days than flying by daylight.

The dusk had a strange smoky quality to it that caused
the sun to blaze red as it sank below the smudged horizon

242

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

line. The smell of burning in the air made Gerard's nose
twitch. The smoke increased, and he wondered if there
was a forest fire somewhere. He looked down below to
see if he could spot it but could find nothing. The gloom
deepened and blotted out the stars and the moon, so that
they flew in a smoke-tinged fog.

"Can you find your way in this. Razor?" Gerard shouted.

"Strangely enough, I can, sir," Razor returned. He fell
into one of the uncomfortable silences again, then said
abruptly, "I feel obliged to tell you something, sir. I must
confess to a dereliction of duty."

"Eh? What?" Gerard cried, hearing only about one
word in three. "Duty? What about duty?"

"I was waiting for your return at about noon time yes-
terday when I heard a call, sir. The call was as a trumpet,
summoning me to war. I had never heard the like, sir, not
even in the old days. I... I almost followed it, sir. I came
close to forgetting my duty and departing, leaving you
stranded. I will turn myself in for disciplinary action
upon our return."

If this had been another human talking, Gerard would
have said comfortingly that the man must have been
dreaming. He couldn't very well say that to a creature
hundreds of years older and more experienced than him-
self, so all he ended up saying was that the dragon had
remained and that was what counted. At least Gerard
knew now why Razor had appeared so uneasy.

Talk ended between them. Gerard could see nothing and
only hoped that they would not fly headlong into a moun-
tain in the darkness. He had to trust Razor, however, who
appeared to be able to see where he was going, for he flew
confidently and swiftly. At length Gerard relaxed enough
to be able to pry loose his fingers from the saddle horn.

Gerard had no notion of the passing of time. It seemed
they had been flying for hours, and he even dozed off again,

243

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl^e Wan of Souls

only to wake with a horrific start in a cold sweat from a
dream that he was falling to find that the sun was rising.

"Sir," said Razor. "Solanthus is in sight."

He could see the towers of a large city just appearing
over the horizon. Gerard ordered Razor to land some dis-
tance from Solanthus, find a place where the blue could
rest, and remain safely in hiding, not only from the
Solamnic Knights, but from Skie, otherwise known as
Khellendros, the great blue dragon, who had held his
own against Beryl and Malystryx.

Razor found what he considered a suitable location.
Under the cover of a cloud bank, he made an easy land-
ing, spiraling downward in wide sweeping circles onto a
vast expanse of grasslands near a heavily wooded forest.

The dragon smashed and trampled the grass when he
landed, digging gouges into the dirt with his clawed feet
and thrashing the grass with his tail. Anyone who came
upon the site would be able to guess at once that some
mighty creature had walked here, but this area was
remote. A few farms could be seen, carved out of the
forest. A single road wound snakelike through the tall
grass, but it was several miles distant.

Gerard had sighted a stream from the air, and he was
looking forward to nothing so much as a swim in the cool
water. His own stench was so bad that he came near
making himself sick, and he was itchy from sand and
dried sweat. He would bathe and change clothes—rid
himself of the leather tunic, at least, that marked him a
Dark Knight. He'd have to enter Solanthus dressed like
a farm hand—shirtiess, dad only in his breeches. He had
no way to prove he was a Solamnic Knight, but Gerard
was not worried. His father had friends in the Knight-
hood, and almost certainly Gerard would find someone
who knew him.

As for Razor, if the dragon asked why they were here,

244

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

Gerard was prepared to explain that he was under Medan's
orders to spy upon the Solamnic Knighthood.

The dragon did not ask questions. Razor was far more
interested in discovering a place to hide and rest. He was
in the territory of the mighty Skie now. The enormous
blue dragon had discovered that he could gain strength
and power by preying on his own kind, and he was hated
and feared by his brethren.

Gerard was anxious that Razor find a hiding place. The
dragon was graceful in the air, his wings barely moving as
he soared silently on the thermals. On the ground, the blue
was a lumbering monster, his feet trampling and smashing,
his tail knocking over small trees, sending animals fleeing
in terror. He brought down a stag with a snap of his jaws,
and, hauling the carcass by the broken neck in his teeth,
brought it along with him to enjoy at his leisure.

This made conversation difficult, but he answered
Gerard's questions concerning Skie with grunts and nods.
Strange rumors had circulated about the mighty blue
dragon, who was the nominal ruler of Palanthas and
environs. Rumors had it that the dragon had vanished,
that he'd handed over control to an underling. Razor had
heard these rumors, but he discounted them.

Investigating a depression in a rocky cliff to see if it
would make a suitable resting place. Razor dropped the
deer carcass by the bank of the stream.

"I believe that Skie is involved in some deep plot that
will result in his downfall," Razor told Gerard. "If so, it will
be a punishment for slaying his own kind. If we even are
his own kind," he added, as an afterthought.

"He's a blue dragon, isn't he?" Gerard asked, looking
longingly at the creek and hoping the dragon settled him-
self soon.

"Yes, sir," said Razor. "But he has grown so that he
is far larger than any blue ever seen on Krynn before.

245

DRAQONLANCE OTG wan OF Souls

He is larger than the reds—except Malystryx—a great
bloated monster. My brethren and I have often com-
mented on it."

"Yet he fought in the War of the Lance," said Gerard.
"Is this satisfactory? There don't appear to be any caves."

"True, sir. He was a loyal servant to our departed
queen. But one has to wonder, sir."

Unable to find a cave large enough to hold him,
Razor pronounced the depression a good start, declared
his intention to widen it by blasting chunks of rock out
of the side of the cliff. Gerard watched from a safe dis-
tance as the blue dragon spat bolts of lightning that blew
huge holes in the solid rock, sending boulders splashing
into the water and causing the ground to shake beneath
his feet.

Certain that the noise of the splitting rock, the blast-
ing explosions, and the concussive thunder must be
heard in Solanthus, he feared a patrol would be sent out
to investigate.

"If the Solanthians hear anything at all, sir," Razor
said during a rest break, "they will think it is merely a
coming storm."

Once he had created his cave and the dust had settled
and the numerous small avalanches had stopped. Razor
retired inside to rest and enjoy his meal.

Gerard removed the saddle from the dragon's back—a
proceeding that took some time since he was not familiar
with the complicated harness. Razor offered his assis-
tance, and once this was done and Gerard had dragged
the heavy saddle into a comer of the cave, out of the way,
he left the dragon to his meal and his slumber.

Gerard traveled downstream a good distance until he
found a place shallow enough for bathing. He stripped
off his leathers and undergarments and waded, naked,
into the rippling stream.

246

DRBOONS of a Lost Stare

The water was deep and cold. He gasped, shivered,
and, gritting his teeth, plunged in headfirst. He was not
a particularly good swimmer, so he stayed clear of the
deeper part of the stream where the current ran swift.
The sun was warm, the cold tingled his skin, felt invig-
orating. He began to splash and leap about, at first to
keep the blood flowing and then because he was enjoy-
ing himself.

For a few moments, at least, he was free. Free of all
his worries and anxieties, free of responsibility, free of
anyone telling him what to do. For a few moments, he
let himself be a child again.

He tried to catch fish with his bare hands. He dog-
paddled beneath the overhanging willow trees. He
floated on his back, enjoying the warmth of the sun on
his skin and the refreshing contrasting cold of the water.
He scrubbed off the caked-on dirt and blood with a
handful of grass, all the while wishing he had some of
his mother's tallow soap.

Once he was clean, he could examine his wounds.
They were inflamed but only slightly infected. He had
treated them with a salve given to him by the Queen
Mother, and they were healing well. Peering at his
reflection in the water, he grimaced, ran his hand over
his jaw. He had a stubbly growth of beard, dark brown,
not yellow, like his hair. His face was ugly enough with-
out the beard, which was patchy and splotchy and
looked like some sort of malignant plant life crawling
up his jaw.

He thought back to the time in his youth when he'd
tried in vain to grow the silky flowing mustache that was
the pride of the Solamnic Knighthood. His mustache
proved to be rough and bristly, stuck out every which
way like his recalcitrant hair. His father, whose own
mustache was full and thick, had taken his son's failure

247

DRAQONLANCE 'C^e wan of Souls

as a personal affront, irrationally blaming whatever was
rebellious inside Gerard for manifesting itself through
his hair.

Gerard turned to wade back to where he had left his
leathers and his pack, intending to retrieve his knife
and shave off the stubble. A flash of sunlight off metal
half-blinded him. Looking up on the bank, he saw a
Solamnic Knight.

The Knight was dad in a leather vest, padded for pro-
tection, worn over a knee-length tunic that was belted at
the waist. The Hash of metal came from a half-helm that
covered the head but had no visor. A red ribbon fluttered
from the top of the half-helm, the padded vest was deco-
rated with a red rose. A long bow slung over the shoul-
ders indicated that the Knight had been out hunting, as
evidenced by the carcass of a stag hanging over the back
of a pack mule. The Knight's horse was nearby, head
down, grazing.

Gerard cursed himself for not having kept closer
watch. Had he been paying attention, instead of larking
about like a schoolboy, he would have heard horse and
rider approaching.

The Knight's booted foot was planted firmly atop
Gerard's sword belt and sword. The Knight held a long
sword in one gloved hand. In the other, a coil of rope.

Gerard could not see the Knighfs face, due to the shad-
ows of the trees, but he had no doubt that the expression
would be grim and stem and undoubtedly triumphant.

He stood in the middle of the stream that was growing
colder by the second and pondered on the odd quirk in
human nature that makes us feel we are far more vulner-
able naked than when wearing clothes. Shirt and breeches
will not stop arrow, knife, or sword, yet had he been
dressed, Gerard would have been able to face this Knight
with confidence. As it was, he stood in the stream and

248

DnaooNS oy a Lost Stan

gaped at the Knight with about as much intelligence as
the fish that were making darts at his bare legs.

"You are my prisoner," said the Solamnic, speaking
Common. "Come forth slowly and keep your hands raised
so that I may see them."

Gerard's discomfiture was complete. The Knight's
voice was rich and mellow and unquestioningly femi-
nine. At that moment, she turned her head to glance
warily about her, and he saw two long thick braids of
glossy blue-black hair streaming out from beneath the
back of the half-helm.

Gerard felt his skin bum so hot that it was a wonder
the water around him didn't steam.

"Lady Knight," he said when he could find his voice,
"I concede readily that I am your prisoner, at least for the
moment, until I can explain the unusual circumstances,
and I would do as you command, but I am ... as you can
see ... not dressed."

"Since your clothes are here on the bank, I did not
think that you would be," the Knight returned. "Come
out of the water now."

Gerard thought briefly of making a dash for it to the
opposite bank, but the stream ran deep and swift, and he
was not that good a swimmer. He doubted if he could
manage it. He pictured himself floundering in the water,
drowning, calling for help, destroying what shreds of
dignity he might have left.

"I don't suppose you would turn your head. Lady, and
allow me to dress myself?" he asked.

"And let you stab me in the back?" Laughing she
leaned forward. "Do you know. Knight of Neraka, I
find it amusing that you, a champion of evil, who has
undoubtedly slaughtered any number of innocents,
burned villages, robbed the dead, looted, and raped, are
such a shrinking lily."

249

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfle Wan Of Souls

She was pleased with her joke. The emblem of the
Dark Knights on which her foot rested, was the skull and
the lily.

"If it makes you feel better," the Lady Knight contin-
ued, "I have served in the Knighthood for twelve years,
I have held my own in battle and tourney. I have seen
the male body not only unclothed but ripped open.
Which is how I will view yours if you do not obey me."
She raised her sword. "Either you come out or I will
come in after you."

Gerard began to splash through the water toward
the bank. He was angry now, angry at the mocking
tone of the woman, and his anger in part alleviated his
embarrassment. He looked forward to fetching his pack
and exhibiting his letter from Gilthas, proving to this
female jokester that he was a true Knight of Solamnia
here on an urgent mission and that he probably out-
ranked her.

She watched him carefully every step of the way, her
face evincing further amusement at the sight of his
nakedness—not surprising, since his skin was shriveled
like a prune, and he was blue and shaking with the
cold. Arriving at the bank, he cast one furious glance at
her and reached for his clothes. She continued to stand
with her foot on his sword, her own sword raised and
at the ready.

He dressed himself in the leather trousers he'd brought
with him. He was going to ignore the tunic, that lay
crumpled on the bank, hoping that she might not notice
the emblem stitched on the front. She lifted it with the tip
of her sword, however, and tossed it at him.

"Wouldn't want you to get sunburned," she said. "Put
it on. Did you have a nice flight?"

Gerard's heart sank, but he made a game try. "I don't
know what you mean. I walked—"

250

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stare

"Give it up, Neraka," she said to him. "I saw the
blue dragon. I saw the beast land. I marked its trail
and followed it and found you." She regarded him
with interest, all the while keeping the sword pointed
at him and dangling the length of rope in her hands. "So
what were you intending to do, Neraka? Spy on us,
maybe? Pretend to be some loutish farm lad coming to
the city for a good time? You appear to have the lout
part down well."

"I am not a spy," he said through teeth clenched to
keep them from chattering. "I know that you're not going
to believe this, but I am not a Dark Knight of Neraka. I
am a Solamnic, like yourself—"

"Oh, that is rich! A blue Solamnic riding a blue
dragon." The Lady Knight laughed heartily, then
flicked her hand and, with alacrity tossed the loop of
rope over his head. "Don't worry. I won't hang you
here, Neraka. I mean to take you back to Solanthus. You
can tell your tale to an admiring audience. The inquisi-
tor has been in low spirits these days. You'll cheer him
right up, I'm sure."

She jerked the rope, grinned to see Gerard grab it to
keep from choking. "Whether you arrive there alive, half-
alive, or barely breathing is up to you."

"I'll prove it," Gerard stated. "Let me open my pack—"

He looked down on the ground. The pack was not there.

Gerard searched frantically along the riverbank. No
pack. And then he remembered. He had left the pack
with the letter hooked to the dragon's saddle. The
saddle and the pack were back in the cave with the
blue dragon.

He bowed his head that was dripping wet, too over-
whelmed to swear. The hot words were in his heart but
they couldn't make it past the lump in his throat to reach
his tongue. Raising his head, he looked at the Lady

251

DRAQONLANCE 'CITC Wan of Souls

Knight, looked her full in the eyes that, he noted, were
tree-leaf green.

"I swear to you. Lady, on my honor as a true Knight
that I am a Solamnic. My name is Gerard uth Mondar. I
am stationed in Solace, where I am one of the honor
guard for the Tomb of the Last Heroes. I can offer no
proof of what I say, I admit that, but my father is well
known among the Knighthood. I am certain there are
Lord Knights in Solanthus who will recognize me. I have
been sent to bring urgent news to the Council of Knights
in Solanthus. In my pack, I have a letter from Gilthas,
king of the elves—"

"Ah, yes," she said, "and in my pack I have a letter
from Mulberry Miklebush, queen of the kender. Where
is this pack with this wonderful letter?"

Gerard muttered something.

"I didn't catch that, Neraka?" She bent nearer.

"It's attached to the saddle of the ... blue dragon," he
said glumly. "I could go fetch it. I give you my word of
honor that I would return and surrender myself."

She frowned slightly. "I don't, by any chance, have hay
stuck in my hair, do I?"

Gerard glared at her.

"I thought I might," she said. "Because you obviously
think I have just fallen out of the hay wagon. Yes, Sweet
Neraka, I'll accept the word of honor of a blue dragon-
rider, and I'll let you run off and fetch your pack and your
blue dragon. Then I'll wave my hankie to you as you both
Hy away."

She prodded him in the belly with her sword.

"Get on the horse."

"Listen, Lady," Gerard said, his anger and frustration
growing. "I know that this looks bad, but if you'll use that
steel-covered head of yours for thinking, you'll realize
that I'm telling the truth! If I were a real dragonrider of

252

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stare

Neraka, do you think you'd be standing here poking me
with that sword of yours? You'd be food for my dragon
about now. I am on an urgent mission. Thousands of lives
arc at stake— Stop that, damn you!"

She had been prodding him with her sword at every
third word, steadily forcing him to fall back until he
bumped into her horse. Furious, he thrust aside the
sword with his bare hand, slicing open his palm.

"I do love to hear you talk, Neraka," she said. "I could
listen to you all day, but, unfortunately, I go on duty in a
few hours. So mount up, and lefs be off."

Gerard was now so angry that he was seriously tempted
to summon the dragon. Razor would make short work of
this infuriating female, who had apparently been born
with solid steel in her head instead of on top of it. He con-
trolled his rage, however, and mounted the horse. Know-
ing full well what she intended to do with him, he put his
hands behind his back, wrists together.

Sheathing her sword, keeping a firm grip on the rope
that was around his neck, she tied his wrists together
with the same length of rope, adjusting it so that if he
moved his arms or any part of his body, he'd end up
strangling himself. All the while, she kept up her jocular
banter, calling him Neraka, Sweet Neraka, and Neraka of
Her Heart and other mocking endearments that were
galling in the extreme.

When all was ready, she took her horse's reins and led
the horse through the forest at a brisk walk.

"Aren't you going to gag me?" Gerard demanded.

She glanced over her shoulder. "Your words are music
to my ears, Neraka. Speak on. Tell me more about the
king of the elves. Does he dress in green gossamer and
sprout wings from his back?"

"I could yet summon the dragon," Gerard stated. "I
do not because I do not want to hurt you. Lady Knight.

253

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl^e WBR of Souls

This proves what I have been telling you, if you'd only
think about it."

"It might," she conceded. "You may well be telling
the truth. But you may well not be telling the truth. You
might not be summoning the dragon because the beasts
are notoriously untrustworthy and unpredictable and
would just as soon kill you as me. Right, Neraka?"

Gerard was beginning to understand why she had not
gagged him. He could think of nothing to say that would
not incriminate himself or make matters worse. Her argu-
ment about the evil nature of blue dragons was one he
might have made himself before he had come to know
Razor. Gerard had no doubt that if he summoned Razor
to deal with this Knight, the dragon would make short
work of her and leave Gerard untouched. But while
Gerard would have preferred Razor to this annoying
female as a traveling companion any day, he could not
very well countenance the horrible death of a fellow
Solamnic, no matter how obnoxious she might be.

"When I reach Solanthus, I will send a company to
slay the dragon," she continued. "He cannot be far from
here. Judging from the explosions I heard, we will have
no trouble finding evidence of his hiding place."

Gerard was reasonably certain that Razor could take
care of himself, and that left him concerned for the wel-
fare of his fellow Knights. He decided that the best course
of action he could take now was to wait until he came
before the council. Once there, he could explain himself
and his mission. He was confident the council would
believe him, despite his lack of credentials. Undoubtedly
there would be someone on the council who knew him or
knew his father. If all went well, he would return to Razor
and both he, the dragon, and a force of Knights would fly
to Qualinesti. After this Knight had made her most abject
and humble apologies.

254

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

They left the wooded stream bank behind, entered the
grasslands not far from where the dragon had alighted.
Gerard could see in the distance the road leading to
Solanthus. The tops of the dty's towers were just visible
over the tips of the tall grass.

'There is Solanthus, Neraka," she said, pointing. 'That
tall building there on your left is—"

"My name is not Neraka. My name is Gerard uth
Mondar. What are you called," he asked, adding in a mut-
tered undertone, "besides godawful?"

"I heard that!" she sang out. She glanced at him over
her shoulder. "My name is Odila Windlass."

"Windlass. Isn't that some sort of mechanical device
on board a ship?"

"It is," she replied. "My people are seafaring."

"Pirates, no doubt," he remarked caustically.

"Your wit is as small and shriveled as certain other
parts of you, Neraka," she returned, grinning at his
embarrasment.

They had reached the road by now, and their pace
increased. Gerard had ample opportunity to study her as
she walked alongside him, leading the horse and the
pack mule. She was tall, considerably taller than he was,
with a shapely, muscular build. She did not have the dark
skin of the seafaring Ergothians. Her skin was the color
of polished mahogany, indicating a blending of races
somewhere in her past.

Her hair was long, falling in two braids to her waist. He
had never seen such black hair, blue-black, like a crow's
wing. Her brows were thick, her face square-jawed. Her
lips were her best feature, being full, heart-shaped, crim-
son, and prone to laughter, as she had already proven.

Gerard would not concede that she had any good fea-
tures. He had little use for women, considering them
conniving, sneaking, and mercenary. Of the women he

255

DRAQON-LANCE VSie Wan of Souls

distrusted and disliked most, he dedded that dark-haired,
dark-complexioned female Knights who laughed at him
ranked at the top of his list.

Odila continued to talk, pointing out the sights of
Solanthus on the theory that he would get to see little
of the city from his cell in the dungeons. Gerard ignored
her. He went over in his mind what he was going to say
to the Knights' Council, how best to portray the admit-
tedly sinister-looking circumstances of his arrival. He
rehearsed the eloquent words he would use to present
the plight of the beleaguered elves. He hoped against
hope that someone would know him. He was forced to
concede that in the irritating female's place, he would
not have believed him either. He had been a dolt for for-
getting that pack.

Recalling the desperate situation of the elves, he
wondered what they were doing, how they were faring.
He thought back to Marshal Medan, Laurana, and
Gilthas, and he forgot himself and his own troubles in
his earnest concern for those who had come to be his
friends. So lost in thought was he that he rode along
without paying attention to his surroundings and was
astonished to look up and realize that night had fallen
while they were on the road and that they had reached
the outer walls of Solanthus.

Gerard had heard that Solanthus was the best fortified
city in all of Ansalon, even surpassing the lord city of
Palanthas. Now, gazing up at the immense walls, black
against the stars, walls that were only the outer ring of
defenses, he could well believe it.

An outer curtain wall surrounded the city. The wall
consisted of several layers of stone packed with sand,
slathered over with mud and then covered with more
stone. On the other side of the curtain wall was a moat.
Gates in several locations pierced the curtain wall. Large

256

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

drawbridges led over the moat. Beyond the moat was yet
another wall, this one lined with murder holes and slits
for archers. Large kettles that could be filled with boiling
oil were positioned at intervals. On the other side of this
wall, trees and bushes had been planted so that any
enemy succeeding in taking this wall would not be able
to leap down into the city unimpeded. Beyond that lay
the streets of the city and its buildings, the vast majority
of which were also constructed of stone.

Even at this late hour, people stood at the gatehouse
waiting to enter the city. Each person was stopped and
questioned by the gatehouse guards. Lady Odila was
well known to the guards and did not have to stand in
line, but was passed through with merry jests about her
fine "catch" and the success of her hunting.

Gerard bore the jokes and crude comments in dignified
silence. Odila kept up the mirth until one guard, at the last
post, shouted, "I see you had to hog-tie this man to keep
him. Lady Odila."

Odila's smile slipped. The green leaf eyes glittered
emerald. She turned and gave the guard a look that
caused him to flush red, sent him hastening back into
the guardhouse.

"Dolt," she muttered. She tossed her black braids,
affected to laugh, but Gerard could see that the verbal
arrow had struck something vital in her, drawn blood.

Odila led the horse among the crowds in the city
streets. People stared at Gerard curiously. When they saw
the emblem on his chest, they jeered and spoke loudly
of the executioner's blood-tipped axe.

A slight flutter of doubt caused Gerard a moment's
unease, almost a moment's panic. What if he could not
convince them of the truth? What if they did not believe
him? He pictured himself being led to the block, protest-
ing his innocence. The black bag being drawn over his

257

DRAQONLANCE X:ITC Wan of Souls

head, the heavy hand pressing his head down on the
bloodstained block. The final moments of terror waiting
for the axe to fall.

Gerard shuddered. The images he conjured up were so
vivid that he broke out into a cold sweat. Berating himself
for giving way to his imagination, he forced himself to
concentrate on the here and now.

He had presumed, for some reason, that Lady Odila
would take him immediately before the Knights' Council.
Instead, she led the horse down a dark and narrow alley.
At the end stood an enormous stone building.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"The prison house," said Lady Odila.

Gerard was amazed. He had been so focused on speak-
ing to the Knights' Council that the idea that she should
take him anywhere else had never occurred to him.

"Why are you bringing me here?" he demanded.

"You have two guesses, Neraka. The first—we're attend-
ing a cotillion. You are going to be my dancing partner,
and we're going to drink wine and make love to each
other all night. Either that"— she smiled sweetly— "or
you're going to lock you up in a cell."

She ordered the horse to halt. Torches burned on the
walls. Firelight glowed yellow from a square, barred
window. Guards, hearing her approach, came running to
relieve her of her prisoner. The warden emerged, wiping
the back of his hand across his mouth. They'd obviously
interrupted his dinner.

"Given a choice," said Gerard addly, "I'll take the cell."

"I'm glad," Odila said, with a fond pat on his leg. "I
would so hate to see you disappointed. Now, alas, I must
leave you. Sweet Neraka. I am on duty. Don't pine away,
missing me."

"Please, Lady Odila," said Gerard, "if you can be
serious for once, there must be someone here who knows

258

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

the name uth Mondar. Ask around for me. Will you do
that much?"

Lady Odila regarded him for a moment with quiet
intensity. "It might prove amusing, at that." She turned
away to speak to the warden. Gerard had the feeling he
had made an impression on her, but whether good or
bad, whether she would do what he had asked or not, he
could not tell.

Before she left. Lady Odila gave a concise account of
all of Gerard's crimes—how she'd seen him fly in on a
blue dragon, how he had landed far outside the city, and
how the dragon had taken pains to hide himself in a cave.
The warden regarded Gerard with a baleful eye and said
that he had an especially strong cell located in the base-
ment that was tailor-made for blue dragonriders.

With a parting gibe and a wave of her hand. Lady
Odila mounted her horse, grabbed the reins of the pack
mule, and cantered out of the yard, leaving Gerard to the
mercies of the warden and his guards.

In vain Gerard protested and argued and demanded
to see the Knight Commander or some other officer. No
one paid the least attention to him. Two guards hauled
him inside with ruthless efficiency, while two other guards
stood ready with huge spiked-tipped clubs should he
make an attempt to escape. They cut loose his bonds, only
to replace the rope with iron manacles.

The guards hustled him through the outer rooms
where the warden had his office and the jailer his stool
and table. The iron keys to the cells hung on hooks ranged
in neat rows along the wall. Gerard caught only a glimpse
of this, before he was shoved and dragged, stumbling,
down a stair that ran straight and true to a narrow corri-
dor below ground level. They led him to his cell with
torches—he was the only prisoner down on this level,
apparently—and tossed him inside. They gave him to

259

DRAQONLANCE Vt)e Wan of Souls

know that there was a bucket for his waste and a straw
mattress for sleeping. He would receive two meals a day,
morning and night. The door, made of heavy oak with a
small iron grate in the top, began to close. All this hap-
pened so fast that Gerard was left dazed, disbelieving.

The warden stood in the corridor outside his cell,
watching to make certain to the last that his prisoner
was safe.

Gerard flung himself forward, wedging his body
between the wall and the door.

"Sir!"—he pleaded—"I must speak before the Knights'
Council! Let them know Gerard uth Mondar is here! I
have urgent news! Information—"

'Tell it to the inquisitor," said the warden coldly.

The guards gave Gerard a brutal shove that sent him
staggering, manacles clanking, back into his cell. The cell
door shut. He heard the sounds of their feet clomping up
the stairs. The torch light diminished and was gone.
Another door slammed at the top of the stairs.

Gerard was left alone in darkness so complete and
silence so profound that he might have been cast off this
world and left to float in the empty nothingness that was
said to have existed long before the coming of the gods.

260

18

Benyl's MesseNQen




arshal Medan sat stolidly at his desk in his office
that was located in the massive and ugly building
the Knights of Neraka had constructed in Quali-
nost. The Marshal considered the building every bit as
ugly as did the elves, who averted their eyes if they were
forced to walk anywhere near its hulking, gray walls, and
he rarely entered his own headquarters. He detested the
barren, cold rooms. Due to the humid air, the stone walls
accumulated moisture and always seemed to be sweating.
He felt stifled whenever he had to remain here extended
periods of time and the feeling was not in his imagination.
For the greater protection of those inside, the building had
no windows, and the smell of mold was all-pervasive.

Today was worse than ever. The smell clogged his
nose and gave him a swelling pain behind his eyes. Due
to the pain and the pressure, he was listless and lethargic,
found it difficult to think.

'This will never do," he said to himself and was just
about to leave the room to take a refreshing walk outside

261

DRAQONLANCE X:t?e Wan OF Souls

when his second-in-command, a Knight named Dumat,
knocked at the wooden door.

The Marshal glowered, returned to seat himself
behind the desk, and gave a horrific snort in an effort to
dear his nose.

Taking the snort for permission to enter, Dumat came
in, carefully shutting the door behind him.

"He's here," he said, with a jerk of his thumb over
his shoulder.

"Who is it, Dumat?" Medan asked. "Another draco?"

"Yes, my lord. A bozak. A captain. He's got two baaz
with him. Bodyguards, I'd say."

Medan gave another snort and rubbed his aching eyes.

"We can handle three dracos, my lord," said Dumat
complacently.

Dumat was a strange man. Medan had given up trying
to figure him out. Small, compact, dark-haired, Dumat
was in his thirties, or so Medan supposed. He really knew
very little about him. Dumat was quiet, reserved, rarely
smiled, kept to himself. He had nothing to say of his past
life, never joined the other soldiers in boasting of exploits
either on the battlefield or between the sheets. He had
come to the Knighthood only a few years earlier. He told
his commander only what was necessary for the records
and that, Medan had always guessed, was probably all
lies. Medan had never been able to figure out why Dumat
had joined the Knights of Neraka.

Dumat was not a soldier. He had no love for battle.
He was not prone to quarreling. He was not sadistic. He
was not particularly skilled at arms, although he had
proven in a barracks brawl that he could handle himself
in a fight. He was even-tempered, though there were
smoldering embers in the dark eyes that told of fires
burning somewhere deep inside. Medan had never been
more astonished in his life than the day almost a year

262

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

ago when Dumat had come to him and said that he had
fallen in love with an elven woman and wanted to make
her his wife.

Medan had done all he could to discourage relations
between elves and humans. He was in a difficult situa-
tion, dealing with explosive racial tensions, trying to
retain control of a populace that actively hated its human
conquerors. He had to maintain discipline over his troops,
as well. He laid down strict rules against rape and those
who, in the early days of the elven occupation, broke the
rules were given swift, harsh punishment.

But Medan was experienced enough in the strange
ways of people to know that sometimes captive fell in
love with captor and that not all elf women found human
males repulsive.

He had interviewed the elf woman Dumat wanted to
marry, to make certain she was not being coerced or
threatened. He found that she was not some giddy
maiden, but a grown woman, a seamstress by trade. She
loved Dumat and wanted to be his wife. Medan repre-
sented to her that she would be ostracized from the elven
community, cut off from family and friends. She had no
family, she told him, and if her friends did not like her
choice of husband, they were no true friends. He could
not very well argue this point, and the two were married
in a human ceremony, since the elves would not officially
recognize such a heinous alliance.

The two lived happily, quietly, absorbed in each other.
Dumat continued to serve as he had always done, obey-
ing orders with strict disdpline. Thus, when Medan had
to dedde which of his Knights and soldiers he could trust,
he had chosen Dumat as among those few to remain with
him to assist in the last defense of Qualinost. The rest
were sent away south to assist the Gray Robes in their
continuing fruitless and ludicrous search for the magical

263

DRAQONLANCE Ore Wan of Souls

Tower of Wayreth. Medan had told Dumat plainly what
he faced, for the Marshal would not lie to any man, and
had given him a choice. He could stay or take his wife
and depart. Dumat had agreed to stay. His wife, he said,
would remain with him.

"My lord," said Dumat, "is something wrong?"

Medan came to himself with a start. He had been wool-
gathering, staring at Dumat all the while so that the man
must be wondering if his nose was on crooked.

"Three draconians, you said." Medan forced himself
to concentrate. The danger was very great, and he could
not afford any more mental lapses.

"Yes, my lord. We can deal with them." Dumat was
not boastful. He was merely stating a fact.

Medan shook his head and was sorry he'd done so. The
pain behind his eyes increased markedly. He gave another
ineffectual snort. "No, we can't keep killing off Beryl's pet
lizard men. She will eventually get suspicious. Besides, I
need this messenger to report back to the great green bitch,
assure her that all is proceeding according to plan."

"Yes, my lord."

Medan rose to his feet. He eyed Dumat. "If some-
thing goes wrong, be prepared to act on my command.
Not before."

Dumat gave a nod and stepped aside to allow his com-
mander to precede him, falling into step behind.

"Captain Nogga, my lord," said the draconian, saluting.

"Captain," said the Marshal, advancing to meet the
draconian.

The bozak was enormous, topping Medan by a lizard
head, massive shoulders and wing tips. The baaz body-
guards—shorter, but just as muscular—were attentive, alert,
and armed to the teeth, of which they had a good many.

"Her Majesty Beryl has sent me," Captain Nogga
announced. "I am to apprise you of the current military

264

ORBQONS Of a Lost StaR

situation, answer any questions you might have, and take
stock of the situation in Qualinost. Then I am to report
back to Her Majesty."

Medan bowed his acknowledgment. "You must have
had a perilous journey. Captain. Traveling through elven
territory with only a small guard. It is a wonder you were
not attacked."

"Yes, we heard that you were having difficulty main-
taining order in this realm. Marshal Medan," Nogga
returned. 'That is one of the reasons Beryl is sending in
her army. As to how we came, we flew here on dragon-
back. Not that I fear the pointy-ears," he added disparag-
ingly, "but I wanted to take a look around."

"I hope you find everything to your satisfaction. Cap-
tain," Medan said, not bothering to hide his ire. He had
been insulted, and the draconian would have thought it
strange if he did not respond.

"Indeed, I was pleasantly surprised. I had been pre-
pared to find the city in an uproar, with rioting in the
streets. Instead I find the streets almost empty. I must
ask you. Marshal Medan, where are the elves? Have
they escaped? Her Majesty would be most unhappy to
hear that."

"You flew over the roads," Medan said shortly. "Did
you see hordes of refugees fleeing southward?"
"No, I did not," Nogga admitted. "However—"
"Did you see refugees heading east, perhaps?"
"No, Marshal, I saw nothing. Therefore I—"
"Did you notice, as you flew over Qualinost, on the
outskirts of the city, a large plot of cleared land, freshly
dug-up ground?"

"Yes, I saw it," Nogga replied impatiently. "What of it?"
"That is where you will find the elves. Captain," said
Marshal Medan.

"I don't understand," Captain Nogga said.

265

DRAQONLANCE '0)6 Wan op Souls

"We had to do something with the bodies," Medan
continued offhandedly. "We couldn't leave them to rot in
the streets. The elderly, the sickly, the children, and any
who put up resistance were dispatched. The rest are being
retained for the slave markets of Neraka."

The draconian scowled, his lips curled back. "Beryl gave
no orders concerning slaves going to Neraka, Marshal."

"I respectfully remind you and Her Majesty that I
receive my orders from Lord of the Night Targonne, not
from Her Majesty. If Beryl wishes to take up the matter
with Lord Targonne, she may do so. Until then, I follow
my lord's commands."

Medan straightened his shoulders, a movement that
brought his hand near his sword hilt. Dumat had his
hand on his sword hilt, and he moved quietly, with seem-
ing nonchalance, to stand near the two baaz. Nogga
had no idea that his next words might be his last. If he
demanded to see the mass grave or the slave pens, the
only thing he would end up seeing would be Medan's
sword sticking out of his scaly gut.

As it was, the draconian shrugged. "I am acting on
orders myself. Marshal. I am an old soldier, as are you.
Neither of us has any interest in politics. I will report back
to my mistress and, as you so wisely suggest, urge her to
talk it over with your Lord Targonne."

Medan eyed the draconian intently, but, of course,
there was no way to read the expression on the lizard's
face. He nodded and, removing his hand from his sword
hilt, strode past the draconian to stand in the doorway,
where he could take a breath of fresh, sweet-scented air.

"I have a complaint to register. Captain." Medan
glanced over his shoulder at Nogga. "A complaint against
a draconian. One called Groul."

"Groul?" Nogga was forced to clump over to where
Medan stood. The draconian's eyes narrowed. "I intended

266

DnaooNS of a Lost Stan

to ask about Groul. He was sent here almost a fortnight
ago, and he has not reported back."

"Nor will he/' said Medan brusquely. He drew in
another welcome breath of fresh air. "Groul is dead."

"Dead!" Nogga was grim. "How did he die? What is
this about a complaint?"

"Not only was he foolish enough to get himself killed,"
Medan stated, "he killed one of my best agents, a spy I had
planted in the house of the Queen Mother." He cast a
scathing glance at Nogga. "In future, if you must send dra-
conian messengers, make certain that they arrive sober."

Now it was Nogga's turn to bristle. "What happened?"

"We are not certain," Medan said, shrugging. "When
we found the two of them—Groul and the spy—they were
both dead. At least we have to assume that the pile of dust
next to the elf's corpse was Groul. What we do know is
that Groul came here and delivered to me the message sent
by Beryl. He had already imbibed a fair quantity of dwarf
spirits. He reeked of them. Presumably after he left me, he
fell in with the agent, an elf named Kalindas. The elf had
long complained over the amount of money he was being
paid for his information. My guess is that Kalindas con-
fronted Groul and demanded more money. Groul refused.
The two fought and killed each other. Now I am short one
spy, and you are short one draconian soldier."

Nogga's long, lizard tongue flicked from between his
teeth. He fiddled with his sword hilt.

"Strange," said Nogga at last, his red-eyed gaze
intent upon the Marshal, "that they should end up slay-
ing each other."

"Not so strange," Medan returned dryly. "When you
consider that one was soused and the other was slime."

Nogga's teeth clicked together. His tail twitched,
scraping across the floor. He muttered something that
Medan chose to ignore.

267

DRAQONLANCE l:l7e Wan of Souls

"If that is all. Captain," the Marshal said, turning his
back yet again upon the draconian and walking toward
his office, "I have a great deal of work to do...."

"Just a moment!" Nogga rumbled. "The orders Groul
carried stated that the Queen Mother was to be executed
and her head given over to Beryl. I assume these orders
have been carried out. Marshal. I will take the elf's head
now. Or did yet another strange circumstance befall the
Queen Mother?"

Pausing, Medan rounded on his heel. "Surely the
dragon was not serious when she gave those orders?"

"Not serious!" Nogga scowled.

"Beryl's sense of humor is well known," said the Mar-
shal. "I thought Her Majesty was having a jest with me."

"It was no jest, I assure you, my lord. Where is the
Queen Mother?" Nogga demanded, teeth grating.

"In prison," Medan said coolly. "Alive. Waiting to be
handed over to Beryl as my gift when the dragon enters
Qualinost in triumph. Orders of Lord Targonne."

Nogga had opened his mouth, prepared to accuse
Medan of treachery. The draconian snapped it shut again.

Medan knew what Nogga must be thinking. Beryl
might consider herself the ruler of Qualinesti. She might
consider the Knights to be acting under her auspices, and
in many ways they were. But Lord Targonne was still in
command of the Dark Knights. More importantly, he was
known to be in high favor with Beryl's cousin, the great
red dragon Malystryx. Medan had been wondering how
Malys was reacting to Beryl's sudden decision to move
troops into Qualinesti. In that snap of Nogga's jaws,
Medan had his answer. Beryl had no desire to antagonize
Targonne, who would most certainly run tattling to Malys
that he was being mistreated.

"I will see the elf bitch," Nogga said sullenly. 'To make
certain there are no tricks."

268

ORBOONS OF a Lost Stan

The Marshal gestured toward the stairs that led to the
dungeons located below the main building. 'The corridor
is narrow," the Marshal said, when the baaz would have
followed after their commander. "We will all be a tight fit."

"Wait here," Nogga growled to the baaz.

"Keep them company," said Medan to Dumat, who
nodded and almost, but not quite, smiled.

The draconian stumped down the spiral stairs. Cut
out of the bedrock, the stairs were rough and uneven.
The dungeons were located far underground, and they
soon lost the sunlight. Medan apologized for not having
thought to bring a torch with him and hinted that per-
haps they should go back.

Nogga brushed that aside. Draconians can see well in
the darkness, and he was having no difficulty. Medan
followed several paces after the captain, groping his way
in the darkness. Once, quite by acddent, he stepped hard
on Nogga's tail. The draconian grunted in irritation.
Medan apologized politely. They wound their way down-
ward, finally arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

Here torches burned on the walls, but by some strange
fluke they gave little light and created a great deal of
smoke. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Nogga blinked
and grumbled, peering this way and that in the thick
atmosphere. Medan shouted for the gaoler, who came to
meet them. He wore a black hood over his head, in the
manner of an executioner, and was a grim and ghostly
figure in the smoke.

"The Queen Mother," Medan said.

The gaoler nodded and led them to a cell that was
nothing more than an iron-barred cage set into a rock
wall. He pointed silently inside.

An elf woman crouched on the floor of the cell. Her
long golden hair was lank and filthy. Her clothes were
rich, but torn and disheveled, stained with dark splotches

269

DRAQONLANCE 'Ore Ware of Souls

that might have been blood. Hearing the Marshal's
voice, she rose to meet them, stood facing them defiantly.
Although there were six cells in the dungeon, the rest
were empty. She was the only prisoner.

The draconian approached the cell. "So this is the
famous Golden General. I saw the elf witch once long ago
in Neraka at the time of the fall."

He looked her up, and he looked her down, slowly,
insultingly.

Laurana stood at ease, calm and dignified. She
regarded the draconian steadfastly, without flinching.
Marshal Medan's hand clasped spasmodically over the
hilt of his sword.

I need this lizard alive, he reminded himself.

"A pretty wench," said Nogga with a leer. "I remem-
ber thinking so at the time. A fine wench to bed, if one can
stomach the stench of elf."

"A wench who proved something of a disaster to you
and your kind," Medan could not refrain from observing,
though he realized almost the moment the words were
said that the remark had been made a mistake.

Nogga's eyes flared in anger. His lips curled back from
his teeth, the tip of his long tongue flicked out. Staring at
Laurana, he sucked his tongue in with a seething breath.
"By the lost gods, elf, you will not look at me so smugly
when I am through with you!"

The draconian seized hold of the iron-barred door.
Muscles on his gigantic arms bunched. With a jerk and a
pull, he wrenched the door free of its moorings and flung
the door to one side, nearly crushing the gaoler, who had
to make a rumble jump to save himself. Nogga bounded
inside the cell.

Caught off guard by the draconian's sudden violent
outburst, Medan cursed himself for a fool and leaped to
stop him. The gaoler, Planchet, was closer to the draconian,

270

DnagoNS of a Lost Stan

but his way was impeded by the iron door that Nogga
had tossed aside and that was now leaning at a crazy
angle against one of the other cells.

"What are you doing. Captain?" Medan shouted.
"Have you lost your senses? Leave her alone! Beryl will
not want her prisoner damaged."

"Bah, I'm only having a little fun," Nogga growled,
reaching out his hand.

Steel flashed. From the folds of her dress, Laurana
snatched a dagger.

Nogga skidded to a halt, his clawed feet scraping
against the stone floor. He stared down in astonishment
to find the dagger pressed against his throat.

"Don't move," Laurana warned, speaking the dracon-
ian's own language.

Nogga chuckled. He had recovered from his initial
amazement. Defiance added spice to his lust, and he
knocked aside the dagger with his clawed hand. The
blade slit his scaled skin, spattering blood, but he ignored
the wound. He seized hold of Laurana. Still holding the
dagger, she stabbed at him, while she struggled in his
strong grasp.

"I said let her go. Lizard!"

Locking his fists together, Medan struck Nogga a solid
thwack on the back of the head. The blow would have
felled a human, but Nogga was barely distracted by it.
His clawed hands tore at Laurana's dress.

Planchet finally managed to kick aside the cell door.
Grabbing hold of a flaring torch, he brought it down on the
draconian's head. Cinders flew, the torch broke in half.

"I'll be back to you in a moment," Nogga promised with
a snarl and flung Laurana against the wall. Teeth bared,
the draconian turned to face his assailants.

"Don't kill him!" Medan ordered in Elvish, and punched
the draconian in the gut, a blow that doubled him over.

271

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfle Wan of Souls

"Do you think there's a chance we might?" Planchet
gasped, driving his knee into the draconian's chin, snap-
ping his head back.

Nogga sank to his knees, but he was still trying to regain
his feet. Laurana grabbed hold of a wooden stool and
brought it down on the draconian's head. The stool
smashed into splinters, and Nogga slumped to the floor.
The draconian lay on his belly, legs spraddled, the fight
gone out of him at last.

The three of them stood breathing heavily, eyeing
the draconian.

"I am deeply sorry. Madam," said Medan, turning to
Laurana.

Her dress was torn. Her face and hands were spat-
tered with the draconian's blood. His claws had raked
across the white skin of her breasts. Drops of blood oozed
from the scratches, sparkled in the torchlight. She smiled,
exultant, grimly triumphant.

Medan was enchanted. He had never seen her so
beautiful, so strong and courageous, and at the same time
so vulnerable. Before he quite knew what he was doing,
he put his arms around her, drew her close.

"I should have known the creature would try some-
thing like this," Medan continued remorsefully. "I should
never have put you at such risk, Laurana. Forgive me."

She lifted her gaze to meet his. She said a soft word of
reassurance and then, ever so gently, she slipped out of his
grasp, her hand drawing the tatters of her dress modestly
over her breasts.

"No need to apologize. Marshal," she said, her eyes
alight with mischief. "To be truthful, I found it quite
exhilarating."

She looked down at the draconian. Her voice hard-
ened, her hand clenched. "Many of my people have
already given their lives in this battle. Many more will die

272

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

in the last fight for Qualinost. At last I feel I am doing my
share, small though that may be."

When she looked back up at him, the mischief sparkled.
"But I fear we have damaged your messenger. Marshal."

Medan grunted something in response. He dared not
look at Laurana, dared not remember her warmth as she
had rested, just a moment, in his arms. All these years,
he had been proof against love, or so he had convinced
himself. In reality, he had fallen in love with her long
ago, pierced through by love for her, for the elven nation.
What bitter irony that only now, at the end, had he come
to fully understand.

"What do we do with him, sir?" Planchet asked. The
elf was limping, favoring a sore knee.

"I'll be damned if I'm going to haul that heavy carcass
of his up the stairs," Medan said harshly. "Planchet,
escort your mistress to my office. Bolt the door behind
you and remain there until you receive word that it is safe
to leave. On your way there, tell Dumat to come down
here and bring those baaz with him."

Planchet removed his cloak and wrapped it around
Laurana's shoulders. She held the cloak fast over her torn
dress with one hand and placed her other hand on Medan's
arm. She looked up into his eyes.

"Are you certain you will be all right. Marshal?" she
asked softly.

She was not talking about leaving him alone with the
draconian. She was talking about leaving him alone with
his pain.

"Yes, Madam," Medan said, and he smiled in his turn.
"Like you, I found it exhilarating."

She sighed, lowered her gaze, and for a moment it
seemed as if she would say something else. He didn't
want to hear it. He didn't want to hear her say that her
heart was buried with her husband Tanis. He didn't

273

DRAQONLANCE XS)e Ware of Souls

•

want to hear that he was jealous of a ghost. It was enough
for him to know that she respected him and trusted
him. He took hold of her hand, as it lay on his arm. Lift-
ing her fingers, he pressed them to his lips. She smiled
tremulously, reassured, and allowed Planchet to lead
her away.

Medan remained in the dungeons alone, glad of the
quiet, glad of the smoke-tinged darkness. He massaged
his aching hand and, when he was once more master of
himself, he picked up the bucket of water that they used
to douse the torches and flung the filthy liquid in Captain
Nogga's face.

Nogga snuffled and spluttered. Shaking his head
muzzily, he heaved himself up off the floor.

"You!" he snarled and swung round, waving his
meaty fist. "I'll have you—"

Medan drew his sword. "I would like nothing better
than to drive this steel into your vitals. Captain Nogga.
So don't tempt me. You will go back to Beryl, and you
will tell Her Majesty that in accord with the orders of
my commander. Lord Targonne, I will turn over the elven
capital of Qualinost to her. I will, at the same time, hand
over the Queen Mother, alive and undamaged. Under-
stood, Captain?"

Nogga glanced around, saw that Laurana was gone.
His red eyes glinted in the darkness. He wiped a dribble
of blood and saliva from his mouth, regarded Medan with
a look of inveterate hatred.

"At that time, I will return," said the draconian, "and
we will settle the score that lies between us."

"I look forward to it," said Medan politely. "You have
no idea how much."

Dumat came running down the stairs. The baaz were
right behind him, weapons in hand.

"Everything is under control," Medan stated, returning

274

DrcaqoNS of a Lost Stan

his sword to its sheath. "Captain Nogga forgot himself
for a moment, but he has remembered again."

Nogga gave an incoherent snarl and slouched out of
the cell, wiping away blood and spitting out a broken
tooth. Motioning to the baaz, he made his way back up
the stairs.

"Provide an honor guard for the captain," Medan
ordered Dumat. "He is to be escorted safely to the dragon
that brought him here."

Dumat saluted and accompanied the draconians up
the stairs. Medan lingered a moment longer in the dark-
ness. He saw a splotch of white on the floor, a tattered
bit of Laurana's dress, torn off by the draconian. Medan
reached down, picked it up. The fabric was as soft as gos-
samer. Smoothing it gently with his hand, he tucked it
into the cuff of his shirt sleeve, and then went upstairs to
see die Queen Mother safely home.

275

19

Despcnate QBMC




he great green dragon. Beryl, flew in wide circles
over the forests of Qualinesti and tried to do
away with her doubts by reassuring herself that
all was proceeding as planned. As she planned. Events
were moving forward at a rapid pace. Too rapid, to her
mind. She had ordered these events. She. Beryl. No other.
Therefore why the strange and nagging feeling that she
was not in control, that she was being pushed, rushed?
That someone at the gaming table had jostled her elbow,
causing her to toss the dice before the other players had
laid down their bets.

It had all started so innocently. She had wanted noth-
ing more than what was rightfully hers—a magical arti-
fact. A wondrous magical artifact that had no business
being in the hands of the crippled, washed-up human
mage who had acquired it—mistakenly at that, from
some runt of a mewling Render. The artifact belonged to
her. The artifact was in her territory, and everything in her
territory belonged to her. All knew that. No one could

276

DRBOONS of a Lost Stare

dispute the point. In her quite rightful effort to acquire
this artifact, she had somehow ended up sending her
armies to war.

Beryl blamed her cousin Malystryx.

Two months ago, the green dragon had been happily
wallowing in her leafy bower with never a thought of
going to war against the elves. Well, perhaps that was not
quite true. She had been building up her armies, using
the vast wealth amassed from the elves and humans
under her subjugation to buy the loyalties of legions of
mercenaries, hordes of goblins and hobgoblins, and as
many draconians as she could lure to her with promises of
loot, rapine, and murder. She held these slavering dogs
on a tight leash, tossing them bits of elf now and again to
whet their appetites. Now she had unleashed them. She
had no doubt that she would win.

Yet, she sensed that there was another player in the
game, a player she could not see, a player watching from
the shadows, one who was betting on another game: a
bigger game with higher stakes. A player who was bet-
ting that she. Beryl, would lose.

Malystryx, of course.

Beryl did not watch the north for Solamnic Knights
with their silver dragons or the mighty blue dragon
Skie. The silvers had purportedly vanished, according
to her spies, and it was common knowledge—again
among her spies—that Skie had gone mad. Obsessed
with a human master, he had disappeared for a time,
only to return with some story of having been in a place
he called the Gray.

Beryl did not watch the east where lived the black
dragon Sable. The slimy creature was content with her
foul miasma. Let her rot there. As to the white. Frost, the
white dragon did not live who could challenge a green
of Beryl's power and cunning. No, Beryl watched the

277

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfle Wan of Souls

northeast, watched for red eyes that remained constantly
on the horizon of her fear.

Now it seemed Malystryx had made her move at last,
a move that was both unexpected and cunning. The Green
had discovered only days earlier that almost all her minion
dragons—dragons native to Krynn, who had sworn alle-
giance to Beryl—had deserted her. Only two red dragons
remained and she did not trust them. Had never trusted
reds. No one could tell her for certain where the others
had gone, but Beryl knew. These lesser dragons had
switched sides. They had gone over to Malystryx. Her
cousin was undoubtedly laughing at Beryl right now.
Beryl gnashed her teeth and belched a cloud of noxious
gas, spewed it forth as if she had her treacherous cousin
in her claws.

Beryl saw Malys's game. The Red had tricked her. Malys
had forced Beryl to enter into this war against the elves,
forced her to commit her troops to the south, all the while
building up her strength as Beryl expended hers. Malys
had tricked Beryl into destroying the Citadel of Light—
those Mystics had long been stinging parasites beneath
Malys's scales. Beryl suspected now that Malys had been
the one to plant the magical device where Beryl would
hear of it.

Beryl had considered calling back her armies, but she
immediately abandoned that plan. Once unleashed, the
dogs would never return to her hand. They had the smell,
the taste of elven blood, and they would not heed her call.
Now she was glad that she had not.

From her vast height. Beryl looked down in pride to
see the enormous snake that was her military might
winding its way through the thick forests of Qualinesti.
Its forward movement was slow. An army marches on its
stomach, so the saying goes. The troops could move only
as fast as the heavily laden supply wagons. Her forces

278

DreaqoNS of a Lost Stan

dared not forage, dared not live off the land, as they
might have done. The animals and even the vegetation of
Qualinesti had entered the fray.

Apples poisoned those who ate them. Bread made from
elven wheat sickened an entire division. Soldiers reported
comrades strangled by vines or killed by trees that let
fall huge limbs with crushing force. This was a foe easily
defeated, however. This foe could be fought with fire.
Clouds of smoke from the burning forests of Qualinesti
turned day into night over much of Abanasinia. Beryl
watched the smoke billowing into the air, watched the pre-
vailing winds carry it westward. She breathed in the
smoke of the dying trees in delight. As her armies moved
slowly but inexorably forward. Beryl grew stronger daily.

As for Malys, she would smell the smoke of war, and
she would sniff in it the stench of her own doom.

"For though you may have tricked me into acting,
Cousin," Beryl told those wrathful red eyes glowering at
her from the west, "you have done me a favor. Soon I will
rule over a vast territory. Thousands of slaves will do my
bidding. All of Ansalon will hear of my victory over the
elves. Your armies will desert you and flock to my stan-
dard. The Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth will be mine.
No longer will the wizards be able to hide it and its power-
ful magicks from me. The longer you skulk in the shadows,
waiting, the stronger I grow. Soon your great ugly skull will
crown my totem, and I will be the ruler of Ansalon."

Thus Beryl began already to calculate her winnings.
Still she could not rid herself of the disquieting feeling
that from somewhere in the shadows, outside the circle,
another player waited, another player watched.

Far, far below, eyes did watch Beryl, but they were
not the eyes of a player in this game, or at least, he
could not flatter himself that he was a player. His were

279

DRAQONLANCE 'Cipe wan OF Souls

the bones that rattled in the cup and were flung upon the
table, to bounce about aimlessly until they came to rest
ignominiously in a comer and the winner was declared.

Gilthas stood at the hidden entrance to one of the under-
ground tunnels, keeping watch on Beryl. The dragon was
enormous, huge, monstrous. Her scaled body, bloated,
misshapen, was so ponderous that it seemed impossible
her wings could lift the loathsome mass of flesh off the
ground. Impossible until one noticed the thick and heavy
musculature of the shoulders and the sheer width and
breadth of the wingspan. Her shadow spread across the
land, blotting out the haze-dimmed sun, turning bright
day to horrid night.

Gilthas shivered as the shadow of the dragon's wings
swept over him, chilling him. Although the wings were
soon gone, he felt as if he remained in the black shadow
of death.

"Is it safe. Your Majesty?" a quivering voice asked.

No, you foolish child! Gilthas wanted to rage. No it is
not safe! Nowhere in this wide world is safe for us. The
dragon keeps watch on us from the sky day and night.
Her army, thousands strong, marches on the land, killing,
burning. They have blotted out the very sun with the
smoke of death. We may delay them, at the cost of pre-
cious lives, but we cannot stop them. Not this time. We
run, but where do we run to? Where is the safe haven we
seek? Death. Death is the only refuge....

"Your Majesty," called the voice again.

Gilthas roused himself with an effort. "It is not safe,"
he cautioned in low tones, "but for the moment the dragon
is gone. Come now quickly! Quickly."

This tunnel was one of many tunnels built by the
dwarves who were helping hundreds of elven refugees
escape the city of Qualinost and smaller settlements to
the north, areas that had already fallen to Beryl's army. The

280

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stare

tunnel's entrance was only a couple of miles south of the
city proper—the dwarves had extended their tunnels to
reach the dty itself, and even now, as Gilthas spoke to these
refugees, who had been caught above ground, other elves
walked through the tunnel behind him.

The elves had begun to evacuate Qualinost six days ago,
the day Gilthas had informed the people that their land was
under attack by the forces of the dragon Beryl. He had told
the elves the truth, the brutal truth. The only hope they had
of surviving this war was to leave behind that which they
loved most, their homeland. Even then, though they might
survive as a people, Gilthas had not been able to give them
any assurance that they would survive as a nation.

He had given the Qualinesti their orders. The children
must leave. They were the hope of the race, and they
should be protected. Caretakers for the children should
go with them, be it mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts,
uncles, cousins. Those elves who were able to fight, those
who were trained warriors, were asked to stay behind to
fight the battle to defend Qualinost.

He had not promised the elves that they would escape
to a safe haven for he could not promise that they would
find such a haven. He would not tell his people comfort-
ing lies. Too long, the Qualinesti people had slept snugly
beneath the blanket of comforting lies. He had told them
the truth and, with quiet fortitude, they had accepted it.

He had been proud of his people in that moment and
in the sorrowful moments that came after. Mates parted,
one to go with the children, the other staying behind.
Those remaining kissed their children lovingly, held them
dose, bade them be good and be obedient. As Gilthas told
his people no lies, the elven parents told their children
none. Those staying behind did not promise that they
would see their loved ones again. They bade them do only
one thing: Remember. Always remember.

281

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct?e Ware of Souls

At Gilthas's gesture, the elves who had been in
hiding slipped out from the shadows of the trees, whose
leafy boughs had provided them protection from Beryl's
searching eyes. The forest had been quiet with the
coming of the dragon, animal noises hushed, bird song
silenced. All living things crouched, trembling, until
Beryl had passed. Now that the dragon was gone, the
forest came alive. The elves took their children by their
hands, assisting the elderly and the infirm, and slid and
slipped down the sides of a narrow ravine. The tunnel's
entrance was at the bottom, concealed by a lean-to made
of tree branches.

"Hurry!" Gilthas motioned, keeping watch for the
dragon's return. "Hurry!"

The elves hastened past him and into the darkness of
the tunnel beyond, where they were met by dwarves,
who pointed out the way to go. One of those dwarves who
was gesturing and saying in Elvish, "Left, left, keep to the
left, mind that puddle there," was Tarn Bellowsgranite,
King of the Dwarves. He was dressed as any dwarven
laborer, his beard caked with dirt, and his boots covered
in mud and crushed rock. The elves never guessed his
royal stature.

The elves looked relieved at first when they reached
the safety of the dark tunnel and they were glad to duck
inside. As they confronted the line of dwarves, pointing
and gesturing for them to move deeper below ground,
relief changed to unease. Elves are not happy below
ground. They do not like confined places. They like to
see the sky above their heads and the branching trees
and breathe the fresh air. Below ground, they feel stifled
and closed in. The tunnels smelled of darkness, of black
loam and the gigantic worms, the Urkhan, that bur-
rowed through the rock. Some elves hesitated, glanced
back outside, where the sun shone brightly. One older

282

DnaooNS or a Lost Stan

elf, whom Gilthas recognized as belonging to the Thon-
Thalas, the elven Senate, turned around and started to
go back.

"I can't do this. Your Majesty," the senator said to
Gilthas in apology. He was gasping for breath, his face
was pale. "I'm suffocating! I'll die down there!"

Gilthas started to reply, but Tarn Bellowsgranite stepped
forward, blocked the senator's path.

"Good sir," said the dwarf, cocking one eye at the elf
senator, "yes, ifs dark down here and, yes, it smells bad,
and, yes, the air is not the freshest. But, consider this, good
sir." Tarn raised one grubby finger. "How dark will it be
inside the dragon's belly? How bad will that smell?"

The senator looked down at the dwarf and managed a
wan smile. "You are right, sir. I had not considered that
particular argument. It is a cogent one, I admit."

The senator looked back down the corridor. He looked
outside, drew a deep breath of fresh air. Reaching out, he
touched Gilthas on the hand, a mark of respect. Bowing
to the dwarf, the elf ducked his head, and plunged into the
tunnel, holding his breath, as if he would hold it for the
miles he would have to travel below ground.
, Gilthas smiled. "You've said those words before. Thane,
I'll wager."

"Many times," said the dwarf, stroking his beard and
grinning. "Many times. If not me, then the others." He
gestured to the dwarven helpers. "We use the same
argument. It never fails." He shook his head. "Elves
living below ground. Who would have thought it, eh,
Your Majesty?"

"Someday," said Gilthas in reply, "we'll have to teach
dwarves to climb trees."

Bellowsgranite snorted, laughed at the thought.
Shaking his head, he went stomping down the tunnel,
shouting encouragement to the dwarves who were

283

DRAQONLANCE 1:176 wan of Souls

working to keep the passageway clear of falling rock
and to make certain the braces they used to shore up the
tunnel were strong and secure.

The last elves to enter the tunnel were a group of
twelve, members of a single family. The eldest daughter,
who had almost come into her majority, had volunteered
to take the children. Father and mother—both trained
warriors—would remain to fight to save their dty.

Gilthas recognized the girl, remembered her from the
masquerade he had held not so long ago. He remem-
bered her dancing, dressed in her finest silken gown,
her hair adorned with flowers, her eyes shining with
happiness and exdtement. Now her hair was uncombed
and unwashed, adorned with the dead leaves in which
she had been hiding. Her dress was torn and travel-
stained. She was frightened and pale, but resolute and
firm, not giving way to her fear, for the younger children
looked to her for courage.

The journey from Qualinost had been slow. Since the
day Beryl had caught a group of elves on the road and
killed them all with a blast of her poisonous breath, the
elves had dared not travel in the open. The elves had kept
to the forests for protection, holding as still as the rabbit in
the presence of the fox when the green dragon swept over-
head. Thus their progress was slow, heartbreakingly slow.

As Gilthas watched, the girl picked up a toddler from
a nest of leaves and pine needles. Summoning the other
children to her side, she ran toward the tunnel. The chil-
dren followed her, the elder children carrying the younger
on their backs.

Where was she going? Silvanesti. A land that was to
this girl nothing more than a dream. A sad dream, for she
had heard all her life that the Silvanesti disliked and dis-
trusted their Qualinesti cousins. Yet now she was on her
way to beg them for sanctuary. Before they could even

284

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

reach Silvanesti, she and her siblings would have to
travel miles below ground, then emerge to cross the arid,
empty Plains of Dust.

"Quickly, quickly!" Gilthas urged, thinking he caught
a glimpse of the dragon above the treetops.

When the last child was inside, he reached out, grabbed
the tree-branch lean-to, and dragged it across the open-
ing, concealing it from sight.

The girl paused inside the tunnel to take a quick head
count. Satisfied all her brood were with her, she managed
a smile for Gilthas and, lifting her head and adjusting the
toddler to more comfortable position on her back, started
to enter the tunnel proper.

One of the younger boys held back. "\ don't want to go,
Trina," he said, his voice quavering. "Ifs dark in here."

"No, no, ifs not," said Gilthas. He pointed to a globe,
hanging from the ceiling. A soft warm glow shone from
inside the globe, illuminating the darkness. "You see
that lantern?" Gilthas asked the child. "You'll find those
lanterns all through the tunnel. Do you know what
makes that light?"

"Fire?" asked the boy doubtfully.

"A baby worm," said Gilthas. "The adult worms dig
the tunnels for us, and their young light our way. You're
not afraid now, are you?"

"No," said the young elf. His sister cast him a scandal-
ized look, and he flushed. "I mean, no. Your Majesty."

"Good," said Gilthas. "Then off you go."

A deep voice sang out in Dwarvish, repeating it in
Elvish, "Make way! Worm a'coming! Make way!"

The dwarf spoke in Elvish but as if he had a mouthful
of rocks. The children did not understand. Gilthas made a
jump for the girl. "Get back!" he shouted to the other chil-
dren. "Get back against the wall! Quickly!"

The floor of the tunnel began to shake.

285

DRAQONLANCE 'CI}E Wan OF Souls

Catching hold of the startled girl, he dragged her out
of the center of the tunnel. She was terrified, and the child
she carried began to wail in fear. Gilthas took the toddler
in his arms, soothed her as best he could. The other chil-
dren crowded around him, wide-eyed, staring. Some
began to whimper.

"Watch this," he said, smiling at them. "No need to be
afraid. These are our saviors."

The head of one of the gigantic worms the dwarves
used for burrowing came into sight at the far end of the
tunnel. The worm had no eyes, for it was accustomed to
living in darkness below ground. Two horns protruded
from the top of its head. A dwarf, seated in a large basket
on the worm's back, held the reins of a leather harness in
his hands. The harness wrapped around the two horns
and allowed the wormrider to guide the Urkhan as an elf
rider guided his horse.

The worm paid little attention to the dwarf on its back.
The Urkhan was interested only in its dinner. The worm
spewed liquid onto the solid rock at the side of the tunnel.
The worm-spit hissed on the rock, began to bubble. Large
chunks of rock split apart and fell to the tunnel floor. The
Urkhan's maw opened, seized a chunk, and swallowed it.

The worm crawled nearer, a fearsome sight. Its enor-
mous, undulating, slime-covered body was reddish brown
in color and filled half the tunnel. The floor of the tunnel
shook beneath the worm's weight. Urkhan wranglers, as
they were called, helped the rider guide the worm by
reins attached to straps wrapped around its body.

As the worm came closer to Gilthas and the children, it
suddenly swung its blind head around, started to veer
toward their side of the tunnel. For one moment, Gilthas
feared they would be crushed. The girl clutched at him.
He pressed her back against the wall, shielding her and
as many of the children as he could with his body.

286

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

The wranglers knew their business and were quick to
react. Bawling loud curses, the dwarves began to drag on
the reins and beat on the Urkhan with their fists and sticks.
The creature gave a great, snuffling snort and, shaking its
huge head, turned back to its meal.

"There now, you see. That wasn't so bad," Gilthas
said cheerfully.

The children did not look particularly reassured, but
at a sharp word from their sister they fell back into line
and began to straggle down the tunnel, keeping wary
eyes on the worm as they crept past it.

Glithas remained behind, waiting. He had promised
his wife that he would meet her at the entrance to the
tunnel. He was starting to return to the entryway when
felt her hand upon his shoulder.

"My love," she said.

Her touch was gentle, her voice soft and soothing. She
must have entered the tunnel when he was helping the
children. He smiled to see her, and the darkness of despair
the dragon had brought down on him departed in the
glow of the larva light that glistened in her mane of golden
hair. A kiss or two was all they had time to share, for both
had news to impart and urgent matters to discuss.

Both began speaking simultaneously.

"My husband, the news we heard is true. The shield
has fallen!"

"My wife, the dwarves have agreed!"

They both stopped, looked at each other, and laughed.

Gilthas could not remember the last time he had
laughed or heard his wife laugh. Thinking this a good
omen, he said, "You first."

She was about to continue, then she glanced around,
frowned. "Where is Planchet? Where are your guards?"

"Planchet remained behind to help the Marshal foil
some draconians. As to my guards, I ordered them to return

287

ORAQONLANCE 'Ct»C WBR Of SOUlS

to Qualinost. Don't scold, my dear." Gilthas smiled. 'They
are needed there to help ready the defenses. Where are
your guards. Madam Lioness?" he asked in mock severity.

"Around," she said, smiling. Her elf soldiers could be
quite dose at hand, and he would never see them or hear
them, not unless they wanted him to. Her smile faded
from her lips and eyes. "We came upon the young elf girl
and the children. I offered to send one of my people with
her, but she refused. She said she would not think of
taking a warrior from the battle."

"A few weeks ago she danced at her first ball. Now,
she cowers in a tunnel and runs for her life." He could not
go on for a moment for the emotion choking him. "What
courage our people have!" he said huskily.

The two stood in the tunnel. The floor shook beneath
them. The dwarven wranglers bellowed and shouted.
Dwarves crouched by the entrance, waiting to assist more
refugees. Other elves, coming from farther down the
tunnel, walked past them. Seeing their king, they nodded
and smiled and acted as if this, escaping through a dark
and shaking tunnel, guided by dwarves, were an every-
day occurrence.

Clearing his throat, Gilthas said, more briskly, "You
have verified the first reports we heard?"

The Lioness brushed a tangle of her shining hair from
her face. "Yes, but what the fall of the shield means,
whether this is good or bad, cannot be told."

"What happened? How did this come about? Did the
Silvanesti lower it themselves?"

She shook her head, and the golden, curling, rampant
mass of hair that gave her the nickname of the Lioness
covered her face once more. Fondly, her husband smoothed
the locks back with his hand. He loved to look upon her
face. Some noble Qualinesti elven women, with their
cream and rose-petal complexions, looked with disdain

288

DnagoNS OF a Lost Stan

on the Kagonesti, whose skin was tanned a deep brown
from days spent in the sunshine.

Unlike his face, wherein one could see traces of his
human heritage in his square jaw and slightly more
rounded eyes, her face was all elven: heart-shaped, with
almond eyes. Her features were strong, not delicate, her
gaze bold and decisive. Seeing him look at her with love
and admiration, the Lioness captured his hand, kissed
his palm.

"I have missed you," she said softly.

"And I, you." He sighed deeply, drew her close. "Will
we ever be at peace, do you think. Beloved? Will there
ever be a time when we can sleep until long, long after
sunrise, then wake and spend the rest of the day doing
nothing except loving each other?"

She did not answer him. He kissed the mane of hair
and held her dose.

"What of the shield?" he said at last.

"I talked to a runner who saw it was down, but when
he tried to find Alhana and her people, they had moved
on. That is not unexpected. Alhana would have immedi-
ately crossed the border into Silvanesti. We may not hear
anything more from her for some time."

"I had not let myself hope that this news was true,"
Gilthas said, "but you ease my care and lift my fear. By
lowering the shield, the Silvanesti show they are willing
to enter the world again. I will send emissaries immedi-
ately to tell them of our plight and ask for their aid. Our
people will travel there and find food and rest and shel-
ter. If our plans fail and Qualinost falls, with our cousins'
help, we will build a large army. We will return to drive
the dragon from our homeland."

The Lioness put her hand over his mouth. "Hush,
Husband. You are spinning steel out of moonbeams. We
have no idea what is happening in Silvanesti, why the

289

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctfe Wan of Souls

shield was lowered, what this may portend. The runner
reported that all living things that grew near the shield
were either dead or dying. Perhaps this shield was not a
blessing to the Silvanesti but a curse.

"There is also the fact," she added relentlessly, "that
our cousins the Silvanesti have not acted very cousinly in
the past. They named your Uncle Porthios a dark elf.
They have no love for your father. They deem you a half-
breed, your mother something worse."

"They cannot deny us entry," Gilthas said firmly. 'They
will not. You will not deprive me of my moonbeams, my
dear. I believe the lowering of the shield is a sign of a
change of heart among the Silvanesti. I have hope to offer
our people. They will cross the Plains of Dust. They will
reach Silvanesti, and once there our cousins will welcome
them. The journey will not be easy, but you know better
than anyone the courage that lives in the hearts of our
people. Courage such as we saw in that young girl."

"Yes, the journey will be hard," the Lioness said,
regarding her husband earnestly. "Our people will suc-
ceed, but they will need a leader: one who will urge us to
keep going when we are tired and hungry and thirsty
and there is no rest, no food, no water. If our king travels
with us, we will follow him. When we arrive in Sil-
vanesti, our king must be our emissary. Our king must
speak for us, so that we do not seem a mob of beggars."

'The senators, the Heads of House—"

"—will squabble among themselves, Gilthas, you know
that. One third will want to march west instead of east.
Another third will want to march north instead of south.
And the other third will not want to march at all. They will
fight over this for months. If they ever did manage to reach
Silvanesti, the first thing they would do is drag up all the
quarrels for the past three centuries, and that will be an
end to everything. You, Gilthas. You are the only one who

290

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

has a hope of making this work. You are the only one who
can unify the various factions and lead the people across
the desert. You are the only one who can smooth the way
with the Silvanesti."

"And yet/' Gilthas argued, "I cannot be in two places
at once. I cannot fight to defend Qualinost and lead our
people into the Plains of Dust."

"No, you cannot," the Lioness agreed. "You must put
someone else in charge of the defense of Qualinost."

"What sort of king flees to safety and leaves his people
to die in his stead?" Gilthas demanded frowning.

"The sort of king who makes certain that the last sacri-
fice of those who stay behind will not be made in vain,"
said his wife. "Do not think that because you do not
remain to fight the dragon that you will have the easier
task. You are asking a people bom to the woods, bom to
lush gardens and bountiful water, to venture into the
Plains of Dust, an arid land of shifting sand dunes and
blazing sun. Place me in charge of Qualinost—"

"No," he said shortly. "I will not hear of it."

"My love—"

"We will not discuss it. I have said no, and I mean it.
How can I do what you tell me I must do, without you at my
side?" Gilthas demanded, his voice rising in his passion.

She gazed at him in silence, and he grew calmer.

"We will not speak of this anymore," he told her.

"Yet we must speak of it sometime."

Gilthas shook his head. His lips compressed into a
tight, grim line. "What other news?" he asked abruptly.

The Lioness, who knew her husband's moods, under-
stood that continuing to argue would be fruitless. "Our
forces harass Beryl's armies. Yet, their numbers are so great
that we are as gnats attacking a pack of ravening wolves."

"Withdraw your people. Order them south. They will
be needed to guard the survivors if Qualinost falls."

291

DRAQONLANCE "CITG Wan or Souls

"I thought that would be your command," she said. "I
have already done so. From now on. Beryl's troops will
move unimpeded, looting and burning and killing."

Gilthas felt the hope that had warmed his blood seep
away, leaving him once again despairing, chilled.

"Yet we will have our revenge upon her. You said that
the dwarves have agreed to your plan." The Lioness, sorry
she had spoken so harshly, tried to lift him from the dark
mood she saw settling on him.

"Yes," he said. "I spoke to Tarn Bellowsgrardte. Our
meeting was fortuitous. I had not expected to find him in
the tunnels. I had thought I would have to ride to Thor-
bardin to speak with him, but he has taken charge of the
work himself, and thus we were able to settle the matter
at once."

"He knows that perhaps some of his own people may
die defending elves?"

"He knows better than I can tell him what the cost will
be to the dwarves. Yet they are willing to make the sacri-
fice. 'If once the great green dragon swallows Qualinesti,
she will next have an appetite for Thorbardin/ he told me."

"Where is the dwarven army?" the Lioness demanded.
"Skulking underground, prepared to defend Thorbardin.
An army of hundreds of thousands, doughty warriors.
With them, we could withstand Beryl's assault—"

"My dear," said Gilthas, gently, "the dwarves have a
right to defend their homeland. Would we elves rush to
their aid if they were the ones attacked? They have done
much for us. They have saved die lives of countless people,
and they are prepared to sacrifice their lives for a cause that
is not their own. They should be honored, not castigated."

The Lioness glared at him, defiant for a moment, then
she said with a shrug and a rueful smile. "You are right, of
course. You see both sides, whereas I see only one. This is
why I say again, you must be Ac one to lead our people."

292

DnagoNS of a Loet Stan

"I said we would speak of this later," Gilthas returned,
his voice cool.

"I wonder," he said, changing the subject, "does that
young girl cry when she is alone and wakeful in the night,
her charges slumbering around her, trusting in her even
when the darkness is deep?"

"No," the Lioness answered. "She does not cry, for one
of them might wake and see her tears and lose faith."

Gilthas sighed deeply, held his wife close. "Beryl has
crossed the border into our land. How many days before
the army reaches Qualinost?"

"Four," the Lioness replied.

293

20

'Cl7€ Mancly iNto NiQlrtlUNO




ina's small army, only a few hundred in number,
made up of the group of Knights who had fol-
lowed her from the ghastly valley of Neraka to
Sanction to Silvanesti, and now to this strange land.

The dragons flew through darkness so deep that Gaidar
could not see Captain Samuval flying on the dragon next
to him. Gaidar could not even see his own dragon's long
tail or wings for the darkness that shrouded them. He
saw one dragon only and that was the strange dragon
Mina rode, the death dragon, for it shimmered with a
ghostly iridescence that was both terrible and beautiful.
Red, blue, green, white, red-blue, as two of the souls of
the dead dragons combined, then white-green, con-
stantly changing until he grew dizzy and was forced to
look away.

But his gaze was drawn back to the death dragon,
marveling, awed. He wondered how Mina found courage
to ride a beast that seemed as insubstantial as the mom-
ing mist, for he could see through the dragon, see the

294

DnaqoNS of a Lost Slan

darkness beyond it. Mina had no qualms apparently, and
her faith was justified, for the dragon bore her safely
through the skies of Ansalon and deposited her gently
and reverently on the ground.

The other dragons landed on a vast plain, allowed
their riders to dismount, then took to the air again.

"Listen for my call," Mina told the dragons. "I will
have need of you."

The dragons—giant reds and fleet blues, sly blacks,
aloof whites and cunning greens—bowed low their heads,
spread their wings, and bent their proud necks before her.
The death dragon drcled once above her head and then
vanished as if it had been absorbed into the darkness. The
other dragons lifted their wings and flew away, heading
different directions. Their departure created a great wind
that nearly blew the men over. The dragons were gone,
and they were left on foot, with no mounts, in a strange
land, with no idea where they were.

It was then Mina told them.

"Nightlund," she said.

Once this land had been ruled by a Solamnic Knight
named Soth. Given the chance by the gods to halt the
Cataclysm, Lord Soth had failed and brought down a
curse upon himself and the land. Since the time of the
Cataclysm, other doomed souls, both living and dead, had
found in Nightlund a place of refuge and they had come
to dwell within its deep shadows. Hearing that the land
had become a hideout for those fleeing the law, the
Solamnic Knights, who ruled this land, had made several
attempts to clean them out. These proved futile, and soon
the Knights quit entering the forest, leaving it to Soth, the
accursed knight, to rule. Nightlund was a no-man's-land,
where none of the living came, if they could help it,

This land had an evil reputation, even among the Dark
Knights of Neraka, for the dead had no allegiances to any

295

DRAQONLANCE "Cl?e Wan of Souls

government of the living. Mina's Knights and soldiers
formed ranks and marched after her without a murmur
of complaint. They were so confident of her now, they
believed in her—and in the One God—so strongly, that
they did not question her judgment.

Mina's soldiers entered Nightlund with impunity.
They encountered no enemy—living or dead. They
marched beneath huge cypress trees that had been old
at the time of the forging of the Gray gem. They saw no
living creature, no squirrel or bird, mouse or chipmunk,
no deer or bear. They saw no dead, either, for none of
them possessed magic, and thus the dead took no inter-
est in them. But the soldiers and knights sensed the
dead around them, sensed it as one senses he is being
watched by unseen eyes. After several days of march-
ing through the eerie forest, the men who had followed
Mina into Nightlund without hesitation were starting
to have second thoughts.

The fur on the back of Gaidar's neck prickled and
twitched, and he was continually whipping his head
around to see if something was creeping up on him.
Captain Samuval complained—in low tones and only
when Mina could not hear him—that he had "the hor-
rors." When asked what malady this might be, he could
not explain, except to say that it made his feet and hands
cold so that no fire could warm them and gave him an
ache in his belly. The sharp crack of a falling branch sent
men diving to the ground, to lie quivering in terror until
someone told them what it was. Shamefaced, they would
rise and carry on.

The men doubled the watch at night, though Mina
told them that they had no need to set a watch at all. She
did hot explain why, but Gaidar guessed that they were
being guarded by those who had no more need of sleep.
He did not find this particularly reassuring, and he often

296

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

woke from a dream of hundreds of people standing around
him, staring down at him with eyes that were empty of
all except pain.

Mina was strangely silent during this march. She
walked in the front of the line, refused all company, said
no word to any man, yet Gaidar could sometimes see
her lips moving, as though she were speaking. When he
once ventured to ask to whom she spoke, she replied,
"To them," and made a sweeping gesture with her hand
that encompassed nothing.

"The dead, Mina?" Gaidar asked hesitantly.

"The souls of the dead. They have no more need of the
shells that once housed them."

"You can see them?"

"The One God gives me that power."

"But I can't."

"I could cause you to see them, Gaidar," Mina said to
him, "but you would find it most unpleasant and dis-
concerting."

"No, Mina, no, I don't want to see them," Gaidar said
hastily. "How .... how many of them are there?"

"Thousands," she replied. "Thousands upon thou-
sands and thousands more after that. The souls of all
who have died in this world since the Chaos War,
Gaidar. That is how many. And more join their ranks
daily. Elves dying in Silvanesti and Qualinesti, soldiers
dying defending Sanction, mothers dying in childbirth,
children dying of sickness, the elderly dying in their
beds—all these souls are flowing into Nightlund in a
vast river. Brought here by the One God, prepared to do
the bidding of the One God."

"You said since the end of the Chaos War. Where did
the souls go before that?"

"The blessed souls went to other realms beyond. Cursed
souls were doomed to remain here, until they learned the

297

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl7e Wan of Souls

lessons they were meant to leam in life. Then they, too,
left for the next stage. The old gods encouraged the souls
to leave. The old gods gave the souls no choice. The old
gods ignored the fact that the souls did not want to
depart. They longed to remain within the world and do
what they could to assist the living. The One God saw
this and granted the souls the gift that they could remain
in the world and serve the One God. So they do, Gaidar.
And so they will."

Mina looked at him with her amber eyes. "You would
not want to leave, would you, Gaidar?"

"I would not want to leave you, Mina," he replied.
"That is what I fear most about dying. That I would have
to leave you."

"You never will, Gaidar," Mina said to him, her voice
gentle. The amber warmed. Her hand touched his arm,
and her touch was as warm as the amber. "I promise you
that. You never will."

Gaidar was uneasy. He hesitated to say the next, for
fear she would be displeased, but he was her second-in-
command, and he was responsible not only to her but to
those under his command.

"How long are we going to stay here, Mina? The men
don't like it in this forest. I can't say that I blame them.
The living have no place here. We're not wanted."

"Not long," she said. "I must pay a visit to someone
who lives within this forest. Yes, he lives," she emphasized
the word. "A wizard by the name of Dalamar. Perhaps
you've heard of him?"

Gaidar shook his head. He had as little to do with
wizards as possible and took no interest in them or
their business.

"After that," Mina continued, "I must leave for a
brief time—"

"Leave?" Gaidar repeated, involuntarily raising his voice.

298

OnaQONS of a Lost Stan

"Leave?" Captain Samuval came hurrying over. "What
is this? Who is leaving?"

"Mina," said Gaidar, his throat constricting.

"Mina the only reason the troops stay is because of
you/' said Samuval. "If you go—"

"I will not be gone long," said Mina, frowning.

"Long or short, Mina, I'm not sure we can control the
men," said Captain Samuval. He kept jerking his head
about, constantly looking over his shoulder. "And I don't
blame them. This land is cursed. Ghosts crawl all over it.
I can feel them crawling all over me!"

He shivered and rubbed his arms and glanced fear-
fully about. "You can't see them except out of the corner
of your eye. And when you look at them, they're gone.
Ifs enough to drive a man stark, staring mad."

"I will speak to the men. Captain Samuval," Mina
replied. "You and Gaidar must speak to them, as well, and
you must show them by example that you are not afraid."

"Even though we are," the minotaur growled.

"The dead will not harm you. They have been ordered
to congregate here for one purpose and one purpose alone.
The One God commands them. They serve the One God,
and through the intercession of the One God, they serve me."

"What is this purpose, Mina? You keep saying that,
but you tell us nothing."

"All will be revealed. You must be patient and have
faith," Mina said. The amber eyes cooled and hardened.

Gaidar and Samuval exchanged glances. Samuval
held still, no longer jerked his head about or rubbed his
arms, afraid of offending Mina.

"How long will you be gone?" Gaidar asked.

"You will come with me to the wizard's Tower. Then I
travel north, to speak to the dragon who rules Palanthas,
the dragon known as Khellendros or, as I prefer to call
him, Skie."

299

DRAQONLANCE tDe Wan of Souls

"Skie? He's not even around anymore. All know that
he departed on some strange quest."

"The dragon is there," Mina said. "He waits for me,
though he does not know it."

"Waits to attack you, maybe," said Samuval with a
snort. "He's not like one of our blue dragons, Mina. This
Skie is a butcher. He devours his own kind to gain power,
just like Malystryx."

"You should not go alone, Mina," Gaidar urged tersely.
"Take some of us with you."

"The Hand of the One God brought down Cyan Blood-
bane," Mina said sternly. "The Hand of the One God will
bring down Skie, if he thwarts the God's commands. Skie
will obey. He has no choice. He cannot help himself.

"You will obey me, too, Gaidar, Captain Samuval,"
Mina added. "As will the men." Her tone and her look
softened. "You have no need to fear. The One God rewards
obedience. You will be safe in the forest of the dead. They
guard you. They have no thought of harming you. Resume
the march, Gaidar. We must make haste. Events in the
world move swiftly, and we are called."

"We are called," muttered Gaidar, after Mina had
departed, traveling deeper into the forest. "We are always
called, it seems."

"Called to victory," observed Captain Samuval. "Called
to glory. I don't mind that. Do you?"

"No, not that part," Gaidar admitted.

"Then what's wrong—besides this place frightens the
pudding out of us." Samuval glanced around the shad-
owed forest with a shudder.

"I guess I'd like to think I had some say in the matter,"
Gaidar muttered. "Some choice."

"In the military?" Samuval chortled. "Your mama
must have dropped you on your head when you were a
calf if you think that!"

300

OnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

He looked down the path. Mina had passed beyond
his sight. "Come on," he said uneasily. "Lefs keep moving.
The sooner we're out of this place, the better."

Gaidar pondered this. Samuval was right, of course. In
the military one obeyed orders. A soldier didn't get to
vote on whether or not he'd like to storm a city, whether
or not he'd like to face a barrage of arrows or have a caul-
dron of hot boiling oil poured on his head. A soldier did
what he was told to do without question. Gaidar knew
that, and he accepted that. Why was this any different?

Gaidar didn't know. Couldn't answer.

301

21

AN UN€Xp€Ctet> VfeitOR




alin looked up from the book he had been study-
ing and rubbed his watery eyes and the back of
his neck. His vision, once so clear and keen, had
deteriorated with age. He could still see well at a dis-
tance, but he was forced to read through spectacles that
magnified the text or—in their absence—(he was forever
misplacing them)—he had to read with his head bent
close to the page. Slamming shut the book in frustration,
he shoved it across the stone table, there to reside with
the other books that had been of no help.

Palin glanced with little hope at the other books he
had found upon the shelves and had yet to read. He
had chosen these simply because he recognized his
uncle's handwriting on the covers and because they
pertained to magical artifacts. He had no reason to
suppose they referred specifically to the Device of
Time Journeying.

To be truthful, he found them depressing. Their refer-
ences to magic and the gods of magic filled him with

302

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

memories, longings, desires. This room where he sat—his
unde's laboratory—was the same, depressing.

He thought back to his conversation with Dalamar yester-
day, the day the kender had been discovered missing, the
day Palin had insisted on entering his unde's old laboratory,
searching through Raisflin's books on magic in hopes of find-
ing useful information on the Device of Time Journeying.

"I know that the Wizards' Council ordered Raistlin's
laboratory shut," Palin said as they wended their way
up the treacherous stairs that spiraled around the dark
heart of the Tower of High Sorcery—a misnomer now, if
ever there was one. "But they are gone, as the magic is
gone. I doubt they'll come looking for us."

Dalamar glanced at him, seemed amused. "What a fool
you are, Majere. Did you really think I would let rules
laid down by Par-Salian stop me from entering? I broke
the seal to the laboratory long ago."

"Why?"

"Can't you guess?" Dalamar asked caustically.

"You were hoping to find the magic."

"I thought... well, it doesn't matter what I thought."
Dalamar shrugged. "The Portal to the Abyss... the spell-
books ... something might be left. Perhaps I was hoping
that some of the Shalafi's power might have lingered
where he once walked. Or maybe I was hoping I would
find the gods...."

Dalamar spoke softly, gazing into the darkness, into
the emptiness. "My mind was fevered. I wasn't well.
Instead of the gods, I found death. I found necromancy.
Or perhaps it found me."

They climbed the stairs, stood before the door that
held so many memories. The door that had once looked
so imposing, so forbidding, seemed now small and shabby.
Palin reminded himself that many, many years had passed
since he had last seen it.

303

DRAQONLANCE We Wan of Souls

"The undead that once guarded it are gone now," Dala-
mar remarked. 'There is no longer any need for them."

"What of the Portal to the Abyss?" Palin asked.

"It leads to nowhere and to nothing," Dalamar answered.

"My uncle's spellbooks?"

"Jenna could fetch a high price for them at that shop of
hers, but only as antiques, curiosities." Dalamar broke the
wizard-lock. "I wouldn't have even locked the door if it
hadn't been for the kender."

"Aren't you coming?" Palin asked.

Dalamar refused. "Hopeless as it may seem, I'm going
to continue to search for the kender."

"He's been missing a day and a night. If Tas were
here, he certainly could not go that long without pop-
ping up to annoy one of us. Face it, Dalamar, he has man-
aged to escape."

"I have ringed this Tower round with magic," Dala-
mar stated grimly. "The kender could not have escaped."

"Famous last words," Palin remarked.

Palin felt a thrill of awe and excitement as he entered
the laboratory that had been his Uncle Raistlin's, the
place where his uncle had worked some of his most
powerful and awful magic. Those feelings soon evapo-
rated, to be replaced by the sadness and disappoint-
ment experienced by those of us who return to the
home of our childhood to find that it is smaller than we
remembered and that the current owners have let it fall
into neglect.

The fabled stone table, a table so large a minotaur
could lie down full length upon it, was dusty and cov-
ered in mouse dung. Jars that had once held the experi-
ments of Raistlin's attempts to create life still stood upon
the shelves, their contents dead and desiccated. The
fabled spellbooks belonging not only to Raistlin Majere
but to the archmage Fistandantilus, lay scattered about in

304

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

disarray, their spines rotting, their pages grimy and cov-
ered in cobwebs.

Palin rose to stretch the kinks from his legs. Lifting the
lamp that lighted his work, he walked to the very back of
the lab to the Portal to the Abyss.

The dread Portal, created by the mages of Krynn to
allow those with faith and courage and powerful magicks
to enter the dark realm of Queen Takhisis. Raistlin Majere
had done that, to his great cost. So potent was the evil of
the Portal that Dalamar, as Master of the Tower, had
sealed up the laboratory and everything inside.

The cloth that had once covered the Portal was rotted
away, fell in rags about it. The carved heads of the five
dragons that had glowed radiantly in homage to the
Queen of Darkness were dark. Cobwebs covered their
eyes, spiders crawled into their mouths. Once they had
given the impression of silently screaming. Now they
appeared to be gasping for air. Palin looked past the
heads, looked inside the Portal.

Where once had been eternity was now only an empty
room, not very large, covered with dust, populated by
spiders.

Hearing the rustling of robes on the stairs leading to
the laboratory, Palin hastily left the Portal. He returned
to his seat, pretended to be absorbed in once more study-
ing the andent spellbooks.

"The kender has escaped," Dalamar reported, shoving
open the door.

Taking one look at the elf's cold and angry expression,
Palin bit his tongue on the "I told you so."

"I cast a spell that would reveal to me the presence of
any living creature in the building," Dalamar continued.
'The spell located you and myriad rodents but no kender."

"How did he get out?" Palin asked.

"Come with me to the library, and I will show you."

305

DRAQONLANCE "cue Wan of Souls

Palin was not sorry to leave the laboratory. He brought
the books he had not yet read with him. He did not plan
on coming back. He was sorry he had ever returned.

"Shortsighted of me, no doubt, but it never occurred to
me to spellbind the chimney!" Dalamar stated. Bending
down to peer into the fireplace, he made an irritated ges-
ture. "Look, you can see a great quantity of soot in the grate,
as well as several bits of broken stone that appear to have
been dislodged. The chimney is narrow, and the climb long
and arduous, but that would only encourage a kender, not
stop him. Once he was outside, he could shinny down a
tree trunk and so make his way into Nightlund."

"Nightlund is filled with the dead—" Palin began.

"An added inducement for a kender," Dalamar inter-
jected dryly.

"It's my fault. I should have been keeping an eye on
him. But, to be honest, I did not think there was any
possible way he could escape."

"It's just like the perversity of the little beasts," said
Dalamar. "When you want to lose one, you can't possibly.
The one time we actually want to keep one, we can't
hang onto him. No telling where he has gone. He could
be halfway to Flotsam by now."

'The dead—"

'They would not bother him. It's magic they are after."

'To give to you" Palin said bitterly.

"Only a pittance. What they do with the rest of it, I
haven't been able to discover. I can almost see it out
there, like a vast ocean, yet I receive but a trickle, barely
enough to slake my thirst. Never enough to satisfy it.
At first, when the Shadow Sorcerer led me to discover
necromancy, I was given all I wanted. My power was
immense. I thought to increase that power by removing
to this location. I discovered, too late, that I had walked
into my own prison cell.

306

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

"Then I heard from Jenna that you had come across
the magical Device of Time Journeying. For the first time
in years, I felt hope. At last, this would offer a way out."

"For you," Palin said coldly.

"For all of us!" Dalamar returned with a flash of his dark
eyes. "Yet what do I find? You have broken it. Not only
that, but you managed to scatter pieces of it throughout
the Citadel of Light!"

"Better than Beryl having it!"

"Perhaps she has it already. Perhaps she had brains
enough to gather up the bits and pieces—"

"She would not be able to put it back together. I'm not
even sure we could put it back together." Palin gestured
toward the books piled up on the desk. "I can find no ref-
erence to what to do if the artifact breaks."

"Because it was never meant to break. Its maker had
no notion of the dead feeding off it. How could he? Such
a thing never happened in the Krynn of the gods. The
Krynn we knew."

"Why have the dead begun feeding now?" Palin won-
dered. "Why not five years ago or ten? The wild magic
worked for me once, just as necromancy worked for you
and healing worked for Goldmoon and the Mystics. The
dead never interfered with us before."

"The wisest among us never really knew what hap-
pened to the souls of the dead," Dalamar said, musing.
"We knew that some of the dead remained on this plane,
those who had ties to this world, like your uncle, or those
who were cursed to remain here. The god Chemosh ruled
over these unquiet spirits. What of the rest? Where did
they go? Because none ever returned to tell us, we never
found out."

'The clerics of Paladine taught that the blessed spirits
departed this stage of life to travel on to the next," Palin
said. "That is what my father and mother believed. Yet—"

307

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctys Wan of Souls

He glanced out the window, hopeful—and fearful—of
seeing his father's spirit among those unhappy ghosts.

"I will tell you what I think," said Dalamar. "Mind
you, this is only what I think, not what I know. If the dead
were once allowed to depart, they are not being allowed
to leave now. The night of the storm . . . Did you mark
that terrible storm?"

"Yes," said Palin. "It was no ordinary storm. It was
fraught with magic."

"There was a voice in the storm," Dalamar said. "A
voice that boomed in the thunder and cracked in the light-
ning. Almost I could hear it and understand it. Almost, but
not quite. The voice sent out a call that night, and it was
then the dead began to congregate in Nightiund in force. I
watched them from my window, flowing from all direc-
tions, an immense river of souls. They have been sum-
moned here for a purpose. As to what the purpose is—"

"Hail the Tower!" a voice called out from below the
laboratory window. Simultaneously, a battering knock
sounded on the Tower door.

Astounded, Palin and Dalamar stared at one another.

"Who can that be?" Palin asked, but at the very
moment he spoke the words, he saw that he was talking
to himself.

Dalamar's body stood before him, but that body might
have been a wax dummy on exhibit at some traveling fair.
The eyes were open, stared straight at Palin, but they did
not see him. The body breathed, but that was all it did.

Before Palin could react, Dalamar's eyes blinked. Life
and light and intelligence returned.

"What is it?" Palin demanded.

'Two Knights of Neraka, as they are calling themselves
these days. One is a minotaur, and the other is very strange."

As he talked, Dalamar began half-leading, half-dragging
Palin across the room. Reaching a far wall, he pressed on

308

DRBQONS OF a Lost Stan

a stone in certain way. Part of the wall slid aside, reveal-
ing a narrow opening and a staircase.

"They must not find you here!" Dalamar said, shoving
Palin inside.

Palin had come to the same conclusion himself.
"How did they travel through the forest? How did they
find the Tower—"

"No dme! Down those stairs!" Dalamar hissed. "They
lead to a chamber located in the library. There is an
opening in the wall. You'll be able to hear and to see. Go
quickly! They will start to get suspicious."

The pounding on the door and the shouting had
increased.

'The wizard Dalamar!" the deep voice of the minotaur
rumbled. "We have come a long distance to talk to you!"

Palin ducked inside. Dalamar pressed his hand against
the panel, and the wall slid noiselessly in place, leaving
Palin in complete darkness.

He took a moment to calm himself after the alarm and
the flurry, put a hand against the cold stone. He tried cast-
ing a light spell, uncertain of his success. To his relief, the
spell worked perfectly. A flame like the flame of a candle
burned in the palm of his hand.

Palin traversed the stairs quietly and swiftly, keeping
one hand against the wall to steady his steps, the other
lifted to light his way. The staircase spiraled down at such
a steep angle that rounding the last turn in the stair, he
came up against a blank wall with a suddenness that
nearly caused him to bash his head against the stones.

He searched for the opening Dalamar had promised
him but found nothing. The stones were set solidly in
place. There was no chink or crack in the mortar. He
might have feared that Dalamar had used this ruse to
imprison him except that he could hear voices growing
steadily louder.

309

DRAQONLANCE X3fe Wan of Souls

Palin readied out his hand, began to touch each of the
stones. The first several were solid—cold, hard, rough. He
moved higher. Reaching over his head, he tried to touch
one of the stones and saw his hand pass right through.

"Of course," he said to himself. "Dalamar is taller
than I am by a head and shoulders. I should have made
allowances."

The illusion of stone dispelled, Palin looked through
it directly into the library. From his vantage point, he
could see the desk, see the person seated at the desk, and
observe any visitors. He could hear every word as dearly
as if he were in the room, and he had to fight against an
uneasy impression that those inside the library could see
him as dearly as he could see them.

Perhaps the apprentice Dalamar had once hidden him-
self to spy upon Raistlin Majere, his Shalafi. The notion
provided Palin some amusement, as he settled himself to
watch—a rather uncomfortable proceeding, since he had
to stand as tall as possible and stretch his neck to look
through the opening in the stone wall. Recalling the fact
that Raistlin had been aware that his apprentice had been
spying on him did little to add to Palin's sense of well-
being. He reminded himself that he had been in this very
library and had undoubtedly looked at this very wall with-
out any notion that a small portion was not real.

The door opened. Dalamar ushered his visitors inside.
One was a minotaur—hulkish and brutish with that
gleam of intelligence in the animal eyes that was both
disconcerting and dangerous. The other Dark Knight
was, as Dalamar had said, "very strange."

"Why..." Palin whispered, shocked as he watched her
walk into Dalamar's library, her armor gleaming in the
light of the fire. "I know her! Or rather, I knew her. Mina!"

The girl entered the room and looked about her with
what Palin at first took for childlike wonder. She looked

310

DRBOONS of a Lost StaR

at the shelves of books, the ornately carved and beautiful
desk, the dusty velvet curtains, the frayed silk rugs of
elven make that covered the stone floor. He knew teenage
girls—he'd had them as pupils in his school—and expected
the usual squeals at the sight of the more grisly objects,
such as the skull of a baaz draconian. (Raisdin had once
engaged on a study of these creatures, perhaps with the
intent of recreating them himself. The full skeleton could
be found in the old laboratory, along with some of the
internal organs, kept in a solution in a jar.)

Mina remained silent and apparently unimpressed by
anything she saw, including Dalamar.

She shifted her gaze around the room, taking in every-
thing. She turned her face toward Palm. Eyes that were
the color of amber focused on the place in the wall behind
which he was hiding. Palin had the impression that they
saw through the illusion, saw him as plainly as if he were
standing in the room. He felt this so acutely that he recoiled,
glanced about him to ascertain his route of escape, for he
was certain that her next move would be to point him
out, demand his capture.

The eyes fixed on him, absorbed him. The liquid amber
surrounded him, solidified, passed on to continue the
investigation of the room. She said nothing, made no
mention of him, and Palin's fast-beating heart began to
return to some semblance of normal.

Of course, she had not seen him. He berated himself.
How could she? He thought back to the last time he had
seen her, an orphan in the Citadel of Light. She had been
a scrawny little girl with skinned knees and a mass of
glorious red hair. Now she was a slender young woman,
the red hair cut off, playing at dress-up in a Knight's
armor. Yet she had a look on her face that was certainly
not childlike. Resolute, purposeful, confident—all that
and something more. Exalted ...

311

DRAQONLANCE 'dye Wan OF Souls

"You are the wizard Dalamar," Mina said, turning the
amber eyes on him. "I was told I would find you here."

"\ am Dalamar, the Master of the Tower. I would be
considerably interested to know who told you where to
find me," said Dalamar, folding his hands in the sleeves
of his robes and giving a graceful bow.

"The Master of the Tower . . ." Mina repeated softly
with a half-smile, as if she knew the truth of the matter.
"As to how I found you, the dead told me."

"Indeed?" Dalamar seemed to find this troubling. He
tried to evade her eyes, slid out from beneath the amber
gaze. "Who might you be. Lady Knight, that you are on
such intimate terms with the dead?"

"I am Mina," she said. She raised the amber eyes, and
this time she caught him. She gestured. "This is my second-
in-command, Gaidar."

The minotaur gave an abrupt nod of his homed head.
He was not comfortable in the Tower. He kept glancing
about darkly as if he expected something to spring out and
attack at any moment. He was not worried about himself,
however. His sole concern appeared to be for Mina. He
was protective to the point of worship, adoration.

Palm was overcome by curiosity. Dalamar was wary.

"I am interested to know how you made your way
unscathed through NighUund, Lady Mina," Dalamar said.
He sat down in the chair behind his desk, perhaps trying to
break that entrancing gaze. "Will you be seated?"

"Thank you, no," Mina replied and continued to stand.
She now gazed down upon him, putting Dalamar at an
unexpected disadvantage. "Why does my being in Night-
lund astonish you. Wizard?"

Dalamar shifted in his chair, not willing to stand up,
for that would make him appear vacillating and weak,
yet not enjoying being looked down upon.

"I am a necromancer. I sense magic about you," he said.

312

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

"The dead drain magic, they feed off it. I am surprised
that you were not mobbed."

"That which you sense about me is not magic," Mina
replied, and her voice was unusually low and mature for
one her age. "You feel the power of the God I serve, the
One God. As to the dead, they do not touch me. The One
God rules the dead. They see in me the One God, and
they bow down before me."

Dalamar's lip twitched.

"It is true!" Gaidar stated, growling in anger. "I saw it
myself! Mina comes to lead—"

"—my army into Nightlund," Mina concluded. Rest-
ing her hand upon the minotaur's arm, she commanded
silence.

"Lead your army against what?" Dalamar asked sar-
castically. 'The dead?"

"Against the living," Mina replied. "We plan to seize
control of Solamnia."

"You must have a large army. Lady Knight," Dalamar
said. "You must have brought along every soldier in the
Dark Knighthood."

"My army is small," Mina admitted. "I was required to
leave troops behind to guard Silvanesti, which fell to our
might not long ago—"

"Silvanesti... fallen..." Dalamar was livid. He stared
at her. "I don't believe it!"

Mina shrugged. "Your belief or disbelief is all one to
me. Besides, what do you care? Your people cast you out,
or so I have heard tell. I mentioned that only in passing. I
have come to ask a favor of you. Master of the Tower."

Dalamar was shaken to the core of his being. Palin
saw that despite claiming not to believe her, the dark elf
realized she spoke the truth. It was impossible to hear
that calm, resolute, confident voice and not believe what-
ever she said.

313

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct)€ WBR of Souls

Dalamar struggled to regain at least outward control of
himself. He would have liked to have asked questions,
demanded answers, but he could not quite see how to do
this without revealing an uncharacteristic concern. Dala-
mar's love for his people was a love that he constantly
denied and in that denial constantly reaffirmed.

"You have heard correctly," he said with a tight smile.
"They cast me out. What favor can I do for you. Lady Mina?"

"I have arranged to meet someone here," she began.

"Here? In the Tower?" Dalamar was astonished beyond
words. "Out of the question. I am not running an inn,
Lady Mina."

"I realize that. Wizard Dalamar," Mina replied, and
her tone was gentle. "I realize that what I am asking will
be an imposition, an inconvenience to you, an interrup-
tion to your studies. Rest assured that I would not ask
this of you, but that there are certain requirements that
must be met as to the location of this meeting. The Tower
of High Sorcery fulfills all those requirements. Indeed, it
is the only place on Krynn that fulfills the requirements.
The meeting must take place here."

"I am to have no say in this? What are these requirements
of which you speak?" Dalamar demanded, frowning.

"I am not permitted to reveal them. Not yet. As to your
say in this, what you do or say matters not at all. The One
God has decided this will be, and therefore this will be."

Dalamar's dark eyes flickered. His face smoothed.

"Your guest is welcome in the Tower, Lady. In order
to make the guest's stay comfortable, it would help if I
knew something about this person... male or female? A
name, perhaps?"

"Thank you. Wizard," Mina said, and turned away.

"When will the guest arrive?" Dalamar pursued.
"How will I know that the person who comes is the
person you expect?"

314

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

"You will know/' Mina replied. "We will leave now,
Gaidar."

The minotaur had already crossed the room and was
reaching for the door handle.

"There is a favor you could do for me in return. Lady,"
Dalamar said mildly.

Mina glanced back. "What is that. Wizard?"

"A kender I was using in an important experiment
has escaped," Dalamar said, his tone casual, as if kender
were like caged mice and were found or lost on a routine
basis. "His loss would be of no importance to me, but the
experiment was. I would like very much to recover him,
and it occurs to me that perhaps, if you are bringing an
army into Nightiund, you might come upon him. If you
do, I would appreciate his return. He calls himself Tassle-
hoff," Dalamar added with an offhanded and charming
smile, "as so many of them do these days."

"Tasslehoff!" Mina's attention was caught directly. A
crease marred her forehead. 'The Tasslehoff who carried
with him the magical Device of Time Journeying? You had
him here? You had him and the device, and you lost him?"

Dalamar stared, confounded. The elven wizard was
older by hundreds of years than this girl. He had been
deemed one of the great mages of his or any time. Though
he worked in magic's shadows, he had gained the respect,
if not the love, of those who worked in the light. Mina's
amber-eyed gaze pinned the powerful wizard to the chair.
Dalamar wriggled beneath her gaze, struggled, but she
had caught him and held him fast.

Two bright spots of color stained Dalamar's pale cheeks.
The elf's slender fingers nervously stroked a bit of carv-
ing on the desk, an oak leaf. The too-thin fingers traced its
shape over and over until Palin longed to rush from his
hiding place and seize that nervous hand to make it stop.

"Where is the device?" Mina demanded, advancing on

315

DRAQONLANCE 'CITE wan OF Souls

him until she stood at his desk, gazing down at him. "Did
he have it with him? Do you have it here?"

Dalamar had reached his limit. He rose from his chair,
looked down at her, looked down the length of his aquiline
nose, looked down from his greater height, looked down
from the confidence of his own power.

"What business can this possibly be of yours. Lady
Mina?"

"Not my business," Mina said, not at all intimidated.
Indeed, it was Dalamar who seemed to shrink as she spoke.
"The business of the One God. All that happens in this
world is the business of the One God. The One God sees
into your heart and into your mind and your soul. Wizard.
Though you may hide the truth from my mortal eyes, you
cannot hide the truth from the One God. We will search
for this kender, and if we find him we will do with him
what needs to be done."

She turned again and walked away calm, unruffled.

Dalamar remained standing at his desk, the hand that
had nervously traced the oak leaf clenched tightly in a fist
that he concealed beneath his robes.

Arriving at the door, Mina turned around. Her gaze
passed over Dalamar, another insect in her display case,
and fixed on Palin. In vain he told himself she could not
see him. She caught him, held him.

"You believe the artifact was lost in the Citadel of Light.
It was not. It came back to the kender. He has it in his pos-
session. That is why he ran away."

Palin doused the magical light. In the darkness, he
could see nothing but those amber eyes, hear nothing but
her voice. He remained there so long that Dalamar came
searching for him. The elf's footsteps were soft upon the
stone stairs, and Palin did not hear him until he sensed
movement. He looked up in alarm, found Dalamar stand-
ing in front of him.

316

DnaqoNS of a Lost StaR

"What are you still doing here? Are you all right? I
thought for certain something had happened to you,"
Dalamar said, irritated.

"Something did happen to me," Palin returned. "She
happened to me. She saw me. She looked straight at me.
The last words she spoke were to me!"

"Impossible," Dalamar said. "No eyes, not even amber
eyes, can see through solid stone and magic."

Palin shook his head, unconvinced. "She spoke to me."

He expected a sarcastic rejoinder from Dalamar, but
the dark elf was in no mood to banter, apparently, for he
dimbed the stairs leading back to the laboratory in silence.

"I know that girl, Dalamar," Palin said.

Dalamar halted on the staircase, turned to stare. "How?"

"I haven't seen her in a long time. Not since she ran away.
She was an orphan. A fisherman found her washed upon
the shore of Schallsea Isle. He brought her to the Citadel of
Light, to the orphans' home. She became a favorite of Gold-
moon's, almost a daughter to her. Three years ago she ran
away. She was fourteen. Goldmoon was devastated. Mina
had a good home. She was loved, pampered. She seemed
happy, except I never knew a child to ask so many ques-
tions. None of us could understand why she ran off. And
now... a Dark Knight. Goldmoon will be heartbroken."

'That is very odd," Dalamar said thoughtfully, and they
resumed their climb. "So she was raised by Goldmoon...."

"Do you suppose what she said about Tas and the
device was true?" Palin asked, as they emerged from the
hidden stairwell.

"Of course, it was true," Dalamar replied. He walked
over to the window, stared down into the cypress trees
below. "That explains why the kender ran away. He feared
we would find it."

"We would have, if we had bothered to think through
this rationally, instead of haring off in a panic. What ninnies

317

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl7e Wan oy Souls

we are! The device will always return to the one who owns
it. Even in pieces, it will always return."

Palin was frustrated. He felt the urgent need to do
something, yet there was nothing he could do.

"You could search for him, Dalamar. Your spirit can
walk this world, at least—"

"And do what?" Dalamar demanded. "If I did find
him—which would be a miracle to surpass all miracles—
I could do nothing except frighten him into burrowing
deeper into whatever hole he's dug."

Dalamar had been staring out the window. He stiff-
ened. His body went rigid.

"What is it?" Palin asked, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

Dalamar made no answer, except to point out the
window.

Mina walked through the forest, trod upon the brown
pine needles.

The dead gathered around her. The dead bowed to her.

318

22
REUNION of OR» FnfeNOs




kender is never out of sorts for long, not even
after encountering his own ghost. True, the sight
had been a considerable shock, and Tasslehoff
still experienced unpleasant qualms whenever he thought
about it, but he knew how to handle a qualm. You held
your breath and drank five sips of water, and the qualm
would go away. This done, his next dedsion was that he
had to leave this terrible place where ghosts went around
giving one qualms. He had to leave it, leave it fast, and
never, never come back.

Moss and his father proved to be of little help, since as
far as Tas could see, moss had the bad habit of growing on
all sides of rocks and trees, with apparently no regard for
the fact that someone might be trying to use it to find north.
Tasslehoff decided to turn instead to the time-honored
techniques that have been developed by kender over
centuries of Wanderlust, techniques guaranteed to find
one's self after losing one's self. The best known and most
favored of these involves the use of the body compass.

319

DRAQONLANCE 'ciTe WBR of Souls

The theory behind the body compass is as follows. It is
well-known that the body is made up of various elements,
among these being iron. The reason that we know the body
has iron in it is because we can taste the iron in our blood.
Therefore, it stands to reason that the iron in our blood will
be drawn to the north, just as the iron needle on the com-
pass is drawn to the north. (Kender go so far to state that
we would, all of us, be congregated at the north end of the
world if we let our blood have its way. We fight a constant
battle with our blood, otherwise we would all collect at the
top of the world, thereby causing it to tip over.)

In order to make the body compass work, you must
shut your eyes, so as not to confuse things, extend the right
arm with the index finger pointing, then spin around three
times to the left. When you stop, open your eyes, and you
will discover that you are facing north.

Kender who use this technique almost never arrive at
where they're going, but they will tell you that they always
arrive at where they need to be. Thus it was that Tasslehoff
wandered about in the forests of Nightlund for a good
many hours (he was not lost), without finding either Solan-
thus or the way out, and he was just about to try the body
compass one last time when he heard voices, real, live
voices, not the tickling whispers of the poor souls.

Tasslehoff's natural instinct was to introduce himself
to the voices, who were perhaps lost, and offer to show
them which way was north. However, at this juncture,
he heard yet another voice. This voice was inside his
head and belonged to Tanis Half-Elven. Tasslehoff often
heard Tanis's voice on occasions such as this, reminding
him to stop and think if what he was doing was "con-
ducive to self-preservation." Sometimes Tas listened to
Tanis's voice in his head, and sometimes he did not, which
was pretty much how their relationship had worked
when Tanis had been alive.

320

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

This time, Tasslehoff recalled that he was running away
from Dalamar and Palin, both of whom wanted to murder
him, and that they might either be out hunting for him
themselves or they might have sent out minions. Wizards,
Tas recalled, were forever sending out minions. Tas wasn't
sure what a minion was—he thought it some sort of small
fish—but he derided that it would be condudve to his self-
preservation if he climbed a tree and hid in the branches.

Tasslehoff climbed nimbly and swiftly and was soon
settled comfortably high up amidst the pine needles. The
three voices, with bodies attached, walked right under-
neath him.

Seeing that they were Knights of Takhisis or Neraka
or whatever it was they were calling themselves these
days, Tas congratulated himself on having listened to
Tanis. An entire army. Knights and foot soldiers, marched
beneath Tas's tree. They marched swiftly and did not
appear to be in very good spirits. Some darted nervous
glances left and right, as if searching for something, while
others traveled with eyes facing forward, fearful that if
they looked they might find it. There was little talking in
the ranks. If they did speak, they kept their voices low.
The tail end of the line of soldiers was just moving under-
neath Tasslehoff's tree, and he was just congratulating
himself on having successfully avoided detection when
the front of the line came to a halt, which meant the back
of the line had to come to a halt, too.

The soldiers stopped, standing beneath Tas. They
breathed heavily and looked tired to the point of drop-
ping, but when the word came down the line that there
was to be a fifteen-minute rest, none of them looked happy.
A few squatted down on the ground, but they did not
leave the trail, they did not throw off their packs.

"Lefs get on with it, I say," said one. "I don't want to
spend another night in this death's den."

321

DRAQONLANCE 'ClJe Wan oy Souls

"You're right, there/' said another. "Let's march on
Solanthus. This minute. I'd welcome a fight with an
enemy who's got flesh and blood in him."

"Two hundred of us, and we're going to take Solan-
thus," said a third. "Rot! If there were two hundred
thousand we couldn't take that city, even with the help of
the One God. It's got walls the size of Mt. Nevermind.
Infernal devices, too, or so I've heard. Giant ballista that
can shoot dragons out of the skies."

"Like you said we'd never take the elf city," said one of
his comrades irritably. "Remember, boys? 'It'll take two
hundred thousand of us to whip those pointy-ears.' "

The others laughed, but it was nervous laughter, and
no one laughed too long or too loudly.

"We're off again," said one, rising to his feet.

The others stood up, moved back into formation. Those
in front turned to say something to those in back.

"Keep watch for the kender. Pass it on." The word
came down the line. "Keep watch for the kender."

The soldiers in back waited impatiently for those in
front to start moving. Finally, with a sluggish lurch, the
line of men began to advance, and they were soon lost to
Tasslehoff's eyes and ears.

" 'Keep watch for the kender,' " Tas repeated. "Hah!
Those must be Dalamar's minions. I was wrong about the
fish part. I'll just wait here until I'm sure they're gone. I
wonder who this One God is? It must very dull, to have
only one god. Unless, of course, it was Fizban, but then
there probably wouldn't be any world, because he'd keep
misplacing it, just like he misplaces his hat.

"Uh, oh!" The kender gave a stifled groan, noting that
the troops were heading in the identical direction his
finger had pointed. "They're going north. That means I
have to go some other direction. The opposite direction,
in fact."

322

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stare

Which was how Tasslehoff came at last to find his way
out of Nightlund and on the road leading to Solanthus—
proving yet again that the kender body compass works.

Arriving at the great walled fortress city of Solan-
thus, Tasslehoff walked around the walls until he came
to the front entrance. There he stopped to rest himself a
bit and to watch with interest the crowds of people
coming and going. Those entering the city stood in a
long line that moved very slowly. People stood in the
road, fanning themselves and talking to their neighbors.
Farmers dozed on their carts, their horses knowing
enough to move forward as the line inched along. Sol-
diers posted outside the walls kept watch to make cer-
tain that the line continued to move, that no one grew
impatient and attempted to shove his way to the front.
No one seemed too upset by the delay but appeared to
expect it and to take in stride.

Every person who entered the city was being ques-
tioned by the guards. Pouches were searched. Wagons
were searched. If the wagon carried goods, the goods were
examined by the guards, who loosened bags, pried up the
tops of crates, and poked pitchforks into loads of hay.
Once he was familiar with the rules, fully intending to
comply with them, Tasslehoff took his place at the very
end of the line.

"Hullo, how are you?" he said to a large matronly
woman carrying an enormous basket of apples, who was
gossiping with another large woman, carrying a basket
of eggs. "My name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot. My, this is a
long line. Is there any other way in?"

The two turned around to look at him. Both scowled at
him fiercely, and one actually shook her fist at him.

"Keep away from me, you little vermin. You're wast-
ing your time. Kender aren't allowed inside the dty."

323

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct}e Wan of Souls

"What a very unfriendly place," Tasslehoff observed
and walked off.

He did not go far, however, but sat down in the shade
of a tree near the front entrance to enjoy his apple. As he
ate, he observed that while no kender could be seen
entering the dty, two were seen leaving it, accompanied
by dty guards.

Tas waited until the kender had picked themselves
up, dusted themselves off, and gathered up their
pouches. Then he began to wave and shout. Pleased as
always to see a fellow kender, the two came running
over to greet him.

"LeafwortThumbfloggin," said one, extending his hand.

"Merribell Hartshorn," said the other, extending her
hand.

"Tasslehoff Bun-foot," said Tas.

"No, really?" said Merribell, highly pleased. "Why I
met you just last week. You don't look the same though.
Are you doing something different with your hair?"

"What have you got in your pouches?" asked Leafwort.

In the ensuing exdtement of answering that interesting
question, followed by Tas's asking them what they had in
their pouches and a general round of pouch-dumping and
object-trading, Tas explained that he wasn't one of the
innumerable Tasslehoffs wandering about Ansalon, he
was the original. He was particularly proud to show off
the pieces of the Device of Time Journeying, complete
with the story of how he and Caramon had used it to
travel back to the past and how it had taken him inadver-
tently to the Abyss and how it had brought him forward
to a future that wasn't this future but some other.

The two kender were impressed and quite happy to
trade their most valuable objects for pieces of the device.
Tas watched the pieces vanish into their pouches without
much hope that they would stay there. Still it was worth a

324

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

shot. Finally, when everything had been traded that could
possibly be traded and all the stories told that could pos-
sibly be told, he told them why he was in Solanthus.

"I'm on a quest," Tas announced, and the other two
kender appeared quite respectful. "I'm searching for a
Solamnic Knight."

"You've come to the right place," said Leafwort, jerk-
ing a thumb behind him at the city walls. "There're more
Knights in there than you can shake a stick at."

"What do you plan on doing once you've got one?"
Merribell wondered. 'They don't look like they'd be much
fun to me."

"I'm searching for a specific Knight," Tas explained. "I
had him once, you see, but I lost him, and I was hoping
he might have come here, this being a place where Knights
tend to congregate, or so I've heard. He's about so high"—
Tas jumped to his feet, stood on his tiptoes and raised his
arm—"and he's extremely ugly, even for a human, and he
has hair the color of Tika's corn bread muffins."

The two kender shook their heads. They'd seen lots of
Knights—they described several—but Tas didn't have
any use for them.

"I have to find my own," he said, squatting down
comfortably again. "He and I are great friends. I guess
I'll just go look for myself. These ladies told me— I say,
would anyone care for an apple? Anyhow two ladies
told me that kender aren't allowed inside Solanthus."

'That's not true. They're really quite fond of kender in
Solanthus," Merribell assured him.

"They just have to say that to keep up appearances,"
added Leafwort.

"They don't put kender in jail in Solanthus," Merribell
continued enthusiastically. "Imagine that! The moment
they catch—er—find you, they give you an armed escort
through the town—"

325

DRAQONLANCE Vie wan of Souls

"—so that you can see all the sights—"

"—and they throw you out the front gate. Just like a
regular person."

Tasslehoff agreed that Solanthus sounded like a won-
derful place. All he had to do was to find a way inside.
His new friends provided him with several entrances that
were not known to the general public, adding that it was
best to have an alternate route in case the first he tried
happened to have been shut down by the guards.

Bidding good-bye to his new friends, Tas went off to
try his luck. The number-two location worked extraordi-
narily well (we have been asked not to reveal it) and after
only an hour's work, Tasslehoff entered the dty of Solan-
thus. He was hot and sweaty, grimy and torn, but all his
pouches were intact and that, of course, was of para-
mount importance.

Fascinated by the immensity of the dty, as well as by
the large numbers of people, he wandered the streets
until his feet were sore and the apples he'd had for lunch
were just a distant memory. He saw lots of Knights, but
none who resembled Gerard. Tas might have stopped to
question a few, but he was afraid that they might treat
him in the friendly fashion the other two kender had
described, and while he would have liked to have been
shown the sights of the dty by armed guards and nothing
would have made him happier than to be tossed bodily
out the front gate, he was forced to put aside such pleas-
ures in the more serious pursuit of his quest.

It was about sunset when Tas began to grow seriously
annoyed with Gerard. Having dedded that the Knight
should be in Solanthus, the fact that he was not where he
was supposed to be was highly provoking. Tired of tramp-
ing up and down the streets in search of him, weary of
dodging dty guards (fun at the beginning but old after
awhile), Tas decided grumpily that he would sit down

326

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

and let Gerard find him for a change. Tas planted himself
in the shadows of a large statue near a fountain close to
the main entrance on the main street, figuring that he
would watch everyone coming in and out and that Gerard
would be bound to find him eventually.

He was sitting with his chin in hand, trying to decide
which inn he was going favor with his presence for
dinner when he saw someone he knew enter the front
gate. It wasn't Gerard, but someone even better. Tassle-
hoff jumped to his feet with a glad cry.

"Goldmoon!" he shouted, waving.

Respectful of Goldmoon's white robes that marked
her a Mystic of the Citadel of Light, one of the city guards
was providing her a personal escort into the city. He
pointed in a certain direction. She nodded and thanked
him. He touched his forehead to her, then returned to his
duties. A small and dust-covered figure trotted along at
Goldmoon's heels, hard-pressed to keep up with her
long strides. Tas didn't pay much attention to this other
person. He was so glad and so thankful to see Goldmoon
that he didn't notice anyone else, and he forgot all about
Gerard. If anyone could save him from Dalamar and Palin,
it was Goldmoon.

Tas raced across the crowded highway. Bumping into
people, and nimbly avoiding the long arm and grasping
hands of the law, Tasslehoff was about to greet Goldmoon
with his usual hug when he stopped short.

She was Goldmoon, but she wasn't. She was still in
the youthful body that had been so detestable to her. She
was still beautiful, with her shining silver-gold hair and
her lovely eyes, but the hair was straggly and uncombed,
and the eyes had a vague and distant look about them, as
if she wasn't seeing anything dose to her but was staring
at something very far away. Her white robes were mud-
stained, the hem frayed. She seemed tired to the point of

327

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl7e Wan OF Souls

falling, but she walked on detenninedly, using a wooden
staff to aid her steps. The small, dusty person kept up
with her.

"Goldmoon?" Tasslehoff said, uncertain.

She did not pause, but she did glance down at him.
"Hello, Tas," she said in a sort of distracted way and con-
tinued on.

Just that. Hello, Tas. Not, My gosh, I'm glad to see you,
where have you been all this time, Tas? Just, Hello, Tas.

The small and dusty person was surprised to see him,
however. Also very pleased.

"Bun-foot!"

"Conundrum!" Tas cried, at last recognizing the gnome
through the dust.

The two shook hands.

"What are you doing here?" Tas asked. 'The last time
I saw you, you were mapping the Hedge Maze at the
Citadel of Light. By the way, the last time I saw the Hedge
Maze it was on fire."

Tasslehoff realized too late that he shouldn't have sprung
such terrible news on the gnome in so sudden a manner.

"Fire!" Conundrum gasped. "My life quest! On fire!"

Stricken to the heart, he collapsed against the side of a
building, clutching his breast and gulping for breath. Tas
paused to fan the gasping gnome with his hat, still keep-
ing one eye on Goldmoon. Not noticing the gnome's dis-
tress, she kept on walking. When Conundrum showed
signs of recovering, Tas grasped his arm and pulled him
along down the street after her.

"Just think," Tas said soothingly, aiding the gnome's
staggering steps, "when they start to rebuild, they'll come
to you because you've got the only map."

'That's right!" Conundrum exclaimed on thinking this
over. He perked up considerably. "You're absolutely right."
He would have halted on the spot to drag the map out of

328

DRaqoNS Of a Lost Stap

his knapsack, but Tas said hurriedly that they didn't have
time, they had to keep up with Goldmoon.

"How do you two come to be here in Solanthus,
anyway?" Tasslehoff asked, to distract the gnome from
thoughts of the blazing Hedge Maze.

Conundrum regaled Tas with the doleful tale of the
wreck of the Indestructible, how he and Goldmoon had
been cast up on strange shores, and how they had been
walking ever since.

"You will not believe this," Conundrum said, lowering
his voice to a fearful whisper, "but she is following ghosts!"

"Really?" said Tasslehoff. "I just left a forest filled
with ghosts."

"Not you, too!" The gnome regarded Tas in disgust.

"I'm quite experienced around the undead," Tas said
with a careless air. "Skeletal warriors, disembodied
hands, chain-rattling ghouls ... Never a problem for the
experienced traveler. I have the Kender Spoon of Turn-
ing given to me by my Uncle Trapspringer. If you'd like
to see it—"

He began to rummage in his pouch but stopped
abruptly when he came across the bits and pieces of the
Device of Time Journeying.

"Personally, I think the woman's mad, unhinged, loony,
deranged, bricks missing, spilt marbles, that sort of thing,"
Conundrum was saying in low and solemn tones.

"Yes, I suspect you're right," said Tas, glancing at Gold-
moon, sighing. "She certainly doesn't act like the Goldmoon
I once knew. That Goldmoon was pleased to see a kender.
That Goldmoon wouldn't have let evil wizards send a
kender off to be squashed by a giant." Tas patted Conun-
drum's arm. "It's awfully good of you to stick with her,
look out for her."

"I have to be honest with you," said Conundrum, "I
wouldn't do it except for the money. Look at this, will you?"

329

DRAQONLANCE "Cfte Wan oy Souls

Glancing around to make certain no pickpockets were
lurking about, the gnome pulled from the very bottom of
his knapsack a large purse that was bulging with coins.
Tasslehoff expressed his admiration and reach out to take
a look at the pouch. Conundrum cracked the kender's
hand across the knuckles and stuffed the purse back in
his sack.

"And don't you touch it!" the gnome warned with a
scowl.

"I don't think much of money," Tas said, rubbing his
bruised knuckles. "It's heavy to carry around, and whafs
the good of it? I have all these apples with me. Now, no
one's going to clonk me over the head for these apples,
but if I had a coin to buy the apples, they'd hit me over
the head to steal the coin, and so it's much better to have
the apples. Don't you agree?"

"Why are you talking about apples?" Conundrum
shouted, waving his hands in the air. "What have apples
got to do with anything? Or spoons for that matter?"

"You started it," Tas advised him. Knowing gnomes
and how excitable they were, he decided it would be
polite to change the subject. "How did you come by all
that money anyway?"

"People give it to her," Conundrum replied, shirting the
hand-waving in Goldmoon's general direction. "Wherever
we go, people give her money or a bed for the night or
food or wine. They're extremely kind to her. They're kind
to me, too. No one's ever been kind to me before," the
gnome added wistfully. "People always say nasty, stupid
things to me like, 'Is it supposed to smoke like that?' and
'Who's going to pay for all the damage?' but when I'm
with Goldmoon, people say kind things to me. They give
me food and cold ale and a bed for the night and money.
She doesn't want the money. She gives it to me. I'm keep-
ing it, too." Conundrum looked quite fierce. 'The repairs

330

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

to Indestructible are going to cost a bundle. I think it was
insured for liability only and not collision—"

Tas had a feeling the subject was veering off into a boring
area, so he interrupted. "By the way, where are we going?"

"Something to do with Knights," Conundrum replied.
"Live knights, I hope, although I wouldn't bet on it. You
can't believe how sick I am of hearing about dead people
all the time."

"Knights!" Tasslehoff cried joyfully. "I'm here for the
same thing!"

At this juncture, Goldmoon halted. She looked up one
street and down another and appeared to be lost. Tassle-
hoff left the gnome, who was still muttering to himself
about insurance, and hastened over to see if Goldmoon
required help.

Goldmoon ignored Tas and instead stopped a woman
who, to judge by her tabard marked with a red rose, was
a Solamnic Knight. The woman gave her directions and
then asked what brought Goldmoon to Solanthus.

"I am Goldmoon, a Mystic of the Citadel of Light," she
said, introducing herself. "I hope to be able to speak before
the Knights' Council."

"I am Lady Odila, Knight of the Rose," the woman
replied and bowed respectfully. "We have heard of Gold-
moon of the Citadel of Light. A most highly revered
woman. You must be her daughter."

Goldmoon looked suddenly very worn and weary, as
if she had heard this many times before now.

"Yes," she said with a sigh. "I am her daughter."

Lady Odila bowed low again. "Welcome to Solanthus,
Daughter of Goldmoon. The Knights' Council has many
urgent matters before it, but they are always glad to hear
from one of the Mystics of the Citadel of Light, particu-
larly after the terrible news we received of the attack on
thedtadel."

331

DRAQONLANCE 0?e Wan of Souls

"What attack?" Goldmoon went exceedingly pale, so
pale that Tasslehoff took hold of her hand and gave a
sympathetic squeeze.

"I can tell you—" Tas began.

"Merdful goodness, ifs a kender," said Lady Odila in
the same tone as she might have said, "Merciful goodness,
it's a bugbear." The Knight detached Tasslehoff's hand,
placed herself in between Tas and Goldmoon. "Don't
worry. Healer. I'll deal with it. Guard! Another of the little
beasts has broken in. Remove it—"

"I am not a little beast!" Tasslehoff stated indignantly.
"I'm with Goldmoon... her daughter, that is. I'm a friend
of her mother's."

"And I'm her business manager," said Conundrum,
bustling up importantly. "If you'd care to contribute
money—"

"What attack?" Goldmoon demanded desperately. "Is
this true, Tas? When did it happen?"

"It all started when— Excuse me, but I'm talking to
Goldmoon!" Tas said, wriggling in the grip of the City
Guard.

"Please, leave him alone. He is with me," Goldmoon
pleaded. "I take full responsibility."

The guard looked dubious, but he could not very well
go against the express wishes of one of the revered Mys-
tics of the dtadel. He looked to Lady Odila, who shrugged
and said in an undertone, "Don't worry. I will see to it
that he is removed before nightfall."

Tas, meanwhile, was telling his tale.

"It all started when I went to Palm's room because I had
decided that I would be noble and go back in time and let
the giant squish me, only I've changed my mind about that
now, Goldmoon. You see, I thought about it and—"

Tas!" Goldmoon said sharply, giving him a little shake.
'The attack!"

332

DnaqoMS OF a Lost Stan

"Oh, right. Well, Palm and I were talking this over and
I looked out the window and saw a big dragon flying
toward the citadel."

"What dragon?" Goldmoon pressed her hand against
her heart.

"Beryl. The same dragon who put the curse on me,"
Tasslehoff stated. "I know because I went squirmy and
shivery all over, even my stomach. So did Palin. We tried
to use the Device of Time Journeying to escape, but Palin
broke it. By that time Beryl was there, and a lot of other
dragons and draconians were jumping out of the skies,
and people were running around screaming. Like that
time in Tarsis. Do you remember that? When the red
dragons attacked us, and the building fell on top of me,
and we lost Tanis and Raistiin?"

"My people!" Goldmoon whispered, half-suffocated.
She swayed unsteadily on her feet. "What about my
people?"

"Healer, please, sit down," Lady Odila said gently.
Putting her arms around Goldmoon, she led her to a low
wall that encircled a splashing fountain.

"Can this be true?" Goldmoon asked the Knight.

"I am sorry to say that, strange as it may seem, the
kender's tale is a true one. We received reports from our
garrison stationed on Schallsea Isle that the Citadel was
attacked by Beryl and her dragons. They did an immense
amount of destruction, but most of the people were able
to escape safely into the hills."

"Thank the One God," Goldmoon murmured.

"What, Healer?" Lady Odila asked, perplexed. "What
did you say?"

"I'm not certain," Goldmoon faltered. "What did I say?"

"You said, 'Thank the One God.' We have heard of no
god coming to Krynn." Lady Odila looked intrigued.
"What do you mean?"

333

DRAQONLANCE 'cnc wan of Souls

"I wish I knew," said Goldmoon softly. Her gaze grew
abstracted. "\ don't know why I said that...."

"I escaped, too," Tas exclaimed loudly. "Along with
Palin. It was quite exciting. Palm threw the pieces of the
device at the draconians, and it made some truly spectac-
ular magic, and we ran up the Silver Stair in the smoke of
the burning Hedge Maze—"

At this further reminder of his life quest going up in
smoke. Conundrum began to wheeze and sat down
heavily beside Goldmoon.

"—and Dalamar saved us!" Tas announced. "One
minute we were on the very edge of the Silver Stair, and
then whoosh! we were in the Tower of High Sorcery in
Palanthas, only it isn't anymore. In Palanthas. It's still a
Tower of High Sorcery—"

"What a little liar you are," said Lady Odila. She
sounded almost respectful, so Tas chose to take this as a
compliment.

"Thank you," he said modestly, "but I'm not making
this up. I really did find Dalamar and the Tower. I under-
stand its been lost for quite a while."

"I left them to face the danger alone," Goldmoon
was saying distractedly, paying no attention to Tas. "I
left my people to face the dragons alone, and yet what
could I do? The voices of the dead called to me. ... I
had to follow!"

"Do you hear her?" asked Conundrum, prodding the
Knight with his finger. "Ghosts. Ghouls. That's who she's
talking to, you know. Mad. Quite mad." He rattled the
money pouch. "If you'd like to make a donation . . . it's
tax-deductible—"

Lady Odila regarded them as if they were all suitable
candidates for a donation, but seeing Goldmoon's fatigue
and distress, the Knight's expression softened. She put
her arm around Goldmoon's thin shoulders.

334

'MS OflR .M^f StaR




"You have had a shoddfleal^JMJU have traveled far,
by the sounds of it, and in strange company. Come with
me. I will take you to Starmaster Mikelis."

"Yes, I know him! Although," Goldmoon added, sigh-
ing deeply, "he will not know me."

Lady Odila rose to lead Goldmoon away. Tas and
Conundrum rose, too, following right behind. Hearing
their footsteps, the Knight turned around. She had that
look on her face that Knights get when they are about to
summon the City Guard and have someone dragged off
to jail. Guessing that the someone might be him, Tassle-
hoff thought fast.

"Say, Lady Odila!" he said. "Do you know a Knight
named Gerard uth Mondar? Because I'm looking for him."

The Lady Knight, who had indeed been about to shout for
the guard, shut her mouth on the words and stared at him.

"What did you say?"

"Gerard uth Mondar. Do you know him?" Tas asked.

"Maybe I do. Excuse me a moment. Healer. This won't
take long." Lady Odila squatted down in front of Tas, to
look him in the eye. "Describe him to me."

"He has hair the color of Tika's corn bread and a face
that looks ugly at first, until you get to know him, then
for some reason, it doesn't seem all that ugly anymore,
especially when he's rescuing you from Dark Knights.
He has eyes that are—"

"Blue as cornflowers," said Lady Odila. "Corn bread
and cornflowers. Yes, that pretty much describes him.
How do you know him?"

"He's a great friend," said Tas. "We traveled to Qua-
linesti together—"

"Ah, so that's where he came from." Lady Odila regarded
Tas intently, then she said, "Your friend Gerard is here in
Solanthus. He is being brought up before the Knights'
Council. They suspect him of espionage."

335

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfte wan of Souls

"Oh, dear! I'm sorry to hear he's sick," said Tas. "Where
is he? I'm sure he'll be glad to see me."

"Actually such a meeting might prove extremely inter-
esting," the lady returned. "Bring these two along. Guard.
I suppose the gnome is in on this plot, too?"

"Oh, yes," said Tasslehoff, taking firm hold of Conun-
drum's hand. "He keeps the money."

"Don't mention the money!" Conundrum snapped,
clutching his robes.

"Obviously some sort of mix-up," Tasslehoff whis-
pered. "Don't worry. Conundrum. I'll fix everything."

Knowing that I'll fix everything has been emblazoned in
the annals of Krynnish history as the last words many asso-
ciates of kender ever hear, the gnome was not comforted.

336

23

COUNClI Of tl7€ KNiQlTtS Of SolBMNia




oldmoon was weary from her long journey, weary
as if her body were the frail and elderly one that
was rightfully her own, not this strange, youth-
ful, strong body. She had come to use the body as she
used the wooden staff, to take her to wherever strange
destiny called. The body carried her long distances every
day without tiring. It ate and drank. It was young and
beautiful. People were entranced by it and were glad to
help her. Farmers gave her lodging in their humble cot-
tages and eased her weary way by providing rides in
their farm carts. Noble lords and ladies took her into their
castles and sent her forth on her journey in their fine car-
riages. Thus, because of the body, she had traveled to
Solanthus far more swiftly than she had dared hope.

Goldmoon believed her beauty and youth charmed
them, but in this she was wrong. The farmers and the
noble lords saw first that she was beautiful, but then they
looked into her eyes. They saw there a sorrow and a seek-
ing that touched them deeply, touched the peasant who

337

DRAQONLANCE 'CT»e Ware of Souls

shared a loaf of bread with her and received her grateful
thanks with bowed head, touched the wealthy lady who
kissed her and asked for her blessing. They saw in Gold-
moon's sorrow their own fears and anxieties. They saw in
her seeking their own questing for something more, some-
thing better, something in which to believe.

Lady Odila, noting Goldmoon's pallor and her falter-
ing steps, took her directly to the hall where the Knights'
Council convened and found her a small, comfortable
room in the main chamber with a warm fire. The Knight
ordered servants to bring water for washing away the
stains of the road, and food and drink. After assuring
herself that she could do nothing more to make Gold-
moon comfortable. Lady Odila departed. She sent a
runner to the Temple of the Mystics with word of Gold-
moon's arrival, while she herself saw to the disposition of
her prisoners, Tasslehoff and Conundrum.

Goldmoon ate and drank without tasting the food or
knowing that she had consumed it. The body demanded
fuel to keep going, and she was forced to accede to its
demands. She had to keep going, to follow the river of
the dead, who called to her and swept her along in their
chill, dread current. She sought among the ghostly faces
that pressed around her for some among them that she
knew: Riverwind, Tika, Caramon, her own beloved
daughter ... all the old friends who had departed this
world, leaving her behind. She could not find them, but
that was not surprising, for the numbers of the dead were
like the drops in a river, bewildering, overwhelming.

The body was hale and strong, but she was tired, so
very tired. She thought of herself as a candle flame burn-
ing inside an ornate lantern. The flame burned low, the
wax had all melted, the wick was down to the last tiny
portion. What she could not see was that as the flame
dwindled, her light burned ever brighter.

338

OiiagoNS Of a Lost StaR

The One God. Goldmoon did not remember having
spoken of the One God. She had not said anything, but
she had dreamed about the One God. Dreamed often, the
same dream, over and over so that her sleep was almost
as wearying as her waking hours.

In the dream, Goldmoon was once again in the
Temple of the Gods in the ancient city of Xak Tsaroth.
She held in her hands the blue crystal staff. Before her
was the statue of the blessed Mishakal, goddess of heal-
ing. The statue's hand was curled as if to hold a staff,
yet no staff was there. As Goldmoon had done once, so
long ago, she gave the magical staff to the statue. That
time, the statue had accepted it, and Goldmoon had
come to understand the love the gods bore their chil-
dren. In the dream, though, when she tried to give the
staff to the goddess, the crystal staff shattered, cutting
her hands that were soon covered in blood. Her joy
changed to terror.

The dream ended with Goldmoon waking, trembling
and confused.

She pondered the portent of this dream. First she
thought it might mean one thing, then another. She dwelled
on it until the images began to wheel in her mind, one
chasing the other, like a snake swallowing its own tail.
Shutting her eyes, she pressed her hands against them,
trying to banish the wheel.

"Daughter of Goldmoon?" came a concerned voice.

She dropped her hands, startled, and looked into the
kindly, anxious face of Starmaster Mikelis. She had met
him before. He had studied at the Citadel of Light, where
he had been an excellent student, a capable and gentle
healer. A Solamnic by birth, he had returned to Solanthus
and was now head of the Temple of Light in that city.
Often they had spent hours talking together, and she
sighed to see that he did not recognize her.

339

DRAQONLANCE me Wan of Souls

"I am sorry," he said gently. "\ did not mean to frighten
you. Daughter. I would not have entered without knock-
ing, but Lady Odila said she feared you might be unwell,
and she hoped you might be sleeping. Yet I am glad to see
that you have eaten and drunk with good appetite."

He looked with some perplexity at the numerous
plates and a basket that had been filled with bread. The
strange body had eaten a dinner that would have fed
two, and there was not a crumb left.

"Thank you, Starmaster," Goldmoon said. "You did
not frighten me. I have traveled a long distance, and I
am fatigued. I am distraught over this news that the
citadel was attacked. I did not know. It was the first I
had heard—"

"Some were killed," Mikelis said, taking a seat beside
her. "We grieve for them and trust that their spirits wing
their way from this world to the next. Daughter," he
asked in sudden alarm, "are you ill? Is there something
I can do?"

Goldmoon had started at this statement about the
spirits and, shuddering, glanced around. Ghosts filled the
room, some watching her, some roving about restlessly,
some seeking to touch her, others paying no attention to
her. They never stayed long. They were forced to keep
moving, to join the river that flowed steadily north.

"No," she said confusedly. "Ifs this terrible news...."

She knew better than to try to explain. Mikelis was a
good man, a dedicated man, but he would not under-
stand that the spirits could never wing their way any-
where, that they were trapped, prisoners.

"I regret to say," he added, "that we have received no
news of your mother. We take this as a hopeful sign that
Goldmoon was not injured in the attack."

"She was not," said Goldmoon briskly. Better to end this
and tell the truth. She did not have much time. The river

340

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

drew her onward. "Goldmoon was not hurt in the attack
because she wasn't there. She fled. She left her people to
face the dragons without her."

Starmaster Mikelis looked troubled. "Daughter, do not
speak so disrespectfully of your mother."

"I know that she fled," Goldmoon continued relent-
lessly. "I am not Goldmoon's daughter, as you well know,
Starmaster. You know that I have only two daughters,
one of whom is ... dead. I am Goldmoon. I have come
to Solanthus to tell my story before the Knights' Council,
to see if they can help me and also to give them a warn-
ing. Surely," she added, "you have heard rumors of my
'miraculous' transformation."

Starmaster Mikelis was clearly uncomfortable. He
was obviously trying not to stare, yet he could not take
his eyes from her. He looked at her, then looked quickly
away, only to gaze back at her in bewilderment.

"Some of our young Mystics made a pilgrimage to the
citadel not long ago," he conceded. "They returned with
the tale that you had been the recipient of a miracle, that
you had been given back your youth. I confess that I
thought this an overabundance of youthful exuber-
ance." He halted, now openly staring. "Can it be you,
First Master? Forgive me," he added awkwardly, "but
we have received reports that the Dark Knights have
infiltrated the Orders of the Mystics...."

"Do you remember the night we sat beneath the stars,
Starmaster, and spoke of the gods you had known in your
youth and how, even as a small boy, you felt drawn to be a
cleric of Paladine?"

"First Master!" Mikelis cried. Taking hold of her hands,
he pressed them to his lips. "This is truly you, and it is
truly a miracle."

"No, it is not," said Goldmoon tiredly. "It is me, but it
is not me. It is not a miracle, it is a curse. I don't expect

341

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctfe Wan OF Souls

you to understand. How could I, when I don't under-
stand? I know that the Knights honor and revere you. I
sent for you to ask you a favor. I must speak before the
Knights' Council, and I cannot wait until next week or
next month or whenever it is they might make room for
me on their schedule. Can you gain me entry to see them
now, this day?"

"I can!" Mikelis returned, smiling. "I am not the only
Mystic they revere. When they hear that First Master
Goldmoon is present, they will be only too glad to give
you audience. The council has adjourned but only for
supper. They are holding a special session to consider the
fate of a spy, but that should not take long. Once that
sordid business is concluded, you will come as a ray of
light to the darkness."

"I fear that I come only to deepen the darkness, but
that will be as it may." Goldmoon rose to her feet, grip-
ping the wooden staff. "Take me to the council room."

"But, Master," Mikelis protested, rising in his turn,
"the Knights will still be at table. They may be there some
time. And there is this matter of the spy. You should
remain here where you are comfortable—"

"I am never comfortable," she said, her voice crisp with
anger and impatience, "so it does not matter whether I
remain here or sit in a drafty chamber. I must speak
before the council this day. Who knows but that this busi-
ness with the spy might drag on, and they would send
me word that I should return tomorrow."

"Master, I assure you—"

"No! I do not intend to be put off until tomorrow or
whenever it may suit them. If I am present in the room,
they cannot very well refuse to listen to me. And, you will
make no mention to them of this so-called miracle."

"Certainly, Master, if that is what you wish," Mikelis
said.

342

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

He looked and sounded hurt. He was disappointed in
her. Here was a miracle, right before his eyes, and she
would not permit him to glory in it.

In my hands, the blue crystal staff shattered.

She accompanied Starmaster Mikelis to the council
chamber, where he persuaded the guards to permit her
entry. Once they were inside, he started to ask if she was
comfortable—she saw the words form on his lips—but he
stammered and, with a stumbling apology, said that he
would go to apprise the Lord Knight that she was here.
Goldmoon took a seat in the large, echoing chamber deco-
rated with roses. Their perfume scented the air.

She waited alone in the darkness, for the room faced
away from the afternoon sunlight and the candles that lit
it had been put out upon the Knights' departure. The ser-
vants offered to bring light, but Goldmoon preferred to
sit in the darkness.

At the same moment Goldmoon was being led to the
council chamber, Gerard was being escorted by Lady
Odila from his prison cell to the meeting of the Knights'
Council. He had not been treated harshly, not by the stan-
dards of the Dark Knights of Neraka. He had not been tied
to the rack nor hung by his thumbs. He had been brought
before the inquisitor and badgered with questions for
days, the same questions, over and over, the man tossing
them out at random, jumping forward in time, leap-
frogging back, always hoping to catch him in a lie.

Gerard was faced with a choice. Either he could tell
his story from beginning to end, starting with a time-
traveling dead kender and ending with his inadvertently
switching sides to become aide-de-camp to Marshal
Medan, one of the most notorious of the Dark Knights of
Neraka. Or he could state over and over that he was a
Solamnic Knight who had been sent on a secret mission

343

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl)e Wan of Souls

by Lord Warren and that he had a perfectly logical, rea-
sonable and innocent explanation for why he came to be
riding a blue dragon and wearing the leathers of a Dark
Knight dragonrider, all of which he would explain in full
before the Knights' Council.

Not, admittedly, the best of choices. Gerard had dedded
on the latter.

At length, after many weary hours of badgering, the
inquisitor reported to his superiors that the prisoner was
sticking by his story and that he would speak only to the
Knights' Council. The inquisitor had also added that, in
his opinion, the prisoner was either telling the truth, or he
was one of the most cunning and dever spies of this age.
Whichever was true, he should be brought before the
Knights' Coundl and questioned.
. As Lady Odila accompanied Gerard to the hall, she
disconcerted him by staring quite often at his hair, which
was probably standing straight up, since it would do
nothing else.

"It's yellow," he said at last, put out. "And it needs
trimming. I don't usually—"

"TLka's corn bread," said Lady Odila, her green-eyed gaze
on his hair. "You have hair as yellow as Tika's corn bread."

"How do you know Tika?" Gerard demanded, astonished.

"How do you know Tika?" she returned.

"She was the proprietor of the Inn of the Last Home
in Solace, where I was posted, as I stated, if you're trying
to test me—"

"Ah," said Lady Odila. 'That Tika."

"Where did you— Who said—"

Lady Odila, a thoughtful expression on her face, shook
her head, refused to answer any of his questions. She held
his arm in a pincerlike grip—she had uncommonly large,
strong hands—and was absentmindedly urging him for-
ward at her own long-strided pace, taking no notice that

344

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

he was hampered by the manacles and chains on his
ankles and was forced to keep up with her by means of a
painful, hobbled trot.

He saw no reason to call her attention to this fact. He
had no intention of saying anything further to this baffling
female, who would only make a jest or a riddle of his
words. He was going before the Knights' Council, appear-
ing before lords who would hear him without prejudice.
He had dedded on which parts of his story he would tell
without qualification and which he would keep to him-
self (such as the time-traveling dead kender). His tale,
although strange, was believable.

They arrived at the Hall of Knights, the oldest building
in Solanthus, dating back to the city's founding by, so
legend had it, a son of the founder of the Knighthood,
Vinus Solamnus. Made of granite faced with marble, the
Hall of Knights had originally been a simple structure,
resembling a block house. Additional levels had been
added down through the ages—wings and towers and
spires—so that now the simple block house had been
transformed into a complex of buildings, surrounding an
inner courtyard. A school had been established, instruct-
ing aspiring Knights not only in the art of warfare, but
also the study of the Measure and how its laws were to be
interpreted, for these Knights would spend only a small
portion of their time fighting. Noble lords, they were lead-
ers in their communities and would be expected to hear
pleas, render judgment. Although the vast complex of
structures had long outgrown the term "hall," the Knights
continued to refer to it as that, in deference to the past.

Once, temples to Paladine and Kiri-Jolith, a god par-
ticularly honored by the Knights, had been a part of the
complex. After the departure of the gods, the Knights
had politely permitted the priests to remain, but—their
power of prayergone—the priests had felt useless and

345

DRAQONLANCE 'Clie Wan oy Souls

uncomfortable. The temples held such sorrowful memo-
ries that they had departed. The temples remained open.
They had become a favorite place for Knights to go to
study or to spend evenings in long philosophical discus-
sions. The temples had a peace about them that was con-
ducive to thought, or so it was said. Many of the younger
students found them a curiosity.

Gerard had himself never visited Solanthus, but he
had heard his father describe it, and recalling his father's
descriptions, he tried to figure out which buildings were
which. He knew the Great Hall, of course, with its sharply
pointed roof and flying buttresses and ornate stonework.

Odila led him inside the Great Hall. He caught a
glimpse of the enormous chamber, where town meetings
were held. Odila escorted him up a winding stone stair-
way and down a long, echoing corridor. The corridor was
lit with oil lamps mounted on tall, heavy pedestals carved
from stone to resemble maidens holding lamps in their
outstretched hands. The sculptures were extraordinary—
each maiden was different, having been modeled from
real life—but Gerard was so absorbed in his thoughts that
he paid them scant attention.

The council, made up of three Knights, the heads of the
three Orders of the Knighthood—Knights of the Sword,
Knights of the Rose, Knights of the Crown—was just con-
vening. The Knights stood together at the end of the hall-
way, apart from the noble lords and ladies and a few
common folk who had come to witness the proceedings
and who were now filing quietly into the chamber. A
Knights' Council was a solemn procedure. Few spoke, or if
they did, they kept their voices low. Lady Odila brought
her prisoner to a halt and, leaving him in the care of guards,
went to inform the herald the prisoner was present.

When those seated in the gallery had all entered, the
Lord Knights walked into the room, preceded by several

346

DnaQONS of a Lost Stan

squires carrying the emblem of the Knights of Solamnia
with its sword, rose, and kingfisher. Next came the flag of
the city of Solanthus, and after that the banners of the
Lord Knights who sat upon the council.

While waiting for them to take their places, Gerard
scanned the crowd, searching for someone who might
know either him or his father. He saw no signs of anyone
he recognized, and his heart sank.

"There fs someone here who claims to know you," said
Lady Odila, returning. She had seen his scrutiny of the
assembly, guessed what he was doing.

"There is?" he asked, relieved. "Who is it? Perhaps
Lord Jeffrey of Lynchburg or perhaps Lord Grantus?"

Lady Odila shook her head, her mouth twitched.
"No, no. None of those. Not a Knight at all, in fact. He's
going to be called to testify on your behalf. Please accept
my condolences."

"What—" Gerard began angrily, but she cut him off.

"Oh, and in case you were concerned about your blue
dragon, you will be pleased to know that he has thus far
escaped our attempts to slay him. We discovered the cave
empty, but we know he is still in the vicinity. We have
received reports of livestock disappearing."

Gerard knew that he should be on the Knights' side
in this contest, but he found himself rooting for Razor,
who had been a loyal and gallant mount. He was
touched by the fact that the dragon was risking his
own life to remain in the area, even though Razor
must realize by now that something unfortunate had
happened to Gerard.

"Bring forth the prisoner," cried the bailiff.

Lady Odila reached to take hold of Gerard, to lead him
into the hall.

"I am sorry you must be manacled," she said to him
quietly, "but that is the law."

347

DRAQONLANCE 'CtJe Wan of Soufe

He looked at her in astonishment. He could not, for
the life of him, figure her out. Giving her a grudging nod,
he evaded her grip and walked past her. He might have
to enter the council room clanking and shackled, but he
would enter on his own, carrying himself proudly, with
his head high.

He hobbled into the room to the whispers and mur-
murs of those seated in the gallery. The Lord Knights sat
behind a long wooden table placed at the front of the
chamber. Gerard knew the custom. He had attended
Knights' Councils as a spectator before, and he advanced
to the center of the room, to make his obeisance to the three
who would be sitting in judgment upon him. The Lord
Knights watched him with grave countenances, but he
guessed by their approving looks and nods that he was
creating a favorable impression. He rose from his bow
and was turning to take his place at the dock when he
heard a voice that dashed all his hopes and expectations
and caused him to think that he might as well call for the
executioner and save everyone the trouble.

"Gerard!" cried the voice. "Over here, Gerard! Ifs me!
Tasslehoff! Tasslehoff Bun-foot!"

The spectators were located at the far end of the large,
rectangular room. The Lord Knights were seated at the
front. The dock, holding the prisoners and their guards,
was to their left. On the right, against the wall, were chairs
for those who had business before the Knights' Council,
petitions to present, or testimony to offer.

Goldmoon rested in one of these chairs. She had waited
two hours for the coundl to convene. She had slept some
during that time, her sleep disturbed as usual by the spin-
ning wheel of whirling, multicolored forms and images.
She woke when she heard the people filing in to take their
seats at the gallery. They looked at her strangely, some

348

OnaQONS of a Lost Stan

staring, others painfully careful to avoid doing so. When
the Lord Knights entered, each bowed low before her.
One knelt to ask for her blessing.

Goldmoon understood by this that Starmaster Mikelis
had spread the word of the miracle of her renewed youth.

At first she was annoyed and even angry with the Star-
master for having told people when she had specifically
requested him not to do so. On reflection, she admitted
that she was being unreasonable. He would have to offer
some explanation for her altered appearance, and he had
saved her the weary work of having to describe yet again
what had happened to her, to relive the night of that
terrible transformation. She accepted the Knights' homage
and reverence with patience. The dead flitted around her,
as well, but then the dead were always around her.

Starmaster Mikelis returned to sit protectively beside
her, watching over her with a mixture of awe and pity and
perplexity. Obviously he could not understand why she was
not running through the streets displaying the wondrous
gift she had been granted. None of them understood. They
mistook her patience for humility, and they honored her
for that, but they resented her for it as well. She had been
given this great gift, a gift every one of them would have
been glad to receive. The least she could do was enjoy it.

The Knights' Council convened with the ritual formal-
ities the Solamnics love. Such formalities grace every
important epoch in a Solamnic's life, from birth to death,
and no function is considered to have truly happened
without innumerable solemn pronouncements and read-
ings and quotations from the Measure.

Goldmoon sank back against the wall, dosed her eyes,
and fell asleep. The trial of some Knight began, but Gold-
moon was not consciously aware of it. The droning voices
were an undercurrent to her dreams, and in her dreams
she was back in Tarsis. The city was being attacked by an

349

DRAQONLANCE '0)e Wan of Souls

immense flight of dragons. She cowered in terror as the
shadows of their many-colored wings turned bright day
into darkest night. Tasslehoff was calling her name. He
was telling her something, something important....

"Tas!" she cried, sitting bolt upright. "Tas, fetch Tanis!
I must speak to him—"

She blinked and looked around her in confusion.

"Goldmoon, First Master," Mikelis was saying softly,
as he chafed her hands soothingly. "You were dreaming."

"Yes," she murmured, "I was dreaming...."

She tried to recall the dream, for she had discovered
something important, and she had been going to tell
Tanis. But of course, Tanis was not there. None of them
were there. She was alone, and she could not remember
what it was she had been dreaming about.

Everyone in the hall was staring at her. Her outburst
had interrupted the proceedings. Starmaster Mikelis made
a sign that all was well. The Lord Knights turned their
attention to the case at hand, calling forth the prisoner
Knight to take his place before them.

Goldmoon's gaze roamed aimlessly about the room,
watching the restless dead rove among the living. The
voices of the Lord Knights droned, and she paid no atten-
tion to them until they called upon Tasslehoff to give
testimony. He stood in the dock, a shabby and diminutive
figure among the tall, splendidly accoutered guards.

Never daunted or intimidated by any show of either
ceremony or force, the kender gave the Lord Knights an
account of his arrival in Solace and told what had hap-
pened to him after that.

Goldmoon had heard this story before in the Citadel
of Light. She recalled Tasslehoff talking about a Solamnic
Knight who had accompanied him to Qualinesti in
search of Palin. Listening to the kender, Goldmoon real-
ized that the Knight on trial was the very Knight who

350

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

had discovered the kender in the Tomb of the Last
Heroes, the Knight who had been present at Caramon's
death, who had stayed behind to fight the Dark Knights
so that Palin could escape Qualinesti. The Knight who
had forged the first link in a long chain of events.

She looked with interest now at the Knight. He had
entered the room with an air of grim and injured dig-
nity, but now that the kender began to defend him, he
stood in a state of dejection. He slumped in the dock,
his hands dangling before him, his head bowed, as if
his fate had already been determined and he were
being led to the block. Tasslehoff, needless to say, was
enjoying himself.

"You state, kender, that you have attended a Knights'
Council prior to this one," said Lord Ulrich, Knight of the
Sword, who was apparently endeavoring to impress upon
the kender the gravity of the situation.

"Oh, yes," Tas answered. "Sturm Brightblade's."
"I beg your pardon," said Lord Ulrich in bemused tones.
"Sturm Brighfblade," said Tas, raising his voice. "You've
heard of Sturm? One of the Heroes of the Lance. Like
myself." Tasslehoff placed his hand modestly on his chest.
Seeing the Knights regarding him with blank stares, he
determined it was time to elaborate. "While I wasn't at the
High Clerisfs Tower when Sir Derek tried to have Sturm
thrown out of the Knighthood for cowardice, I heard all
about it from my friend Flint Fireforge when I came later,
after I broke the dragon orb at the Council of Whitestone.
The elves and the Knights were arguing about who
should have the dragon orb—"

Lord Tasgall, Knight of the Rose, and head of the coun-
cil, interrupted. "We are familiar with the story, kender.
You could not possibly have been there, so dispense with
your lies. Now, please tell us again how it was that you
came to be in the tomb—"

351

DRAQONLANCE •Ct»e Wan. OF Souls

"Oh, but he was there, my lords," said Goldmoon,
rising to her feet. "If you know your history as you claim,
then you know that Tasslehoff Burrfoot was at the Coun-
cil of Whitestone and that he did break the dragon orb."

"I am aware that the heroic kender Tasslehoff Burr-
foot did these things. Master," said Lord Tasgall, speaking
to her in respectful, gentle tones. "Perhaps your confusion
arises from the fact that this kender calls himself Tassle-
hoff Burrfoot, undoubtedly in honor of the heroic kender
who bore the original name."

"I am not confused," Goldmoon stated sharply. "The
so-called miracle that transformed my body did not affect
my mind. I knew the kender you refer to. I knew him
then, and I know him now. Haven't you been listening to
his story?" she demanded impatiently.

The Knights stared at her. Gerard lifted his head, a
flush of hope reddening his face.

"Are you saying that you affirm his story. First Master?"
Lord Nigel, Knight of the Crown, asked, frowning.

"I do," said Goldmoon. "Palin Majere and Tasslehoff
Burrfoot traveled to the Citadel of Light to meet me there.
I recognized Tasslehoff. He is not an easy person to forget.
Palin told me that Tasslehoff was in possession of a mag-
ical artifact that permitted him to travel through time.
Tasslehoff came to the Tomb of the Last Heroes the night
of the terrible storm. It was a night for miracles," she
added with a touch of bitter irony.

"This kender"—Lord Tasgall glanced at Tas uncertainly—
"claims that the Knight here on trial escorted him to
Qualinesti, where they met Palin Majere at the home of
Laurana, wife of the late Lord Tanis Half-Elven."

"Tasslehoff told me the same story, my lords. I have
no reason to doubt it. If you mistrust his story or if you
question my word, I suggest that there is an easy way to
prove it. Contact Lord Warren in Solace and ask him."

352

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

"Of course, we do not question your word. First Master,"
the Lord Knight said, looking embarrassed.

"But you should, my lords," Lady Odila said. Rising
to her feet, she faced Goldmoon. "How do we know you
are what you daim to be? Your word alone. Why should
we believe you?"

"You shouldn't," said Goldmoon. "You should question,
Daughter. You should always question. Only by asking
are we answered."

"My lords!" Starmaster Mikelis was shocked. "The
First Master and I are old friends. I can testify that she is
indeed Goldmoon, First Master of the Citadel of Light."

"Tell me what you are thinking. Daughter," Goldmoon
said, ignoring the Starmaster. Her gaze fixed upon Lady
Odila as if they were the only two in the room. "Speak
your heart. Ask your question."

"Very well, I will do so." Lady Odila turned to face the
Knights' Council. "My lords, the First Master Goldmoon
is more than ninety years old! This woman is young, beau-
tiful, strong. How is it possible, in the absence of the gods,
that such miracles happen?"

"Yes, that is the question," Goldmoon said and sank
back down in her chair.

"Do you have an answer. First Master?" asked Lord
Tasgall.

Goldmoon looked at him steadily. "No, my lord, I do
not. Except to say that, in the absence of the gods, what
has happened to me is not possible."

The spectators began to whisper among themselves.
The Knights exchanged doubtful glances. Starmaster
Mikelis stared at her in helpless, baffled confusion. The
Knight, Gerard, put his head in his hands.

Tasslehoff bounced to his feet. "I have the answer,"
he offered, but was quickly settled—and muffled—by
the bailiff.

353

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct)c Wan oy Souls

"I have something to say," said Conundrum in his thin
and nasaly tones. He slid off his chair, nervously plucking
at his beard.

Lord Tasgall gave the gnome gracious permission to
speak. Solamnics have always felt a certain affinity for
the gnomes.

"I just wanted to say that I had never seen any of
these people before in my entire life until just a few
weeks ago when this kender sabotaged my attempts to
map the Hedge Maze and this human female stole my
submersible. I have started a legal defense fund. If
anyone would care to contribute?"

Conundrum glanced around hopefully. No one did,
and so he sat back down. Lord Tasgall appeared consid-
erably taken aback, but he nodded and indicated that the
gnome's testimony was to be recorded.

"The Knight Gerard uth Mondar has already spoken
in his own defense," said Lord Tasgall. "We have heard
the testimony of the kender who claims to be Tasslehoff
Bun-foot and that of Lady Odila Windlass and the... um
... First Master. We will now withdraw to consider all of
the testimony."

Everyone stood. The Knights withdrew. After they
had departed, some people returned to their seats, but
most hastened out of the room and into the corridor, where
they discussed the matter in excited tones that could be
heard clearly by those still inside the chamber.

Goldmoon rested her head against the wall and
closed her eyes. She wanted nothing now but to be in a
room by herself away from all this noise and commotion
and confusion.

Feeling a touch on her hand, she saw Lady Odila
standing before her.

"Why did you want me to ask that about the gods,
First Master?" Lady Odila asked.

354

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

"Because it needed asking. Daughter/' Goldmoon replied.

"Are you claiming there is a god?" Lady Odila frowned.
"You spoke of a one—"

Goldmoon took hold of the woman's hand, wrapped
her fingers around it, pressed it firmly. "I am saying to
open your heart. Daughter. Open it to the world."

Lady Odila smiled wryly. "I opened my heart once,
First Master. Someone came in and ransacked the place."

"So now you lock it with a quick wit and a glib tongue.
Gerard uth Mondar is telling the truth. Lady Odila. Oh,
they will send messengers to Solace and his homeland to
verify his story, but you know as well as I do that this
could take weeks. This will be too late. You believe him,
don't you?"

"Corn bread and cornflowers," Lady Odila said,
glancing at the prisoner as he stood patiently, but wearily,
in the dock. She looked back at Goldmoon. "Maybe I do,
and maybe I don't. Still, as you say, only by asking are we
answered. I will do what I can to either prove or disprove
his claim."

The Knights returned. Goldmoon heard them speak
their ruling, but their voices were distant, came to her
from across a vast river.

"We have determined that we cannot pronounce judg-
ment on the critical issues raised in the case until we have
spoken to additional witnesses. Therefore we are sending
messengers to the Citadel of Light and to Lord Warren in
Solace, m the meantime, we will make inquiries through-
out Solanthus to see if someone here knows the defen-
dant's family and can verify this man's identity."

Goldmoon barely heard what was said. She had
only a brief time left in this world, she felt. The youth-
ful body could no longer contain the soul that yearned
to be free of the burden of flesh and of feeling. She was
living moment to moment. Heartbeat to heartbeat. Each

355

DRAQONLANCE U»e Wan of Souls

beat grew a little weaker than the one before. Yet, there
was something she still must do. Somewhere she still
must go.

"In the meantime," Lord Tasgall was saying, conclud-
ing the proceedings, "the prisoner Gerard uth Mondar,
the kender who goes by the name of Tasslehoff Bun-foot,
and the gnome Conundrum are to be held in confine-
ment. This council is adjourned—"

"My lords, I will speak!" Gerard cried, shaking loose
the bailiff who was attempting to stop him. "Do what you
will with me. Believe my story or not, as you see fit." He
raised his voice to overcome the lord's repeated com-
mands for him to be silent. "Please, I beg of you! Send aid
and succor to the elves of Qualinesti. Do not allow the
dragon Beryl to exterminate them with impunity. If you
have no care for the elves as fellow beings, then at least
you must see that once Beryl has destroyed the elves, she
will next turn her attention northward to Solamnia—"

The bailiff summoned assistance. Several guards finally
subdued Gerard. Lady Odila watched, said nothing, but
glanced again at Goldmoon. She appeared to be asleep,
her head slumped forward on her chest, her hands resting
in her lap, much as an elderly woman might doze by the
fire or in the warm sunshine, oblivious to what is now,
dreaming of what will be.

"She is Goldmoon," Lady Odila murmured.

When order was restored. Lord Tasgall continued
speaking. "The First Master is to be given into the care of
Starmaster Mikelis. We ask that she not leave the city
of Solanthus until such time as the messengers return."

"I will be honored if you would be a guest in my
home. First Master," said Starmaster Mikelis, giving her a
gentle shake.

"Thank you," said Goldmoon, waking suddenly. "But
I will not be staying long."

356

DnaqoNe OF a Lost Stan

The Starmaster blinked. "Forgive me. First Master, but
you heard what the Knights said—"

Goldmoon had not in fact heard a word the Knights
had said. She paid no heed to the living and no heed to
the dead who came clustering around her.

"I am very tired," she told them all and, grasping her
staff, she walked out the door.

357

24

PpepaRiNQ fon flyc ENt>




ver since their king had told them of their danger,
the people of Qualinesti had been making prepa-
rations to stand against the dragon and her
armies that were drawing near the elven capital. Beryl
focused all her strength and her attention on capturing
the elven city that had graced the world for so many
years and on making that city her own. Soon humans
would be moving into elven homes, chopping down the
elves' beloved forests for lumber, turning hogs loose to
forage in elven rose gardens.

The refugees were gone now. They had been evacu-
ated through the dwarven tunnels, they had fled through
the forests. With the refugees gone, those elves who had
volunteered to remain behind to fight the dragon began
to concentrate on the dty's defenses. They were under no
illusions. They knew that this was a battle they could win
only by a miracle. At best, they were fighting a rearguard
action. Every few hours they delayed the enemies' advance
meant their families and friends were another few miles

358

DRBQONS of a Lost StaR

closer to safety. They had heard the news that the shield
had fallen, and they spoke of the beauty of Silvanesti, of
how their cousins would welcome the refugees, take them
into their hearts and their houses. They spoke of the heal-
ing of the old wounds, of the future reunification of the
elven kingdoms.

Their king, Gilthas, encouraged their hopes and their
beliefs. Marshal Medan wondered when the young man
found time to sleep. Gilthas was everywhere, it seemed.
One moment he was underground, working alongside
the dwarves and their burrowing worms, the next he
was helping to set fire to a bridge across the White-rage
River. The next time the Marshal saw the king, Gilthas was
again in the underground tunnels, where most of the elves
now lived. Down in these tunnels, built by the dwarves,
the elves worked day and night forging and mending
weapons and armor and braiding rope, miles and miles
of thin, strong rope that would be needed to carry out the
king's plan to destroy the dragon.

Every bit of cloth that could be spared had been given
over to the production of the rope, from baby clothes to
bridal gowns to shrouds. The elves took silken sheets from
their beds, took woolen blankets from cribs, took tapes-
tries that had hung for centuries in the Tower of the Sun.
They tore them up without a second thought.

The work proceeded day and night. When one person
grew too weary to continue braiding or cutting, when
someone's hands grew too stiff or blistered, another would
take over. After dark, the coils of rope that had been made
during that day were smuggled out of the tunnels to be
stowed away inside elven homes, inns, taverns, shops
and warehouses. Elven mages went from place to place,
placing enchantments on the rope. Sometimes the erratic
magic worked, other times it did not. If one mage failed,
another would come back and try later.

359

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfle WBR of Souls

Above ground, the Dark Knights carried out the orders
they had been given to rid the dty of Qualinost of its
inhabitants. They dragged elves out of their homes, beat
them, and hauled them off to the prison camps that had
been established outside the dty. The soldiers threw furni-
ture into the street, set homes ablaze, looted, and pillaged.

Beryl's spies, flying overhead, saw all this and
reported back to Beryl that her orders were being faith-
fully followed. The spies did not know that the elves
who huddled in terror in the prison camp by day were
released by night, dispatched to different homes, there
to be "arrested" again in the morning. If the spies had
been careful observers, they might have noted that the
furniture that was tossed in the streets blocked major
thoroughfares and that the houses that were set ablaze
were also strategically located throughout the elven
dty to impede the advance of troops.

The one person Medan had not seen during this busy
time was Laurana. Since the day the Queen Mother had
assisted him so ably in fooling Beryl's pet draconian,
Medan had been occupied with planning the city's
defenses and innumerable other tasks, and he knew that
she must be busy, too. She was packing up her household
and that of the king's, preparatory to traveling south,
although, from what he had seen, she had little left to
pack. She had given all her clothes except those on her
back to be cut up for rope—even her wedding gown.

She had brought the gown herself, Medan heard, and
when the elves had protested and told her she must keep
that, if nothing else, she had taken up a pair of shears and
cut the beautiful, silken fabric into strips with her own
hands. All the while she told stories of her wedding to
Tanis Half-Elven, making them laugh at the antics of
the kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, who had wandered off
with the wedding rings and been found upon the verge

360

DnaqoNS oy a Lost Stan

of trading them to a street urchin for a jar of tadpoles,
and how Caramon Majere, the best man, had been so
flustered that when he rose to make the toast, he forgot
Tards's name.

Marshal Medan went to look at that particular coil of
rope. He held the strand made up of the glistening silk
that was the color of hyacinths in his hand and thought to
himself that this length of rope needed no additional
magical enchantment of strength, for it had been braided
not with cord but with love.

The Marshal was himself extremely busy. He was able
to snatch only a few hours of sleep every night, and these
he forced himself to take, knowing well that he could not
operate efficiently without them. He could have taken
time to visit the Queen Mother, but he chose not to do so.
Their former relationship—that of respectful enemies—
had changed. Each knew, when they parted after that last
meeting, that they would not be the same to each other as
they had been in the past.

Medan felt a sense of loss. He was under no illusions.
He had no right to her love. He was not ashamed of his
past. He was a soldier, and he had done what a soldier
must do, but that meant that he had the blood of her
people on his hands and that therefore he could not touch
her without staining her with that blood. He would never
do that. Yet he sensed that they could not meet comfort-
ably as old friends. Too much had happened between
them for that. Their next meeting must be awkward and
unhappy for both of them. He would bid her farewell,
wish her luck in her journey south. When she was gone
and he would never see her again, he would prepare him-
self to die as he had always known he would die—as a
soldier, doing his duty.

At the precise moment when Gerard was eloquently
but futilely pleading the cause of the elves before the

361

DRAQONLANCE Xllye wan of Souls

Knights' Council in Solanthus, Marshal Medan was in
the palace, making preparations to hold a final meeting
of officers and commanders. He had invited the dwarf
thane. Tarn Bellowsgranite; King Gilthas and his wife, the
Lioness; and the elven commanders.

Medan had informed the king that tomorrow would
be the last day the royal family could leave the city with
any hope of escaping the enemy armies. He was con-
cerned that the king had lingered too long as it was, but
Gilthas had refused to leave earlier. This night, Medan
would tell Laurana good-bye. Their farewells would be
easier for both of them if they could do so when there
were other people about.

"The meeting will begin at moonrise," Medan told
Planchet, who would be carrying the messages to the
elven commanders. "We will hold it in my garden."

His excuse was that the elves in attendance would not
be comfortable in the thick-walled, stifling headquarters,
but, in reality, he wanted a chance to show off his garden
and to enjoy it himself for what would probably be the
last time.

Naming off those who were to come, he said, almost
offhandedly, "the Queen Mother—"

"No," said Gilthas.

The king had been pacing up and down the room,
his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back, so
lost in meditation that Medan had not thought the king
was paying any attention to him and was considerably
startled when he spoke.

"I beg your pardon. Your Majesty?" Medan said.

Gilthas ceased pacing and came over to the desk that
was now covered with large maps of the dty of Qualinost
and its environs.

"You will not tell my mother of this meeting," said
Gilthas.

362

DnaqoNs of a Lost Stan

"This meeting is one of vital importance. Your
Majesty/' the Marshal argued. "We will be finalizing our
plans for the city's defense and for your safe evacuation.
Your mother is knowledgeable in such matters, and—"

"Yes," Gilthas interrupted, his voice grave. "She is
knowledgeable. That is the very reason I do not want her
to attend. Don't you understand. Marshal?" he added,
bending over the desk, gazing intently into Medan's eyes.
"If we invite her to this council of war, she will think we
expect her to contribute that knowledge, to take part..."

He did not finish the sentence. He straightened
abruptly, ran a hand through his hair, and stared unsee-
ing out the window. The setting sun slanted through the
crystal panes, shone full on the young king. Medan
gazed at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish his
sentence. He noted how the tension of the past few
weeks had aged the young man. Gone was the languid
poet, gazing listlessly around the dance floor. True, that
mask had been put on to deceive the king's enemies. But
they had been deceived because part of the mask was
made of flesh and blood.

Gilthas was a gifted poet, a man of dreams, a man who
taught himself to live much of his life internally, because
he had come to believe he could not trust anyone. The
face he showed the world—the face of the confident,
strong and courageous king—was as much a mask as the
other. Behind the mask was a man tormented by self-
doubt, uncertainty, fear. He concealed it masterfully,
but the sunlight on his face revealed the gray smudges
beneath the eyes; the taut, tight-lipped smile that was no
smile; the eyes that looked inward into shadows, not out-
ward into sunlight.

He must be very like his father, Medan thought. It
was too bad his father was not here to counsel him now,
to put his hand upon his shoulder and assure him that

363

DRAQONLANCE XH)e Wan of Souls

his feelings were not a symptom of weakness, that they
did him no discredit. Far from it, they would make him a
better leader, a better king. Medan might have said these
words himself, but he knew that coming from him they
would be resented. Gilthas turned away from the window,
and the moment passed.

"I understand," said Medan, when it became apparent
from the uncomfortable silence that the king did not
intend to finish his sentence, a sentence that presented a
new and astonishing possibility to the Marshal. He had
assumed Laurana intended to leave Qualinost. Perhaps
he had assumed wrongly. "Very well. Planchet, we will
say nothing about this meeting to the Queen Mother."

The moon rose and shone pale and sickly in the sky.
Medan had never much liked this strange moon. Com-
pared to the argent brilliance of Solinari or the red flame
of Lunitari, this moon looked forlorn and meek. He
could almost imagine it apologizing to the stars every
time it appeared, as if ashamed to take its place among
them. It did its duty now, and shed light enough that he
did not have to bring the harsh glare of torches orJamps
into his garden, lights that might reveal to any watcher
flying overhead that there was a meeting in progress.

The elves expressed their admiration for his garden.
Indeed, they were amazed that a human could create
such beauty, and their amazement gave Medan as much
satisfaction as their praise, for it meant the praise was
genuine. His garden had never looked so hauntingly
beautiful as it did by moonlight this night. Even the
dwarf, who viewed plants as nothing more than food for
cattle, looked about the garden with not quite a bored air
and termed it "pretty," although he sneezed violently
immediately afterward and constantly rubbed his itching
nose throughout the meeting.

364

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

The Lioness was the first to give her report. She had
nothing to say about the garden. She was cool, business-
minded, obviously intending to end this quickly. She indi-
cated where the enemy army was located, pointing to a
map that had been spread out on a table near the fishpond.

"Our forces did what they could to slow the enemy's
advance, but we were stinging flies to this behemoth. We
annoyed him, we irritated him, we drew blood. We could
impede him, but we could not stop him. We could slay a
hundred men, and that was nothing but an irritant to
him. Therefore, I ordered my people to pull back. We are
now assisting the refugees."

Medan approved. "You will provide escort for the
royal family. Of which you yourself are one," he added
with a polite smile.

The Lioness did not return his smile. She had spent
long years fighting him. She did not trust him, and for
that he could not fault her. He did not trust her either. He
had the feeling that if it had not been for Gilthas's inter-
vention, the Marshal would have found the Lioness's
knife sticking out of his ribcage.

Gilthas looked grim as he always did when his own
departure was mentioned. Medan sympathized with the
young king, understood how he felt. Most of the elves
understood the reason for his departure. There were
those who did not understand, who whispered that the
elven king was abandoning Qualinost in its hour of need,
leaving his people to die that he might live. Medan did
not envy the young man the life that lay ahead of him: the
life of the refugee, the life of the exile.

"I will personally escort His Majesty out through the
tunnels," Bellowsgranite stated. "Then those of my people
who have volunteered will remain in the tunnels beneath
the city, ready to assist the battle. When the armies of
darkness march into Qualinost"—the dwarf grinned

365

DRAQONLANCE tfte Wan of Souls

broadly—"they will find more than woodchucks rising
up out of holes to meet them."

As if to emphasize his words, the ground shook
slightly beneath their feet, a sign that the giant dirt-
devouring worms were at work.

"You and those coming with you must be in the tun-
nels first thing in the morning. Your Majesty," the Thane
added. "We dare not wait longer."

"We will be there," said Gilthas, and he sighed and
stared down at his hands, clasped tightly on the top of
the table.

Medan cleared his throat and continued. "Speaking to
the defense of the city of Qualinost: The spies sent to infil-
trate Beryl's army report no change in her plan of attack.
She will first order in the lesser dragons to scout the city,
make certain all is well, and intimidate with their dragon-
fear any who may remain." The Marshal permitted him-
self a grim smile. "When Beryl has been assured that the
city is deserted and her precious hide will be safe, she
herself will enter Qualinost as leader of her armies.

Medan pointed to the map. "The city of Qualinost is
protected from attack by a natural moat—the two arms of
the White-rage River that encircle the city. We've received
reports that Beryl's armies are already gathering along
the banks of these streams. We have cut the bridges, but the
water level is low this time of year and they will be able to
ford the streams here, here, and here." He indicated three
areas. "The crossing will slow them, for they will be forced
to move through water that is swift-flowing and waist
deep in some places. Our troops will be posted here and
here and here"—more reference to the map—"with orders
to allow a substantial number of troops to cross before
they attack."

He looked around at the officers. "We must emphasize
to the troops that they wait for the signal before they attack.

366

DnaqoNS or a Lost Stan

We want the enemy forces split, with half on one side of the
stream and half on the other. We want to create panic and
disruption, so that those who are trying to cross arc bottled
up by those fighting for their lives on the bank. Elven
archers stationed here and here will decimate their ranks
with arrow fire. The dwarven army, under the leadership of
the Thane's cousin"—Medan bowed to the dwarf—"will
hit them here, drive them back into the water. The other
elven forces will be posted here on the hillside to harry their
flanks. Is this plan understood? Satisfactory to everyone?"

They had gone over this several times before. Every-
one nodded.

"Finally, at our last meeting, we discussed sending for
the Gray Robes who are stationed on the western border
of Qualinesti and asking them for their assistance. It was
decided that we would not seek their services, the feeling
being that these gray-robed wizards cannot be trusted, a
feeling in which I most heartily concurred. As it has
turned out, it was well we did not count on them. It seems
they have vanished. Not only have they disappeared
without a trace, but the entire Forest of Wayreth has dis-
appeared. I received a report that a strike force of draco-
mans, one of Beryl's crack units, who had been diverted
south with orders to slaughter the refugees, entered the
forest and has not come out. We have heard nothing more
of them, nor, I think, are we likely to.

"I suggest that we raise our glasses in a toast to the
Master of the Tower of Wayreth."

Medan lifted a glass of elven wine from one of his last
bottles. He was damned if he was going to leave any to be
gulped by goblins. All shared in the toast, taking comfort
in the fact that, for a change, a powerful force was on
their side, mysterious and vagarious as it might be.

"I hear the sounds of laughter. I come upon you at a
good time, it seems," said Laurana.

367

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

they had found their work strange and difficult at first, they
had soon accustomed themselves to the requirements
and needed nothing but the signal to attack.

"It is imperative . . . imperative"—Medan repeated
that firmly—"that no elf be seen by the dragon walking
the streets. Beryl must think that the city has been cleared,
that all the elves have either fled or are being held captive.
The Knights will patrol the streets openly, accompanied
by those elves disguised as Knights to fill out our ranks.
Tomorrow night, once I have been assured the royal
family is safely on their way"—he looked at the king as
he spoke and received Gilthas's reluctant nod—"I will
send a messenger to Beryl and tell her that the city of
Qualinost surrenders to her might and that we have met
all her demands. I will take my position at the top of the
Tower of the Sun, and it is then that—"

"I beg your pardon. Marshal Medan," Laurana inter-
rupted, "but you have not met the dragon's demands."

Medan had guessed this was coming. He knew by
Gilthas's stiff rigidity and his sudden pallor that he had
guessed it, as well.

"I beg your pardon. Madam," said Medan politely,
"but I can think of nothing I have left undone."

"The dragon demanded that the members of the royal
family be handed over to her. I believe that I was among
those she specifically named."

'To my deep regret," said the Marshal with a wry smile,
"the members of the royal family managed to escape. They
are at this moment being pursued, and I am certain that
they will be captured—"

Laurana was shaking her head. "That will not do,
Marshal Medan. Beryl is no fool. She will be suspicious.
All our carefully laid plans would be for naught."

"I will stay," said Gilthas firmly. "It is what I want to do
anyhow. With myself as the Marshal's prisoner, standing

369

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct)e Ware of Souls

with him on the tower, the dragon will have no suspi-
cions. She will be eager to take me captive. You, Mother,
will lead the people in exile. You will deal with the Sil-
vanesti. You are the diplomat. The people trust you."

"The people trust their king," said Laurana quietly.

"Mother ..." Gilthas's voice was agonized, pleading.
"Mother, you cannot do this!"

"My son, you are king of the Qualinesti. You do not
belong to me anymore. You do not belong to yourself.
You belong to them."

Reaching across the table, Laurana took hold of her
son's hand. "I understand how hard it is to accept the
responsibility for thousands of lives. I know what you
face. You will have to tell those who. come to you for
answers that all you have are questions. You will have to
tell the despairing that you have hope, when despair is
heavy in your own heart. You will bid the terrified to
have courage when inside you are shivering with fear. It
would take great courage to face the dragon, my son, and
I admire and honor you for showing that courage, but
such courage is paltry compared to the courage that will
be required of you to lead your people into the future, a
future of uncertainty and danger."

"What if I can't. Mother?" Gilthas had forgotten anyone
else was there. These two spoke only to each other. "What
if I fail them?"

"You will fail, my son. You will fail time and again. I
failed those who followed me when I put my own wants
over their needs. Your father failed his friends when he
abandoned them while he pursued his love for the
Dragon Highlord Kitiara."

Laurana smiled tremulously. Her eyes shimmered
with tears. "You are the child of imperfect parents, my son.
You will stumble and fall to your knees and lie bruised in
the dust, as we did. You will only truly fail if you remain

370

DnaeoNS of a Lost StaR

lying in the dust. If you regain your feet and continue,
you will make of that failure a success."

Gilthas said nothing for long moments. He held fast to
his mother's hand. Laurana held his hand, knowing that
when she let go, she would let go of her son forever.

"I will not fail you. Mother," Gilthas said softly. He
raised her hand to his lips, kissed it reverently. "I will not
fail the memory of my father." Releasing her hand, he
rose to his feet. "I will see you in the morning. Mother.
Before I depart." He spoke the words without faltering.

"Yes, Gilthas," she said. "I will be waiting."

He nodded. The farewell they spoke then would last
for all eternity. Blessed, heart-wrenching, those words
were words to be spoken in private.

"If that is all. Marshal Medan," Gilthas said, keeping
his eyes averted, "I have a great deal to do yet this night."

"I understand. Your Majesty," said the Marshal. "We
have only small matters of no importance to clear up
now. I thank you for coming."

"Small matters of no importance," Gilthas murmured.
He looked back at his mother. He knew very well what
they would be discussing. He drew in a deep breath.
"Then I bid you good night. Marshal, and good luck to
you and to all of you."

Medan rose to his feet. Lifting his glass of elven wine,
he raised it. "I give you His Majesty, the King."

The elves raised their voices in unison. Bellowsgranite
shouted out the toast in a hearty bellow that made the
Marshal cringe and glance swiftly into the sky, hoping
that none of Beryl's spies were in earshot.

Laurana raised her glass and pledged her son, her
voice soft with love and pride.

Gilthas, overcome, gave a brief nod. He could not
trust himself to speak. His wife put her arm around him.
Planchet walked behind him. The king had no other guard.

371

DRA<,ONLANCE •Cl^e Wan of Souls

He had taken only a few steps when he looked back over
his shoulder. His eyes sought out the Marshal.

Medan read the silent message and, excusing himself,
accompanied the king through the darkened house.
Gilthas said no word until he reached the door. Halting,
he turned to face the Marshal.

"You know what my mother plans. Marshal Medan."

"I think I do. Your Majesty."

"Do you agree with her that such a sacrifice on her
part is necessary?" Gilthas demanded, almost angrily.
"Will you permit her to go through with this?"

"Your Majesty," the Marshal replied gravely, "you
know your mother. Do you think there is any possible
way to stop her?"

Gilthas stared at him, then he began to laugh. When
the laughter came perilously dose to tears, he fell silent
until he could regain mastery over himself.

He drew in a deep breath, looked at the Marshal. "There
is a chance that we will defeat Beryl, perhaps even destroy
her. A chance that her armies will be stopped, forced to
retreat. There is that chance, isn't there. Marshal?"

Medan hesitated, not wanting to offer hope where, in
his opinion, there was none. Yet, which of them knew
what the future would hold?

'There is an old Solamnic adage. Your Majesty, which
I could quote just now, an adage that says there is about
as much chance of that happening as of the moons falling
out of the sky." Medan smiled. "As Your Majesty knows,
the moons did fall out of the sky, so I will only tell you
that, yes, there is a chance. There is always a chance."

"Believe it or not. Marshal Medan, you cheer me,"
Gilthas said. He held out his hand. "I regret that we have
been enemies."

Medan took the king's hand, rested his other hand
over it. He knew the fear that was in Gilthas's heart, and

372

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

the Marshal honored him for not speaking it aloud, for
not demeaning Laurana's sacrifice.

"Please rest assured. Your Majesty, that the Queen
Mother will be a sacred trust for me," said Medan. "The
most sacred of my life. I vow to you on my admiration
and regard for her that I will be true to that trust to my
last breath."

"Thank you. Marshal," Gilthas said softly. "Thank you."

Their handshake was brief, and the king departed.
Medan stood a moment in the doorway, watching Gilthas
walk down the path that gleamed silver-gray in the
moonlight. The future the Marshal faced was grim and
bleak. He could count the remaining days of his life upon
the fingers of one hand. Yet, he thought, he would not
trade it for the future faced by that young man.

Yes, Gilthas would live, but his life would never be his
own. If he had no care for his people, it would be different.
But he did care, and the caring would kill him.

373

25
AtoNe 'CooetlreR




fter a few more questions and some desultory dis-
cussion, the commanders departed. Medan and
Laurana said nothing to each other, but between
them words were no longer needed. She remained when the
others had gone, and the two of them were alone together.

Alone together. Medan pondered that phrase. It was
all two people could ever be to each other, he supposed.
Alone. Together. For the dreams and secrets of our heart
may be spoken, but words are poor handmaidens. Words
can never fully say what we want them to say, for they
fumble, stammer, and break the best porcelain. The best
one can hope for is to find along the way someone to
share the path, content to walk in silence, for the heart
communes best when it does not try to speak.

The two sat in the garden beneath the moon that was
strange and pale, as if it were the ghost of a moon.

"Beryl will come to Qualinost now," said the Marshal
with satisfaction. "She will not pass up the opportunity
to see you—the Golden General who defeated Queen

374

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

Takhisis—shrink in terror before her bloated majesty.
We will give Beryl what she wants. We will put on an
excellent show."

"Indeed we will," said Laurana. "I have some ideas on
that score. Marshal Medan. I spoke to you of them earlier
in the evening." She cast a regretful look around the
garden. "As beautiful as this place is, it seems a shame
to leave it, yet what I have to show you should best be
viewed under the cover of darkness. Will you accompany
me back to Qualinost, Marshal?"

"I am yours to command. Madam," he replied. "The
road is long and might be dangerous. Who knows if Beryl
has assassins lurking about? We should ride, if that will
be suitable to you."

They rode through the moonlit night. Their talk was
of dragons.

"It is said of the Golden General that she was never
daunted by dragonfear," Medan said, regarding Laurana
admiringly. She sat a horse superbly, although she claimed
it had been years since she last rode one.

Laurana laughed ruefully, shook her head. "Those who
claimed that never knew me. The dragonfear was horrible.
It never went away."

"Then how did you function?" he asked. "For cer-
tainly you fought dragons, and you fought them well."

"I was so afraid that the fear became a living part of
me," Laurana replied, speaking softly, looking not at him,
but into the night. "I could feel its pulse and beat inside
me as if I had grown a terrible kind of heart, a heart that
did not quite fit in my chest, for it always seemed to cut
off my breathing."

She was silent a moment, communing with voices from
the past. He no longer heard the voices from his past, but he
remembered how they haunted a man or a woman, and
he remained silent.

375

DRAQONLANCE •Cl}e wan of Souls

"I thought at first I could not continue on. I was too fright-
ened, but then a wise man—his name was Elistan—taught
me that I should not fear death. Death is inevitable, a part of
life. It comes to all of us—humans, elves, even dragons. We
defeat death by living, by doing something with our lives
that will last beyond the grave. What I fear is fear. Marshal.
I have never rid myself of that. I fight it constantly."

They rode in silence, alone together. Then she said, "I
want to thank you. Marshal, for paying me the compliment
of not trying to dissuade me from this course of action."

He bowed his head in acknowledgment but remained
silent. She had more to say. She was thinking how to say it.

"I will use this opportunity to make reparation," she con-
tinued, speaking now not to him alone but to those voices in
the past. "I was their general, their leader. I left them. Aban-
doned them. The War of the Lance was at a critical stage. The
soldiers looked to me for guidance, and I let them down."

"You were faced with a choice between love and duty,
and you chose love. A choice I, too, have made," he said
with a glance at the aspen trees through which they rode.

"No, Marshal," she returned, "you choose duty. Duty
to that which you love. There is a difference."

"At the beginning, perhaps," he said. "Not at the end."

She looked over at him and smiled.

They were nearing Qualinost. The city was empty,
appeared abandoned. Medan drew up his horse. "Where
are we bound. Madam? We should not ride openly through
the streets. We might be seen."

"We are going to the Tower of the Sun," she said.
"The implements of my plan are to be found inside. You
look dubious. Marshal. Trust me." She regarded him
with a mischievous smile, as he assisted her to dismount.
"I cannot promise to make the moon fall from the sky.
But I can give you the gift of a star."

376

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

The streets of Qualinost were empty, deserted. The two
kept to the deep shadows, for they could feel the presence
of watchers in the skies though they could not see them.
Dragons would be difficult to see in the moonlight through
the predawn mists that rose from the river, wound lov-
ingly among the boles of the aspen trees.

The early morning was silent, eerily silent. The animals
had gone to ground, the birds huddled hushed in the trees.
The smell of burning, the smell of the dragon, the smell of
death was in the air, and all creatures fled its coming.

"All those with sense," Medan said to himself. "Then
there are the rest of us."

So deep was the silence that he thought if he listened
closely he could hear the heartbeats of those hiding within
the houses. Hearts that beat steadily, hearts that beat fast,
hearts that trembled with fear. He could imagine lovers
and friends sitting in the darkness in the silence, hands
clasped, their touch conveying the words they could not
speak and must be inadequate anyway.

They reached the Tower of the Sun just as the moon
was dropping down from the sky. Located on the far east-
ern border of Qualinost, the tower graced the tallest hill.
It provided a spectacular view of the city. The tower was
made of burnished gold that shone as brilliantly as another
sun when morning's first rays struck it, setting it aflame
with warmth and life and the joy of a new day. So bright
was the light that it dazzled the eyes. Approaching the
tower in the daytime, Medan had often been forced to
look away, lest it blind him.

At night, the tower reflected the stars, so that it was
difficult to distinguish the tower—a myriad stars floating
on its surface—from the night sky that was its backdrop.

They entered the tower through an entry hall whose
doors were never locked and walked from there into the
main chamber. Laurana had brought with her a small

377

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct)e Wan of Souls

lantern to light their way. Torchlight would be too bright,
too noticeable to anyone outside.

Medan had been inside the tower before for various
ceremonies. Its beauty never failed to impress him. The
tower rose hundreds of feet into the air with one central
spire and two smaller ones jutting out to the sides. A
person standing on the floor could see straight up to the
top, to a wondrous mosaic. Windows placed in a spiral
pattern in the tower's walls were positioned to capture
the sunlight and reflect it downward upon the rostrum
that stood in the center of the main chamber.

It was too dark for him to see the mosaic that portrayed
the sky by day and the sky by night. Thus symbolically
had the Qualinesti portrayed their relationship with their
cousins, the Silvanesti. The creator of the mosaic had been
optimistic, separating the two by a rainbow. He would
have done better to separate them by jagged lightning.

"Perhaps this is the reason," Laurana said softly,
looking upward to the mosaic not yet illuminated by the
sunlight but hidden in darkness and in shadow. "Per-
haps the sacrifice of my people is necessary for a new
beginning—a beginning in which our two sundered
people are finally one."

Medan could have told her that the reasons for the
destruction of Qualinost had nothing to do with new
beginnings. The reasons were evil and hideous, embedded
in a dragon's hatred for all that she admired, the need to
tear down that which she could never build and destroy
that which she most desired to possess.

He kept his thoughts to himself. If her idea brought
Laurana peace, he was more than willing to let her believe
it. And, maybe, after all, their thoughts were but two sides
to the same coin. Her side the light, his side the dark-
Leaving the main chamber, Laurana led the Marshal
up one flight of stairs and onto a balcony that overlooked

378

DRBQONS OF a Lost StaR

the main chamber. Doors made of silver and of gold
lined the circular hallway. Laurana counted the doors as
she went. When she came to the seventh door, counting
from either direction, she drew a key from a blue velvet
bag attached to her wrist. The key was also made of
silver and of gold. The seventh door was decorated with
an image of an aspen tree, its arms extended upward to
the sun. Medan could see no lock.

"I know what is in this room," Medan said. "The
Royal Treasury." He placed his hand over hers, stopped
her from continuing. "Are you certain you want to reveal
this to me. Madam? In there are secrets the elves have
kept for a thousand years. Perhaps it would not be wise
to betray them, even now."

"We would be like the miser in the story who hordes
his money against the bad times and starves to death in
the process. You would have me keep locked up that
which well might save us?" Laurana asked.

"I honor you for your trust in me. Madam," said the
Marshal, bowing.

Laurana counted seven tree limbs up from the bottom
branch, counted seven leaves upon the trees and touched
her key to the seventh leaf.

The door did not open. It vanished.

Medan stared into a vast hall that held the wealth of
the elven kingdom of Qualinost. As Laurana lifted the
lantern, the sight was more dazzling to the eyes than
the sunlight striking the tower. Chests of steel coins,
golden coins, and silver covered the floor. Weapons of
fabulous make and design lined the walls. Casks of
gems and pearls stood on the floor. The royal jewels—
crowns and scepters and diadems, cloaks heavy with
rubies and diamonds and emeralds—were displayed on
velvet stands.

"Don't move. Marshal," Laurana warned him.

379

DRAQONLANCE ~Ctie Ware of Souls

Medan had no intention of moving. He stood frozen
inside the door. He gazed around and was angry. Coldly
furious, he turned to Laurana.

"You speak of misers. Madam," he said, gesturing. "You
have wealth enough here to buy the swords of every mer-
cenary in Ansalon, and you horde gold while you spend
the lives of your people!"

"Once, long ago, in the days of Kith-Kanan, such wealth
was ours," said Laurana. 'This is only its memory."

The moment she said the word, he understood. He
saw through the illusion to the reality.

A large hole gaped at his feet. A single spiral staircase
carved of stone led straight down into blackness. Anyone
who did not know the secrets of that room would take
no more than two steps across that illusory floor before
plunging to his death.

Their only light was the single ray shining from the
small lantern. By its steady and unwavering light, Medan
followed Laurana down the stairs. At the bottom lay the
true wealth of the elven kingdom of Qualinost: a single
chest with a few bags of steel coins. Several empty chests,
whose lids stood open, the homes of spiders and mice.
Weapons had once been displayed on the walls, but these
had long since been removed. All except one. Hanging on
the wall was a footman's lance. The beam of light from
her lantern struck it, caused it to shine silver as once had
shone the silver moon of Solinari.

"A dragonlance," said Marshal Medan, his voice tinged
with awe. "I have never seen one before, yet I would know
it anywhere."

Laurana looked up at the lance with quiet pride. "I
want you to have it. Marshal Medan." She glanced back
at him. "Do you now understand what I have in mind?"

"Perhaps I do," he said slowly. He could not take his
rapt gaze from the dragonlance. "Perhaps I am starting to."

380

DnaQONS of a Lost Stan

"I wish I could tell you it had some heroic history," she
said, "but if it does, we do not know it. The lance was
given to Tarus shortly after we were married. A woman
brought it to him. She said they had found it among her
husband's possessions after his death. He had taken loving
care of it, and he'd left a note saying that he wanted it
given to someone who would understand. She knew he
had fought in the war, but he never spoke of his deeds.
He would say that he had done his duty, as did many
others. He'd done nothing special."

"Yet, as I recall, only renowned and proven warriors
were granted the honor of carrying the dragonlance,"
said Medan.

"I knew him, you see. Marshal. I remembered him. Oh,
not him personally. But I remembered all those who gave
up so much to join our cause and who were never honored
with songs or immortalized with tombs or statues. They
went back to their lives as butchers, seamstresses, farmers,
or shepherds. What they did they did for no other reason
than because they felt it was their duty. I thought it appro-
priate we should use this lance.

"As to the other weapons that were stored here, I sent
many of them with those who departed Qualinost. I gave
many more to those who remain to fight. In this casket"—
Laurana ran her hand over a box carved plainly and simply
of rosewood—"are the truly valuable jewels of antiquity.
They will remain here, for they represent the past and its
glory. Should a time come in the future when we are at
peace, they will be recovered. If the time should come
when no one lives who remembers us, perhaps these will
be discovered and bring back the dreams of the elves to
the world."

She turned from the rosewood casket, rested her hand
on a tree limb. Odd, he thought, that a tree limb should be
lying in the room. Kneeling beside it, she reached down

381

DRAQONLANCE tlie Wan of Soute

and removed a piece of wood that was all but invisible in
the center of the tree limb. Now Medan could see that the
limb had been split lengthwise to form a case. Laurana
lifted the lid.

Inside lay a sword. The weapon was enormous—a two-
handed broadsword—and it would require two immensely
large and strong hands to wield it. The blade was of shin-
ing steel, perfectly kept, with no spot of rust anywhere, no
notches or scratches. The sword was plainly made, with
none of the fancy ornamentation that sends the amateur
into raptures but that veterans abhor. The sword had only
a single decoration. Set into the pommel was a lustrous
star sapphire, as big as a man's clenched fist.

The sword was lovely, a thing of deadly beauty. Medan
reached out his hand in longing, then paused.

"Take it. Marshal," said Laurana. "The sword is yours."

Medan grasped the hilt, lifted the sword from its tree-
limb case. He swung it gently, tested the balance. The
sword might have been made for him. He was surprised
to find that, although it appeared heavy, it was so well
designed that he could wield it with ease.

"The sword's name is the Lost Star," said Laurana. "It
was made for the elven paladin, Kalith Rian, who led the
elves in the battle against Takhisis in the First Dragon War."

"How did the sword come by the name?" Medan asked.

"Legend has it that when the smith brought the sword
to Kalith Rian, he told the elf lord this tale. While he was
forging the sword, the smith saw a star flash across the
heavens. The next morning, when he came to finish his
work, he found this star sapphire lying amid the embers
of his forge fire. He took it as a sign from the gods and
placed the jewel in the sword's pommel. Rian named the
sword the Lost Star. He slew the great red dragon Fire-
fang with this sword, his final battle, for he himself was
slain in the fight. The sword is said to be magical."

382

DRBQONS OF a Lost Stan

Medan frowned and handed the sword back hilt-first
to Laurana. "I thank you. Madam, but I would much
prefer to take my chances with an ordinary sword made
of ordinary steel. I have no use for a sword that suddenly
starts to sing an elven ditty in the midst of battle or one
that transforms both me and it into a matched pair of
serpents. Such occurrences tend to distract me."

"The sword will not start to sing. Marshal, I assure
you," Laurana said with a ripple of laughter. "Hear me
out before you refuse. It is said that those who look into
the Lost Star when it is shining cannot look away, nor can
they do anything else but stare at the jewel."

"That is even worse," he returned impatiently. "I
become enamored of my own sword."

"Not you. Marshal. The dragon. And although I give the
dragonlance to you, you will not wield the lance. I will."

"I see." Medan was thoughtful. He continued holding
the sword, regarded it with new respect.

"This night as I was walking to the meeting in the
darkness, I remembered this sword and its story, and I
realized how it might be of use to us."

"Of use! This could make all the difference!" Medan
exclaimed.

He took down the dragonlance from the wall and
regarded it with interest, held it with respect. He was a
tall man, yet the lance topped him by two feet. "I see
one difficulty. This lance will be difficult to hide from
Beryl. From what I recall, dragons are sensitive to the
lance's magic."

"We will not hide it from her," Laurana replied. "As
you say, she would sense its magic. We will keep it in the
open, where she may see it plainly."

"Madam?" Medan was incredulous.

"Your gift to your overlord. Marshal. A powerful
magical artifact from the Fourth Age."

383

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctfe WBR of Souls

Medan bowed. "I honor the wisdom of the Golden
General."

"You will parade me, your hostage, before the dragon
on top of the Tower of the Sun, as arranged. You will
exhibit the dragonlance and offer that to her as a gift. If
she tries to take hold of the lance—"

"She will," Medan interjected grimly. "She thirsts for
magic as a drunkard his liquor."

"When she takes the lance," Laurana continued, "the
lance—an artifact of light—will send a paralyzing shock
through her. You will lift the sword and hold it before her
eyes. Enthralled by the sword, she will be unable to
defend herself. While the dragon stares mesmerized at
the sword, I will take the lance and thrust it through the
jaw and into her throat. I have some skill in the use of
the lance," she added with quaint modesty.

Medan was approving, enthusiastic. "Your plan is an
excellent one. General, and insures our success. I believe
that, after all, I may yet live to walk my garden again."

"I hope so. Marshal," Laurana said, extending her
hand to him. "I would miss my best enemy."

"And I mine," he replied, taking her hand and kissing
it respectfully.

They climbed the stairs, leaving the treasure chamber
to illusion. As they reached the door, Laurana turned and
threw the velvet bag containing the key inside the room.
They heard it strike the floor with a faint, muffled clink.

"My son now has the only key," she said softly.

384

26

PeNalty fon Betnayal




he dragon Khellendros, whose common name
among the lesser creatures of Krynn was Skie, had
his current lair near the top of one of the smaller
peaks of the Vingaard Mountains. Unlike the other dragon
overlords, Malystryx and Sable, Skie had numerous lairs,
all of them magnificent, none of them his home.

He was an enormous blue dragon, the largest of his
kind by many times, an aberration of a blue dragon.
Whereas most blues averaged forty feet in length, Skie
had grown over the years until he was three hundred
feet long from massive head to thrashing tail. He was
not the same shade of blue as the other dragons of his
type. Once his scales had gleamed sapphire. Over the
past few years, however, the rich blue of his scales had
faded, leaving him a dreary blue, as if he had acquired a
fine coating of gray dust. He was aware that this color
shift caused considerable comment among the smaller
blues who served him. He knew they considered him a
mutation, a freak, and although they deferred to him,

385

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfte wan oy Souls

deep inside they considered themselves better dragons
because of it.

He didn't care what they thought. He didn't care where
he lived, so long as it wasn't where he was. Restless, restive,
he would move from one vast, serpentine tunnel gouged
through the very heart of some immense mountain to an
other on a whim, never remaining long in any of them.

A puny human might wander the wondrous labyrinths
for a year and never find the ending. The blue's vast
wealth was stashed in these lairs. Tribute came to him in
a never-ending flood. Skie was overlord of the rich lord-
city of Palanthas.

Skie cared nothing for the wealth. What need had he
of steel coins? All the treasure chests of all the world
overflowing with steel, gold, silver, and jewels could
not buy him what he wanted. Even his own magical
power—although it was inexplicably waning, it was still
formidable—could not gain him his one desire.

Weaker dragons, such as the blue dragon Smalt, Skie's
new lieutenant, might revel in such wealth and be glad to
spend their paltry, pitiful lives in its gain. Skie had no
care for the money. He never looked at it, he refused to
listen to reports of it. He roamed the halls of his castle
cavern until he could no longer stand the sight of them.
Then he flew off to another lair, entered that one, only to
soon sicken of it as well.

Skie had changed lairs four times since the night of the
storm, the magical storm that had swept over Ansalon. He
had heard a voice in that storm, a voice that he had recog-
nized. He had not heard it since that night, and he searched
for it, searched in anger. He had been tricked, betrayed,
and he blamed the Speaker in the Storm for that betrayal.
He made no secret of his rage. He spoke of it constantly to
his minions, knowing that it would reach the right ears,
trusting that someone would come to placate him.

386

DnaqoNS oy a Lost Stan

"She had better placate me," Skie rumbled to Smalt.
"She had better give me what I want. Thus far I have held
my hand as I agreed. Thus far I have let her play her little
game of conquest. I have not yet been recompensed, how-
ever, and I grow weary of waiting. If she does not give me
what is my due, what I have been promised, I will end
this little game of hers, break the board, and smash the
pieces, be they pawn or Dark Knight."

Skie was kept apprised of Mina's movements. Some of
his own subject blues had been among those who traveled
to Silvanost to carry Mina and her forces into NighOund.
He was not surprised, therefore, when Smalt arrived to say
that Mina wanted to arrange a meeting.

"How did she speak of me?" Skie demanded. "What
did she say?"

"She spoke of you with great respect, 0 Storm Over
Ansalon," Smalt replied. "She asks that you be the one to
name the time and place for the meeting. She will come
to you at your convenience, although it means leaving
her army at a critical moment. Nevertheless, Mina deems
this meeting with you important. She values you as an ally
and is sorry to hear that you are in any way displeased or
dissatisfied with the current arrangements. She is certain
it is all a misunderstanding that can be smoothed over
when the two of you come together."

Skie grunted, a sound that shook his enormous body—
he was many times larger than the small blue dragon
with the glistening sapphire scales who crouched humbly
before him, wings drooping, tail curled submissively.

"m other words, you have fallen under her spell. Smalt,
as they all do. Do not bother to deny it."

"I do not deny it, 0 Storm Over Ansalon," Smalt
returned and there was an unusually defiant gleam in the
blue's eyes. "She has conquered Silvanost. The wicked
elves have fallen as grain to her scythe. Lord Targonne

387

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl7e Wan of Souls

attempted to have her killed and instead was slain by her
hand. She is now leader of the Dark Knights of Neraka.
Her troops are in Nighuund where she works on plans to
lay siege to Solanthus—"

"Solanthus?" Skie growled.

Smalt's tail twitched nervously. He saw that he was in
possession of news his master had not yet heard, and
when a master is all knowing, to know something ahead
of the master is never good.

"Undoubtedly she plans to discuss this with you
first," Smalt faltered, "which is another reason why she is
coming to meet with you, 0 Storm Over—"

"Oh, shut up and stop blathering. Smalt!" Skie snarled.
"Get out."

"The meeting?" Smalt ventured.

'Tell her to meet me here at the eastern opening of this
lair," Skie said glumly. "She may come to me whenever it
suits her. Now leave me in peace."

Smalt was only too happy to do as he had been ordered.

Skie didn't give a damn about Solanthus. He had to do
some hard thinking even to recall where the blasted city
was located, and when he remembered, he thought his
forces had already conquered Solanthus—he had a vague
recollection of it. Perhaps that was some other city of
humans. He didn't know, and he didn't care, or at least he
hadn't cared until just now. Attacking Solanthus without
asking his permission was another example of Mina's
disdain for him, her lack of respect. This was a deliberate
affront. She was showing him he was expendable, of no
more use.

Skie was angered now, angry and, in spite of himself,
afraid. He knew her of old, knew her vengeance, knew
her wrath. It had never been turned on him. He had been
a favorite. But then he had made a mistake. And now he
was being made to pay.

388

OnaQONf) of a Lost Stan

His fear increased his anger. He had chosen the entrance
of his lair as the meeting place because he could keep watch
on all around him. He had no intention of being caught
deep underground, trapped and ambushed. Once Smalt
had departed, Skie paced about his lair and waited.

The blind beggar had reached his destination. He cast
about with his staff until he located a large rock, sat down
to rest himself and to consider what to do next. Since he
could not see, he could not tell by sight exactly where
he was. He knew from asking questions of people on the
road that he was in Solamnia, somewhere in the foothills
of the Vingaard Mountains. He had no real need to know
his precise location, however, for he was not following a
map. He was following his senses, and they had led him
to this place. The fact that he knew the name of the place
served merely to confirm in his mind what his soul
already understood.

The silver dragon Mirror had traveled an immense
distance in human form since the night of the magical
storm—the storm that had wounded and scarred him,
knocked him from the skies over Neraka, sent him plung-
ing to the rocks below. Lying there, dazed and blind and
bleeding, he had heard an immortal voice singing the
Song of Death and he had been awed and appalled.

He had wandered aimlessly for a time, searching for
and then finding Mina. He spoke with her. She was the
one who sang the Song of Death.

The voice in the storm had been a summons. The voice
had spoken the truth to him and, when he had refused to
accept the truth, the Bringer of the Storm had punished
him. Robbed of his sight. Mirror realized that he might
be the only one in the world to see truly. He had recog-
nized the voice, but he did not understand how it could
be or why. So he had embarked on a quest to find out. In

389

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctfe wan OF Souls

order to travel, he had been forced to take human form,
because a blind dragon dare not fly, whereas a blind
human can walk.

Trapped in this frail body. Mirror was helpless to act.
He was frustrated in his search for answers, for the voice
spoke to him constantly, taunted him, fed his fear, singing
to him of the terrible events happening in the world: the
fall of Silvanesti, the peril of Qualinost, the destruction
of the Citadel of Light, the gathering of the dead in
Nightlund. This was his punishment. Although he could
not see, he was made to see all too dearly those he loved
dying. He saw them stretch out their hands to him for
help, and he was powerless to save them.

The voice sought to make despair his guide, and it had
almost succeeded. He stumbled along the dark path, tap-
ping out his way with his stick, and when he came to
places where he cast about him with the stick and felt
nothing ahead, he sometimes wondered if it would not be
easier to keep walking, to fall off the edge of the precipice
into the eternal silence that would close his ears to the
voice, the darkness of death that could not be more dark
than that in which he lived.

His search for others of his kind who had heard the
voice, who might have heard the andent words and under-
stood them, had failed. He could find no other silver
dragons. They had fled, disappeared. That gave him some
indication that he had not been alone in recognizing the
voice, but that was not much help if he were alone in
the world—a blind dragon in human form—unable to
do anything. In the moment of his despair Mirror formed
a desperate resolution. One dragon would know the truth
and might share it. But he was not a friend. He was a
longtime enemy.

Skie, the immense blue dragon, had not arrived on
Krynn as a stranger, as had Malys and the others. He had

390

DRaqoNS of a Lost Stare

His fear increased his anger. He had chosen the entrance
of his lair as the meeting place because he could keep watch
on all around him. He had no intention of being caught
deep underground, trapped and ambushed. Once Smalt
had departed, Skie paced about his lair and waited.

The blind beggar had reached his destination. He cast
about with his staff until he located a large rock, sat down
to rest himself and to consider what to do next. Since he
could not see, he could not tell by sight exactly where
he was. He knew from asking questions of people on the
road that he was in Solamnia, somewhere in the foothills
of the Vingaard Mountains. He had no real need to know
his precise location, however, for he was not following a
map. He was following his senses, and they had led him
to this place. The fact that he knew the name of the place
served merely to confirm in his mind what his soul
already understood.

The silver dragon Mirror had traveled an immense
distance in human form since the night of the magical
storm—the storm that had wounded and scarred him,
knocked him from the skies over Neraka, sent him plung-
ing to the rocks below. Lying there, dazed and blind and
bleeding, he had heard an immortal voice singing the
Song of Death and he had been awed and appalled.

He had wandered aimlessly for a time, searching for
and then finding Mina. He spoke with her. She was the
one who sang the Song of Death.

The voice in the storm had been a summons. The voice
had spoken the truth to him and, when he had refused to
accept the truth, the Bringer of the Storm had punished
him. Robbed of his sight. Mirror realized that he might
be the only one in the world to see truly. He had recog-
nized the voice, but he did not understand how it could
be or why. So he had embarked on a quest to find out. In

389

DRAQONLANCC "Cl}e wan OF Souls

order to travel, he had been forced to take human form,
because a blind dragon dare not fly, whereas a blind
human can walk.

Trapped in this frail body. Mirror was helpless to act.
He was frustrated in his search for answers, for the voice
spoke to him constantly, taunted him, fed his fear, singing
to him of the terrible events happening in the world: the
fall of Silvanesti, the peril of Qualinost, the destruction
of the Citadel of Light, the gathering of the dead in
Nightlund. This was his punishment. Although he could
not see, he was made to see all too dearly those he loved
dying. He saw them stretch out their hands to him for
help, and he was powerless to save them.

The voice sought to make despair his guide, and it had
almost succeeded. He stumbled along the dark path, tap-
ping out his way with his stick, and when he came to
places where he cast about him with the stick and felt
nothing ahead, he sometimes wondered if it would not be
easier to keep walking, to fall off the edge of the precipice
into the eternal silence that would close his ears to the
voice, the darkness of death that could not be more dark
than that in which he lived.

His search for others of his kind who had heard the
voice, who might have heard the ancient words and under-
stood them, had failed. He could find no other silver
dragons. They had fled, disappeared. That gave him some
indication that he had not been alone in recognizing the
voice, but that was not much help if he were alone in
the world—a blind dragon in human form—unable to
do anything. In the moment of his despair Mirror formed
a desperate resolution. One dragon would know the truth
and might share it. But he was not a friend. He was a
longtime enemy.

Skie, the immense blue dragon, had not arrived on
Krynn as a stranger, as had Malys and the others. He had

390

DRBQONS of a Lost Stare

been in the world for years. True, Skie had changed much
following the Chaos War. He had grown larger than any
blue dragon was ever meant to grow. He had conquered
Palanthas—the Dark Knights ruled that wealthy land in
his name. He had gained the grudging respect of the
great red Malystryx and her green cousin Beryl. Although
rumor had it that he had turned upon his own kind and
devoured them, as had Malys and Beryl, Mirror—for
one—had not believed it.

Mirror would stake his life on that belief.
The silver dragon left Solace seeking Skie, tracking
his enemy using the eyes of his soul to find the trail. His
trek had led him here, to the foot of one of the blue
dragon's mountain lairs. Mirror could not see the lair,
but he could hear the enormous blue dragon roaming
inside. He could feel the ground shake with every step
Skie took, the mountains tremble as he lashed his tail.
Mirror could smell the ozone of the blue's breath, feel the
electricity tingle in the air.

Mirror rested for several hours, and when he felt his
strength return, he began to climb. A dragon himself, he
knew that Skie would have opened up many entrances to
his lair. Mirror had only to find one of them.

Skie regarded the slight human female standing before
him with barely concealed contempt. He had fostered a
secret hope that in this female commander of armies he
would find, once again, his lost Kitiara. He had relin-
quished that hope almost immediately. Here was no hot
blood, no passion. Here was no love of battle for the sake
of the challenge and the thrill of outwitting death. This
female was as different from Kitiara as the ice floe differs
from the frothing, crashing waves driven by the storm.

Skie might have been tempted to tell this girl to go
away and send some responsible adult to deal with him,

391

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctfe Wan OF Souls

but he knew from the reports of his agents that she had
flummoxed the Solamnics at Sanction, brought down
the shield over Silvanost, and been the death of Lord
Targonne—gone and quite easily forgotten.

She stood before him unafraid, even unimpressed,
though he could have cracked the lithe, frail body with
the flick of a claw. He had teeth that were bigger than
this human.

"So you are the Healer, the Bringer of Death, the
Conqueror of Elves," he grunted.

"No," she said. "I am Mina."

As she spoke, she lifted her gaze to meet his. He
looked into the amber eyes and saw himself inside them.
He saw himself small, shrunken, a lizard of a dragon. The
sight was disquieting, made him ill at ease. He rumbled
deep in his massive throat and arched his great neck and
shifted the immense bulk of his body so that the moun-
tain shook, and he felt reassured in his might and his
strength. Still, in the amber eyes, he was very small.

"The One Who Heals, the One Who Brings Death, the
One Who Conquers is the One God," Mina continued.
"The One God I serve. The One God we both serve."

"Indeed I have served," Skie said, glowering. "I have
served faithfully and well. I was promised my reward."

"You were given it. You were permitted to enter the
Gray to search for her. If you have failed in your search,
that is not the fault of the One God." Mina shrugged and
slightly smiled. "You give up too easily, Skie. The Gray is
a vast plane. You could not possibly have looked every-
where. After all, you did sense her spirit—"

"Did I?" Skie lowered his head so that his eyes could
look directly into the amber eyes. He hoped to see himself
grow large, but he failed. He was frustrated now, as well
as angry. "Or was it a trick? A trick to get rid of me. A
trick to cheat me of what I have earned."

392

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

He thrust forth his great head near her, exhaled a frus-
trated, sulfurous breath. "Two centuries ago, I was taken
from my home world and brought in secret to the world
known as Krynn. In return for my services it was prom-
ised that I would one day be granted the rulership of this
world. I obeyed the commands given me. I traveled the
Portals. I scouted out locations. I made all ready. I now
claim the right to rule a world—this world. I could have
done so thirty-eight years ago, but I was told that now
was not the time.

'Then came the great red Malys and my cousins, and
again I demanded my right to assert my authority. I could
have stopped them, then. I could have cowed them, made
them bow before me. Again, I was told, it is not the time.
Now Beryl and Malystryx have grown in power that they
gained by killing dragons of my own kin—"

"Not your kin," Mina corrected gently.

"My kin!" Skie thundered, his anger swelling to rage.
Still, in the amber eyes, he remained small. "For over two
hundred years I lived among blue dragons and fought
alongside them. They are more my kin than those great
bloated wyrms. Now the wynns divide up the choicest
parts between them. They extend their control. Be damned
to the pact that was made. I—I am shunted off to the Gray
on some wild kender chase.

"I say I was tricked!" the blue snarled. "I say I was
deluded. Kitiara is not in the Gray. She was never in the
Gray. I was sent there so that another could rule in my
stead. Who is that other? You, girl? Or will it be Malys?
Has another pact been made? A secret pact? That is why
I came back—long before I was expected, seemingly, for I
hear you are to now march upon Solanthus."

Mina was silent, considering.

Skie shifted his great bulk, lashed his tail so that it
thumped against the walls of his lair, sending tremors

393

DRA<30NLANCE 'Ct)C WBR Of SOUlS

through the mountain. Though the ground quaked beneath
her feet, the human remained complacent. She gazed
steadily at the dragon.

"The One God owes you nothing."

Skie drew in a seething breath. Lightning crackled
between his teeth, sparked, and smoldered. The air was
charged. Mina's cropped red hair rippled like that of a
stalking panther. Ignoring his display of anger, she con-
tinued speaking, her voice calm.

"You abrogated your right to rule when you forgot
your duties and forsook your oath of allegiance to the
One to whom you owed everything, choosing instead to
bestow your love and loyalty on a mortal. You rule the
world!" Mina regarded the dragon with scorn and cool
contempt. "You are not fit to rule a dung heap! Your
services are no longer needed. Another has been chosen
to rule. Your followers will serve me as they once served
you. As to your precious Kitiara, you will never find her.
She has passed far beyond your reach. But then, you
knew that, didn't you, Skie?"

Mina's eyes fixed on him, unblinking. He found him-
self caught in them. He tried to look away, to break free,
but he was held fast, the amber hardening around him.

"You refused to admit it," she went on, relentless, her
voice digging deep beneath his scales. "Go back to the
Gray, Skie. Go there to seek Kitiara. You can return any-
time you want. You know that, don't you? The Gray is in
your mind, Skie. You were deluded, but not by the One
God. You deluded yourself."

Skie would send his answer to the One God—a charred
lump. He unleashed his lethal breath, spat a gout of
lightning at the girl. The bolt struck Mina on her black
breastplate, over her heart. The fragile body crumpled to
the cavern floor, frail limbs curled, contorted as those of a
dead spider. She did not move.

394

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stap

He thrust forth his great head near her, exhaled a frus-
trated, sulfurous breath. 'Two centuries ago, I was taken
from my home world and brought in secret to the world
known as Krynn. In return for my services it was prom-
ised that I would one day be granted the rulership of this
world. I obeyed the commands given me. I traveled the
Portals. I scouted out locations. I made all ready. I now
claim the right to rule a world—this world. I could have
done so thirty-eight years ago, but I was told that now
was not the time.

'Then came the great red Malys and my cousins, and
again I demanded my right to assert my authority. I could
have stopped them, then. I could have cowed them, made
them bow before me. Again, I was told, it is not the time.
Now Beryl and Malystryx have grown in power that they
gained by killing dragons of my own kin—"

"Not your kin," Mina corrected gently.

"My kin!" Skie thundered, his anger swelling to rage.
Still, in the amber eyes, he remained small. "For over two
hundred years I lived among blue dragons and fought
alongside them. They are more my kin than those great
bloated wyrms. Now the wyrms divide up the choicest
parts between them. They extend their control. Be damned
to the pact that was made. I—I am shunted off to the Gray
on some wild kender chase.

"I say I was tricked!" the blue snarled. "I say I was
deluded. Kitiara is not in the Gray. She was never in the
Gray. I was sent there so that another could rule in my
stead. Who is that other? You, girl? Or will it be Malys?
Has another pact been made? A secret pact? That is why
I came back—long before I was expected, seemingly, for I
hear you are to now march upon Solanthus."

Mina was silent, considering.

Skie shifted his great bulk, lashed his tail so that it
thumped against the walls of his lair, sending tremors

393

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct)e Wan of Souls

through the mountain. Though the ground quaked beneath
her feet, the human remained complacent. She gazed
steadily at the dragon.

"The One God owes you nothing."

Skie drew in a seething breath. Lightning crackled
between his teeth, sparked, and smoldered. The air was
charged. Mina's cropped red hair rippled like that of a
stalking panther. Ignoring his display of anger, she con-
tinued speaking, her voice calm.

"You abrogated your right to rule when you forgot
your duties and forsook your oath of allegiance to the
One to whom you owed everything, choosing instead to
bestow your love and loyalty on a mortal. You rule the
world!" Mina regarded the dragon with scorn and cool
contempt. "You are not fit to rule a dung heap! Your
services are no longer needed. Another has been chosen
to rule. Your followers will serve me as they once served
you. As to your precious Kitiara, you will never find her.
She has passed far beyond your reach. But then, you
knew that, didn't you, Skie?"

Mina's eyes fixed on him, unblinking. He found him-
self caught in them. He tried to look away, to break free,
but he was held fast, the amber hardening around him.

"You refused to admit it," she went on, relentless, her
voice digging deep beneath his scales. "Go back to the
Gray, Skie. Go there to seek Kitiara. You can return any-
time you want. You know that, don't you? The Gray is in
your mind, Skie. You were deluded, but not by the One
God. You deluded yourself."

Skie would send his answer to the One God—a charred
lump. He unleashed his lethal breath, spat a gout of
lightning at the girl. The bolt struck Mina on her black
breastplate, over her heart. The fragile body crumpled to
the cavern floor, frail limbs curled, contorted as those of a
dead spider. She did not move.

394

DnagoNS of a Lost Stan

Skie watched, cautious, wary. He did not trust her or
the one she served. It had been too easy.

Mina lifted her head. A bolt of light flashed from her
amber eyes and struck Skie in the center of his forehead.

The lightning burned his scales, jolted through his
body. His heart clamored painfully in his chest, its
rhythm knocked wildly askew. He could not breathe.
Mist, gray mist, swirled before his eyes. His head sank
to the stone floor of his lair. His eyes closed upon the
gray mist that he knew so well. The gray mist where he
heard Kitiara's voice calling to him. The gray mist that
was empty . . .

Mina stood up. She had taken no hurt, seemingly, for her
body was whole, her armor unblemished. She remained in
the cave for several moments, watching the dragon,
imprisoning his image behind her long lashes. Then she
turned on her heel and walked from his lair.

The blind beggar remained crouched in the darkness
of his hiding place while he tried to understand what
had happened. He had arrived in Skie's lair at about the
same time as Mina, only Mirror had come in by one of
the back entrances, not by the front. His astonishment on
hearing and recognizing Mina's voice had been immense.
The last time he had seen her, he had met her on the road
leading to Silvanost. Though he could not see her with
his eyes, he had been able to see her through her voice.
He had heard stories about her all along his road, and he
had marveled that the orphan child he had known at the
Citadel of Light, the child who had disappeared so mys-
teriously, had returned even more mysteriously. She had
recognized him, known him for the silver dragon who
had once guarded the dtadel.

His astonishment at seeing her here, speaking to Skie,
was not so great as his astonishment at their conversation.

395

DRAQONLANCE T3)e Wan of Souls

He was starting to understand, starting to find answers to
his questions, but those answers were too astounding for
him yet to comprehend them fully.

The silver dragon felt the Blue's fury building. Mirror
trembled for Mina, not so much for her sake as for the
sake of the orphan child she had been. Mirror would
have to be the one to return to tell Goldmoon the horrible
fate of the child she had once so loved. He heard the
cracking of the lightning, bent beneath the shock wave of
the thunder.

But it was not Mina who cried out in agony. The voice
of pain was Side's. Now the great blue dragon was quiet,
except for a low, piteous moan.

Footsteps—booted, human footsteps—echoed in the
lair and faded away.

Mirror felt more than heard the irregular thumping of
Skie's heart, felt it pulse through the cavern so that it
jarred his body. The giant heart was slowing. Mirror
heard the soft moan of anger and despair.

Even a blind dragon was more at home in these twist-
ing corridors than a human—sighted or not. A dragon
could find his way through them faster. Mirror had once,
long ago, been larger than the Blue. That had changed.
Skie had grown enormous, and now Mirror knew the
reason why. Skie was not of Krynn.

Transforming himself into his true dragon form,
Mirror was able to move without hindrance through the
corridors of Skie's lair. The silver dragon glided along
the passage, his wings folded tightly at his side, reach-
ing out with his senses as a sightless human gropes with
his hands. Sound and smell and a knowledge of how
dragons build their lairs guided him, leading him in the
direction of that last tortured cry of shock and pain.

Mirror advanced cautiously. There were other blue
dragons in the vicinity of the lair. Mirror could hear

396

DnaqoNS op a Lost Slan

their voices, though they were faint, and he could not
understand what they said. He could smell their scent, a
mixture of dragon and thunder, and he feared one or
more of them might return to see what had befallen their
leader. If the blues discovered Mirror, the blind silver
would not stand a chance in battle against them.

The voices of the blue dragons died away. He heard
the flapping of their wings. The lair stank of blue dragon,
but instinct told Mirror the others were gone. They had
left Skie to die. The other blues had deserted him to
follow Mina.

Mirror was not surprised, nor did he blame them. He
recalled vividly his own meeting with her. She had offered
to heal him, and he had been tempted, sorely tempted, to
let her. He had wished not so much that she would
restore his sight but that she would restore to him some-
thing he had lost with the departure of the gods. He had
found it, to his dismay. He had refused to allow her near
him. The darkness that surrounded her was far deeper
than the darkness that enveloped him.

Mirror reached the lair where Skie lay, gasping and
choking. The Blue's immense tail twitched, back and
forth, thumping the walls spasmodically. His body jerked,
scraping against the floor, his wings flapped, his head
thrashed. His daws scrabbled against the rock.

Mirror might be able to heal the body of the Blue, but
that would avail Mirror little if he could not heal Side's
mind. Loyalty to Kitiara had turned to love, a hopeless
love that had darkened to an obsession that had been
fed and fostered so long as it served a useful purpose.
When the purpose was complete, the obsession became
a handy weapon.

It would be an act of mercy to let the tormented Skie
die. Mirror could not afford to be merciful. He needed
answers. He needed to know if what he feared was true.

397

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl?e Wan of Soute

Crouching in the cavern beside the body of his
dying enemy. Mirror lifted his silver wings, spread them
over Skie, and began to speak in the ancient language
of the dragons.

398

DnaooNS OF a Lost Stan

their voices, though they were faint, and he could not
understand what they said. He could smell their scent, a
mixture of dragon and thunder, and he feared one or
more of them might return to see what had befallen their
leader. If the blues discovered Mirror, the blind silver
would not stand a chance in battle against them.

The voices of the blue dragons died away. He heard
the flapping of their wings. The lair stank of blue dragon,
but instinct told Mirror the others were gone. They had
left Skie to die. The other blues had deserted him to
follow Mina.

Mirror was not surprised, nor did he blame them. He
recalled vividly his own meeting with her. She had offered
to heal him, and he had been tempted, sorely tempted, to
let her. He had wished not so much that she would
restore his sight but that she would restore to him some-
thing he had lost with the departure of the gods. He had
found it, to his dismay. He had refused to allow her near
him. The darkness that surrounded her was far deeper
than the darkness that enveloped him.

Mirror reached the lair where Skie lay, gasping and
choking. The Blue's immense tail twitched, back and
forth, thumping the walls spasmodically. His body jerked,
scraping against the floor, his wings flapped, his head
thrashed. His daws scrabbled against the rock.

Mirror might be able to heal the body of the Blue, but
that would avail Mirror little if he could not heal Side's
mind. Loyalty to Kitiara had turned to love, a hopeless
love that had darkened to an obsession that had been
fed and fostered so long as it served a useful purpose.
When the purpose was complete, the obsession became
a handy weapon.

It would be an act of mercy to let the tormented Skie
die. Mirror could not afford to be merciful. He needed
answers. He needed to know if what he feared was true.

397

DRAQONLANCE OTe Ware OF Souls

Crouching in the cavern beside the body of his
dying enemy. Mirror lifted his silver wings, spread them
over Skie, and began to speak in the ancient language
of the dragons.

398

27
'CDe City SluMbcns




itting in the dark on the wooden plank that was
his bed in the cell, listening to his fourth Uncle
Trapspringer tale in an hour, Gerard wondered if
strangling a kender was punishable by death or if it would
be considered a meritorious act, worthy of commendation.
"... Uncle Trapspringer traveled to Flotsam in
company with five other kender, a gnome, and a gully
dwarf, whose name I can't remember. I think it was
Phudge. No, that was a gully dwarf I met once. Rolf?
Well, maybe. Anyway, let's say it was Rolf. Not that it
matters because Uncle Trapspringer never saw the
gully dwarf again. To go on with the story. Uncle Trap-
springer had come across this pouch of steel coins. He
couldn't remember where, he thought maybe someone
had dropped it. If so, no one had come to claim it from
him, so he decided that since possession is nine-tenths
of a cat's lives he would spend some of the steel on
magic artifacts, rings, charms, and a potion or two. Uncle
Trapspringer was exceedingly fond of magic. He used

399

DRAQONLANCE •Cl^e Wan oy Souls

to have a saying that you never knew when a good
potion would come in handy, you just had to remember
to hold your nose when you drank it. He went to this
mage-ware shop, but the moment he walked in the
door the most marvelous thing happened. The owner of
the mage-ware shop happened to be a wizard, and the
wizard told Uncle Trapspringer that not far from Flot-
sam was a cave where a black dragon lived, and the
dragon had the most amazing collection of magical
objects anywhere on Krynn, and the wizard just couldn't
take Uncle Trapspringer's money when, with a little
effort. Uncle Trapspringer could kill the black dragon and
have all the magical objects he wanted. Now, Uncle Trap-
springer thought this was an excellent idea. He asked
directions to the cave, which the wizard most obligingly
gave him, and he—"

"Shut up!" said Gerard through clenched teeth.

"I beg your pardon?" said Tasslehoff. "Did you say
something?"

"I said 'shut up.' I'm trying to sleep."

"But I'm just coming to the good part. Where Uncle
Trapspringer and the five other kender go to the cave
and—"

"If you don't be quiet, I will come over there and quiet
you," said Gerard in a tone that meant it. He rolled over
on his side.

"Sleep is really a waste of time, if you ask me—"

"No one did. Be quiet."

"I_"

"Quiet."

He heard the sound of a small kender body squirming
about on a hard wooden plank—the bed opposite where
Gerard lay. In order to torture him, they had locked him
in the same cell as the kender and had put the gnome in
the next cell over.

400

DRBQONS of a Lost Stare

" 'Thieves will fall out,' " the warden had remarked.

Gerard had never hated anyone in his life so much as
he hated this warden.

The gnome. Conundrum, had spent a good twenty
minutes yammering about writs and warrants and Klein-
hoffel vs. Mencklewink and a good deal about someone
named Miranda, until he had eventually talked himself
into a stupor. At least Gerard supposed that was what had
happened. There had been a gargle and a thump from the
direction of the gnome's cell and then blessed silence.

Gerard had just been drifting off himself when
Tasslehoff—who had fallen asleep the moment the gnome
had opened his mouth—awakened the moment the
gnome was quiet and launched into Uncle Trapspringer.

Gerard had put up with it for a long time, mostly due
to the fact that the kender's stories had a numbing effect
on him, rather like repeatedly hitting his head against a
stone wall. Frustrated, angry—angry at the Knights, angry
at himself, angry at fate that had forced him into this
untenable position—he lay on the hard plank, unable to
go back to sleep, and worried about what was happening
in Qualinesti. He wondered what Medan and Laurana
must think of him. He should have returned by now, and
he feared they must have decided he was a coward who,
when faced with battle, had run away.

As to his predicament here, the Lord Knight had said
he would send a messenger to Lord Warren, but the gods
knew how long that would take. Could they even find
Lord Warren? He might have pulled out of Solace. Or he
might be fighting for his life against Beryl. The Lord
Knights said they would inquire around Solanthus to find
someone who knew his family, but Gerard gave that long
odds. First someone would actually have to inquire and
in his cynical and pessimistic mood, he doubted if the
Knights would trouble themselves. Second, if someone

401

DRAQONLANCE QIC WBR Of SOUlS

did know his father, that person might not know Gerard.
In the past ten years, Gerard had done what he could to
avoid going back home.

Gerard tossed and turned and, as one is prone to do
during a restless, sleepless night, he let his fears and his
worries grow completely out of proportion. The kender's
voice had been a welcome distraction from his dark
thoughts, but now it had turned into the constant and
annoying drip of rain through a hole in the roof. Having
'fretted himself into exhaustion, Gerard turned his face to
the wall. He ignored the kender's pathetic wrigglings
and squirmings, intended, no doubt, to make him—
Gerard—feel guilty and ask for another story.

He was floating on sleep's surface when he heard, or
imagined he heard, someone singing a lullaby.

Sleep, love; forever sleep.
Your soul the night will keep.
Embrace the darkness deep.
Sleep, love; forever sleep.

The song was restful, soothing. Relaxing beneath the
song's influence, Gerard was sinking beneath peaceful
waves when a voice came out of the darkness, a
woman's voice.

"Sir Knight?" the woman called.

Gerard woke, his heart pounding. He lay still. His first
thought was that it was Lady Odila, come to torment him
some more. He knew better almost at once, however. The
voice had a different note, a more musical quality, and the
accent was not Solamnic. Furthermore Lady Odila would
have never referred to him as "Sir Knight."

Warm, yellow light chased away the darkness. He
rolled over on his side so that he could see who it was
who came to him in the middle of the night in prison.

402

DnaQONS of a Lost Stare

He couldn't find her at first. The woman had paused
at the bottom of the stairs to hear a reply, and the wall of
the stairwell shielded her from his sight. The light she
held wavered a moment, then began to move. The woman
rounded the corner and he could see her clearly. White
robes shimmered yellow-white in the candlelight. Her
hair was spun silver and gold.

"Sir Knight?" she called again, looking searchingly
about.

"Goldmoon!" cried out Tasslehoff. He waved his hand.
"Over here!"

"Is that you, Tas? Keep your voice down. I'm looking
for the Knight, Sir Gerard—"

"I am here. First Master," Gerard said.

Sliding off the plank, bewildered, he crossed the cell
to stand near the iron bars, so that she could see him. The
kender reached the bars in a single convulsive leap,
thrust both arms out between the bars and most of his
face. The gnome was awake, too, picking himself up off
the floor. Conundrum looked groggy, bleary-eyed, and
extremely suspicious.

Goldmoon held in her hand a long, white taper. Lift-
ing the light close to Gerard's face, she studied him long
and searchingly.

"Tasslehoff," she said, turning to the kender, "is this
the Knight of Solamnia you told me about, the same
Knight who took you to see Palin in Qualinesti?"

"Oh, yes, this is the same Knight, Goldmoon," said
Tasslehoff.

Gerard flushed. "I know that you find this impossible to
credit. First Master. But in this instance, the kender is
telling the truth. The fact that I was found wearing the
emblem of a Dark Knight—"

"Please say nothing more. Sir Knight," Goldmoon inter-
rupted abruptly. "I do believe Tas. I know him. I have

403

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl^e Ware of Souls

known him for many years. He told me that you were gal-
lant and brave and that you were a good friend to him."

Gerard's flush deepened. Tas's "good friend" had been
wondering, only moments earlier, how he might dispose
of the kender's body.

"The best friend," Tasslehoff was saying. "The best
friend I have in all the world. Thafs why I came looking
for him. Now we've found each other, and we're locked
up together, just like old times. I was telling Gerard all
about Uncle Trapspringer—"

"Where am I?" the gnome asked suddenly. "Who are
all of you?"

"First Master, I must explain—" Gerard began.

Goldmoon raised her hand, a commanding gesture
that silenced all of them, including Tasslehoff. "I do not
need explanations." Her eyes were again intent upon
Gerard. "You Hew here on a blue dragon."

"Yes, First Master. As I was about to tell you, I had
no choice—"

"Yes, yes. It makes no difference. Haste is what counts.
The Lady Knight said the dragon was still in the area, that
they had searched for it but could not find it, yet they
knew it was near. Is that true?"

"I... I have no way of knowing. First Master." Gerard
was mystified. At first he thought she had come to accuse
him, then maybe to pray for him or whatever Mystics
did. Now he did know what she wanted. "I suppose it
might be. The blue dragon promised to wait for me to
return. I had planned to deliver my message to the
Knights' Council, then fly back to Qualinesti, to do what
I could to assist the elves in their battle."

"Take me there. Sir Knight."

Gerard stared at her blankly.

"I must go there," she continued, and her voice sounded
frantic. "Don't you understand? I must find a way to go

404

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

there, and you and your dragon will carry me. Tas, you
remember how to get back, don't you?"

"To Qualinesti?" Tas said, excited. "Sure, I know the
way! I have all these maps—"

"Not Qualinesd," Goldmoon said. "The Tower of High
Sorcery. Dalamar's Tower in Nightlund. You said you
were there, Tas. You will show me the way."

"First Master," Gerard faltered, "I am a prisoner. You
heard the charges against me. I cannot go anywhere."

Goldmoon wrapped her hand around one of the bars
of the cell. She tightened her grip until the knuckles on
that hand grew as white as bare bone. "The warden
sleeps under the enchantment I cast upon him. He will
not stop me. No one will stop me. I must go to the Tower.
I must speak with Dalamar and Palin. I could walk, and I
will walk, if I have to, but the dragon is faster. You will
take me, won't you. Sir Gerard?"

Goldmoon had been the ruler of her people. All her
life, she had been a leader. She was accustomed to com-
mand and to being obeyed. Her beauty moved him.
Her sorrow touched him. Beyond that, she offered him
his freedom. Freedom to return to Qualinesti, to join the
battle there, to live or die with those he had come to
care for.

'The key to the cell is on the ring the warden carries—"
he began.

"I have no need of it," Goldmoon said.

She dosed her hand over the iron bars. The iron began
to dissolve, melting like the wax of her candle. A hole
formed in the center as the iron bars drooped, curled over.

Gerard stared. "How..." His voice was a hoarse croak.

"Hurry," Goldmoon said.

He did not move but continued to stare at her.

"I don't know how," she said and a note of despera-
tion made her voice tremble. "I don't know how I have

405

DRAQONLANCE 'CDe Wan of Souls

the power to do what I do. I don't know where I heard the
words to the song of enchantment I sang. I know only
that whatever I want I am given."

"Ah, now I remember who this woman is!" Conun-
drum heaved a sigh. "Dead people."

Gerard didn't understand, but then this was nothing
new. He had not understood much of anything that had
happened to him in the past month.

"Why start now?" Gerard muttered, as he stepped
through the bars. He wondered where they had stashed
his sword.

"Come along, Tas," Goldmoon said sternly. "This is no
time to play games."

Instead of leaping joyously to freedom, the Render had
suddenly and inexplicably retreated to the very farthest
comer of the cell.

"Thank you for thinking of me, Goldmoon," Tassle-
hoff said, settling himself in the comer, "and thank you
for melting the bars of the cell. That was wonderful and
something you don't see everyday. Ordinarily I'd be glad
to go with you, but it would be rude to leave my good
friend Conundrum here. He's the best friend I have in all
the world—"

Making a sound expressive of exasperation, Goldmoon
touched the bars of the gnome's cell. The bars dissolved,
as had the others. Conundrum climbed out the hole. Brow
furrowed, he squatted with his hands on his knees, and
began scraping up the iron meltings, muttering to himself
something about smelting.

"I'll bring the gnome, Tas," Goldmoon said impatiently.
"Now come out of there at once."

"We had better hurry. First Master," Gerard warned.
He would have been quite happy to leave both gnome
and kender behind. 'The jailer's relief arrives two hours
past midnight—"

406

DnaqoNS of a Lost SIBR

"He will not come this night," Goldmoon said. "He will
sleep past his time. But you are right. We must make haste,
for I am called. Tas, come out of that cell this minute."

"Don't make me, Goldmoon!" Tasslehoff begged in
pitiful tones. "Don't make me go back to the Tower. You
don't know what they want to do to me. Dalamar and
Palin mean to murder me."

"Don't be silly. Palin would never—" Goldmoon paused.
Her severe expression softened. "Ah, I understand. I had
forgotten. The Device of Time Journeying."

Tasslehoff nodded.

"I thought it was broken," he said. "Palin threw parts
of it at the draconians, and it exploded, and I figured thafs
one thing I don't have to worry about anymore."

He gave a mournful sigh. "Then I reached into my
pocket, and there it was. Still in pieces, but all the pieces
were back in my pocket. I've thrown them away, time and
again. I even tried giving them away, but they keep coming
back to me. Even broken, they keep coming back." Tas
looked at Goldmoon pleadingly. "If I go back to the Tower,
they'll find it, and they'll fix it, and I'll have to be stepped
on by a giant, and I'll die. I don't want to die, Goldmoon!
I don't want to! Please don't make me."

Gerard almost suggested to Goldmoon that he hit the
kender on the jaw and haul him out bodily, but on second
thought, he kept silent. The kender looked so completely
and utterly miserable that Gerard found himself feeling
sorry for him. Goldmoon entered the cell and sat next to
the kender.

"Tas," Goldmoon said gently, reaching out her hand
and stroking back a lock of hair that had escaped his top-
knot and was straggling over his face, "I can't promise
you that this will have a good and happy ending. Right
now, to me it seems that it must end very badly. I have

407

DRAQONLANCE 'OJG Wan of Souls

been following a river of souls, Tas. They gather at Night-
lund. They do not go there of their own free will. They are
prisoners, Tas. They are under some sort of terrible con-
straint. Caramon is with them, and Tika, Riverwind, and
my daughter; perhaps all those we love. I want to find
out why. I want to find out what is happening. You tell
me that Dalamar is in Nightiund. I must see him, Tas. I
must speak to him. Perhaps he is the cause...."

Tasslehoff shook his head. "I don't think so. Dala-
mar's a prisoner, too, at least that's what he told Palin."
The kender hung his head and plucked nervously at his
shirt front. "There's something else, Goldmoon. Some-
thing I haven't told anyone. Something that happened
to me in Nightiund."

"What is it, Tas?" Goldmoon looked concerned.
The kender had lost his jaunty gaiety. He was droop-
ing and wan and shivering—shivering with fright. Gerard
was amazed. He had often felt that a really good scare
would be beneficial for a kender, would teach the rattle-
brained little imps that life was not picnics by the tomb
and taunting sheriffs and swiping gewgaws. Life was
earnest and hard, and it was meant to be taken seriously.
Now, seeing Tas dejected and fearful, Gerard looked
away. He didn't know why, but he had the feeling that
he had lost something, that he and the world had both
lost something.

"Goldmoon," said Tas in an awful whisper, "I saw
myself in that wood."

"What do you mean, Tas?" she asked gently.
"I saw my own ghost!" Tas said, and he shuddered.
"It wasn't at all exciting. Not like I thought seeing one's
own ghost would be. I was lost and alone, and I was
searching for someone or something. It may sound
funny, I know, but I always thought that after I died, I'd
meet up with Flint somewhere. Maybe we'd go off

408

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

"He will not come this night," Goldmoon said. "He will
sleep past his time. But you are right. We must make haste,
for I am called. Tas, come out of that cell this minute."

"Don't make me, Goldmoon!" Tasslehoff begged in
pitiful tones. "Don't make me go back to the Tower. You
don't know what they want to do to me. Dalamar and
Palm mean to murder me."

"Don't be silly. Palin would never—" Goldmoon paused.
Her severe expression softened. "Ah, I understand. I had
forgotten. The Device of Time Journeying."

Tasslehoff nodded.

"I thought it was broken," he said. "Palin threw parts
of it at the draconians, and it exploded, and I figured thafs
one thing I don't have to worry about anymore."

He gave a mournful sigh. "Then I reached into my
pocket, and there it was. Still in pieces, but all the pieces
were back in my pocket. I've thrown them away, time and
again. I even tried giving them away, but they keep coming
back to me. Even broken, they keep coming back." Tas
looked at Goldmoon pleadingly. "If I go back to the Tower,
they'll find it, and they'll fix it, and I'll have to be stepped
on by a giant, and I'll die. I don't want to die, Goldmoon!
I don't want to! Please don't make me."

Gerard almost suggested to Goldmoon that he hit the
kender on the jaw and haul him out bodily, but on second
thought, he kept silent. The kender looked so completely
and utterly miserable that Gerard found himself feeling
sorry for him. Goldmoon entered the cell and sat next to
the kender.

"Tas," Goldmoon said gently, reaching out her hand
and stroking back a lock of hair that had escaped his top-
knot and was straggling over his face, "I can't promise
you that this will have a good and happy ending. Right
now, to me it seems that it must end very badly. I have

407

DnaqoNS Of a Lost Stan

adventuring together, or maybe we'd just rest, and I'd tell
him stories. But I wasn't adventuring. I was just alone ...
and lost... and unhappy."

He looked up at her, and Gerard was startled to see the
track of a single tear trickle down through the grime on
the kender's cheek.

"\ don't want to be dead like that, Goldmoon. That's
why I can't go back."

"Don't you see, Tas?" Goldmoon said. "That's why
you have to go back. I can't explain it, but I am certain that
what you and I have both seen is wrong. Life on this
world is meant to be a way-stop on a longer journey. Our
souls are supposed to move on to the next plane, to con-
tinue learning and growing. Perhaps we may linger, wait
to join loved ones, as my dear Riverwind waits for me
and somewhere, perhaps, Flint waits for you. But none of
us can leave, apparently. You and I together must try to
free these prisoner souls who are locked in the cell of the
world as surely as you were locked in this cell. The only
way we can do that is to go back to Nightlund. The heart
of the mystery lies there."

She held out her hand to Tasslehoff. "Will you come?"

"You won't let them send me back?" he bargained,
hesitating.

"I promise that the decision to go back or not will be
yours," she said. "I won't let them send you back against
your will."

"Very well," Tas said, standing up and dusting himself
off and glancing about to see that he had all his pouches.
"I'll take you to the Tower, Goldmoon. It just so happens
that I have an extremely reliable body compass...."

At this juncture. Conundrum, who had finished scrap-
ing up the melted iron, began to discourse on such things
as compasses and binnacles and lodestones and his great-
great-uncle's theory on why north could be found in the

409

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfte Wan of Souls

north and not in the south, a theory that had proved to be
quite controversial and was still being argued to this day.

Goldmoon paid no attention to the gnome's expostu-
lations or Tasslehoff's desultory replies. She was imbued
with a fixed purpose, and she went forward to achieve it.
Unafraid, calm, and composed, she led them up the stairs,
past the slumbering warden slumped over his desk, and
out of the prison.

They hastened through Solanthus, a city of sleep and
silence and half-light, for the sky was pearl gray with the
coming of dawn. The gnome wound down like a spent
spring. Tasslehoff was uncharacteristically quiet. Their
footfalls made no sound. They might have been ghosts
themselves as they roamed the empty streets. They saw
no one, and no one saw them. They encountered no
patrols. They met no farmer coming to market, no
carousers stumbling home from the taverns. No dog
barked, no baby cried.

Gerard had a strange impression of Goldmoon passing
over the dty streets, her cloak billowing out behind her,
blanketing the dty, dosing eyes that were starting to open,
lulling those who were waking back into sweet slumber.

They left Solanthus by the front gate, where no one
was awake to stop them.

410

28

Ovenstept




ady Odila woke to find the sun blazing in her
eyes. She sat straight up in bed, irritated and
annoyed. She was not generally a late sleeper/-
her usual time to rise being shortly before the gray light
of dawn filtered through her window. She hated sleeping
late. She was dull and listless, and her head ached. She
felt as if she had spent the night carousing. True, after the
Knights' Council, she had gone to the Dog and Duck, a
tavern favored by members of the Knighthood, but not to
drink. She had done what she had promised the First
Master she would do: She had asked around to see if
anyone knew or had ever met Gerard uth Mondar.

None of the Knights had, but one knew of someone
who came from that part of Ansalon or thereabouts and
another thought perhaps his wife's seamstress had a
brother who had been a sailor and might have worked
for Gerard's father. Not very satisfactory. Odila had
lifted a mug of hard dder with her comrades and then
gone to her bed.

411

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

Had everyone in Solanthus overslept?

Odila pondered this disturbing question. What had
seemed an odd and annoying occurrence was now start-
ing to take on sinister significance. She had no reason to
think this unusual bout of slothfulness on the part of
Solanthus's inhabitants had anything to do with the pris-
oners, but, just to make certain, she altered her direction,
headed for the prison.

She arrived to find everything peaceful. To be sure, the
warden was sprawled over his desk, snoring blissfully, but
the keys still hung from their hook on the wall. She woke
the sleeping warden with a sharp rap of her knuckles on
his bald pate. He sat straight up, windng and blinking at
her in confusion. While the warden rubbed his head, she
made the rounds to find that the prison's inmates were all
slumbering soundly in their cells. The prison had never
been so quiet.

Relieved, Odila decided she would check on Gerard
while she was here, to let him know that she knew people
who might be able to swear to his identity. She walked
down the stairs, rounded the comer and stopped and
stared in amazement. Shaking her head, she turned on
her heel and walked slowly up the stairs.

"And I had just decided he was telling the truth," she
said to herself. "That will teach me to admire cornflower-
blue eyes. Men! Bom liars, every one of them.

"Sound the alarm!" she ordered the sleep-befuddled
warden. 'Turn out the guard. The prisoners have escaped."

She paused a moment, wondering what to do. First
disappointed, she was now angry. She had trusted him,
the absent gods knew why, and he had betrayed her.
Not the first time this had happened to her, but she
intended it should be the last. Turning, she headed for
the stables. She knew where Gerard and his friends had
gone, where they must go. He would head for his dragon.

413

DRAQONLANCE 'CtJe Wan of Souls

When she reached the stables, she checked to see if any
horses were missing. None were, and so she assumed
that the Knight must be on foot. She was relieved. The
gnome and kender, with their short legs, would slow
him down.

Mounting her horse, she galloped through the streets
of Solanthus that were slowly coming to life, as if the
entire city was suffering from the ill effects of a wild
drinking bout.

She passed through the numerous gates, pausing only
long enough to determine if the guards had seen any-
thing of the prisoners in the night. They hadn't, but then,
by the looks of them, they hadn't seen anything except
the insides of their eyelids. She arrived at the final gate to
find Starmaster Mikelis there, as well.

The guards were red in the face, chagrined. Their
superior was speaking to Mikelis.

"—caught sleeping on duty," he was saying irately.

Odila reigned in her horse. "What is the matter. Star-
master?" she asked.

Absorbed in his own troubles, he did not recognize
her from the trial. "The First Master has gone missing.
She did not sleep in her bed last night—"

"She was the only one in Solanthus who did not sleep,
apparently," Lady Odila returned with a shrug. "Perhaps
she went to visit a friend."

The Starmaster was shaking his head. "No, I have
looked everywhere, spoken to everyone. No one has seen
her since she left the Knights' Council."

Odila paused, considered this. "The Knights' Council.
Where the First Master spoke in defense of Gerard uth
Mondar. It might interest you to know, Starmaster, that
last night the prisoner escaped from his cell."

The Starmaster looked shocked. "Surely, Lady Knight,
you're not suggesting—"

414

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

"He had help," Odila said, frowning, "help that could
have come only from someone who has mystical powers."

"I don't believe it!" Starmaster Mikelis cried heatedly.
"First Master Goldmoon would never—"

Odila didn't wait to hear anymore about First Master
Goldmoon. Spurring her horse to a gallop, she rode out of
the gate and down the main road. As she rode, she tried
to sort all this out. She had believed Gerard's story—
strange and bizarre though it might be. She had been
impressed by his eloquent plea at the end of the trial, a
plea not for himself but for the elves of Qualinesti. She
had been deeply impressed by the First Master, and that
was odd, considering that Lady Odila did not put much
stock in miracles of the heart or whatever it was clerics
were peddling these days. She even believed the kender,
and it was at that point that she wondered if she was run-
ning a fever.

Odila had ridden about two miles from the city when
she saw a rider approaching her. He was riding fast,
bent over his steed, kicking his horse in the flanks to
urge it to even greater speed. Spittle whipped from the
horse's mouth as it thundered past Odila. She recog-
nized by his garb that the man was a scout and concluded
that the news he brought must be urgent, judging from
the breakneck pace he set. She was curious but contin-
ued on her way. Whatever news he brought, it would
keep until she returned.

She had ridden another two miles when she heard the
first hom call.

Odila reigned in her steed, turned in the saddle, stared
back in consternation at the walls of the dty. Horns and
now drums were sounding the call to arms. An enemy
had been sighted, approaching the city in force. To the
west, a large cloud of dust obscured the horizon line.
Odila stared at the dust cloud intently, trying to see what

415

DRAQONLANCE U»e Wan of Souls

caused it, but she was too far away. She sat for a moment,
irresolute. The horns called her back to duty behind the
city walls. Her own sense of duty called her to continue
on, to recapture the escaped prisoner.

Or, at least, to have a talk with him.

Odila cast a final glance at the dust cloud, noted that it
appeared to be drawing nearer. She increased her speed
down the road.

She kept close watch along the side of the highway,
hoping to find the location where the group had left the
road to go in search of their dragon. A few more miles
brought her to the spot. She was surprised and oddly
pleased to find that they had not even bothered to hide
their tracks. An escaping felon—a cunning and hardened
criminal—would have worked to throw pursuers off his
trail. The party had cut a wide swath in the waving prairie
grass. Here and there small excursions slanted off to the
side as if someone—probably the kender—had wandered
off, only to be hauled back.

Odila turned her horse's head and began following the
dearly marked path. As she rode farther, drawing nearer
to the stream, she came upon more evidence that she was
on the right trail, sighting various objects that must have
tumbled out of the kender's pouches: a bent spoon, a shin-
ing piece of mica, a silver ring, a tankard with Lord Tas-
gall's crest. She was among the trees now, riding along the
bank of the stream where she had first caught Gerard.

The ground was damp from the morning mists, and
she could see footprints: one pair of large booted feet, one
pair of smaller feet wearing boots with soft soles, one pair
of small kender feet—they were in front—and another
pair of small feet straggling behind. Those must belong to
the gnome.

Odila came to a place where three of them had halted
and one had gone on ahead—the Knight, of course, going

416

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

to seek out the dragon. She could see some signs that the
kender had started to go with the Knight but had appar-
ently been ordered back, because the small footprints,
toes dragging, reversed themselves. She could see where
the Knight had returned and the rest had gone forward
with him.

Dismounting, Odila left her horse by the side of the
river with a command to remain there until summoned.
She proceeded forward on foot, moving silently, but with
as much haste as she could. The footprints were fresh.
The ground was just now starting to dry with the mom-
ing sun. She had no fear that she would be too late. She
had kept watch on the skies to catch sight of a blue dragon,
but she had seen no sign of one.

It would take some time, she reasoned, for the Knight
to persuade a blue dragon—known to be extremely proud
and wholly dedicated to the cause of evil—to carry a
kender, a gnome, and a Mystic of the Citadel of Light. For
that matter, Odila could not imagine the First Master,
who had long ago risked her life to battle blue dragons
and all they stood for, agreeing to come near a blue
dragon, much less ride on one.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Odila said to herself.

The horn calls were distant, but she could still hear
them. The city's bells were ringing now, too, warning the
farmers and shepherds and those who lived outside the
city to leave their homes and seek the safety of the dty's
walls. Odila strained her ears, focused on one sound, a
sound apart from the hom calls and the wild clamoring
of the bells. Voices.

Odila crept forward, listening. She recognized Gerard's
voice and Goldmoon's. She loosened her sword in its
sheath. Her plan was to rush in, knock down Gerard before
he could react, and hold him hostage in order to prevent
the dragon from attacking. Of course, depending on the

417

DRAQONLANCE 'CT)€ Wan of Souls

relationship between dragon and Knight, the blue might
well attack her with no regard for what happened to its
master. That was a risk Odila was prepared to take. She
was sick and tired of being lied to. Here was one man
who was going to tell her the truth or die in the process.

Odila recognized this cavern. She had come across it in
her earlier attempts to capture the dragon. She and her
patrol had searched the cave but had found no trace of
the beast. He must have moved here afterward, she con-
cluded, venturing forward. Concentrating on her footing,
taking care that she did not crack a stick beneath her boot,
or tread on a pile of rustling leaves, she listened intently
to what the voices were saying.

"Razor will carry you into Nightlund, First Master."
Gerard was speaking, his voice low and deferential,
respectful. "If, as the kender claims, the Tower of High
Sorcery is located there, the dragon will find it. You need
not rely on the kender's directions. But I beg you to
reconsider. First Master." His voice grew more earnest,
his tone more intense. "Nightlund has an evil reputation
that, from all I have heard, is well deserved."

A pause, then, "Very well. First Master, if you are com-
mitted to this action—"

"I am. Sir Knight." Goldmoon's voice, clear and res-
olute, echoed in the cave.

Gerard spoke again. "Caramon's dying request was
for me to take Tasslehoff to Dalamar. Perhaps I should
reconsider and travel with you." He sounded reluctant.
"Yet, you hear the horns. Solanthus is under attack. I
should be back there...."

"I know what Caramon intended. Sir Gerard," said
Goldmoon, "and why he made that request. You have
done more than enough to fulfill his last wishes. I absolve
you of the responsibility. Your life and that of the kender
have been intertwined, but the threads are now untangled.

418

DnagoNS of a Lost Stan

to seek out the dragon. She could see some signs that the
Render had started to go with the Knight but had appar-
ently been ordered back, because the small footprints,
toes dragging, reversed themselves. She could see where
the Knight had returned and the rest had gone forward
with him.

Dismounting, Odila left her horse by the side of the
river with a command to remain there until summoned.
She proceeded forward on foot, moving silently, but with
as much haste as she could. The footprints were fresh.
The ground was just now starting to dry with the mom-
ing sun. She had no fear that she would be too late. She
had kept watch on the skies to catch sight of a blue dragon,
but she had seen no sign of one.

It would take some time, she reasoned, for the Knight
to persuade a blue dragon—known to be extremely proud
and wholly dedicated to the cause of evil—to carry a
kender, a gnome, and a Mystic of the Citadel of Light. For
that matter, Odila could not imagine the First Master,
who had long ago risked her life to battle blue dragons
and all they stood for, agreeing to come near a blue
dragon, much less ride on one.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Odila said to herself.

The hom calls were distant, but she could still hear
them. The city's bells were ringing now, too, warning the
farmers and shepherds and those who lived outside the
city to leave their homes and seek the safety of the city's
walls. Odila strained her ears, focused on one sound, a
sound apart from the hom calls and the wild clamoring
of the bells. Voices.

Odila crept forward, listening. She recognized Gerard's
voice and Goldmoon's. She loosened her sword in its
sheath. Her plan was to rush in, knock down Gerard before
he could react, and hold him hostage in order to prevent
the dragon from attacking. Of course, depending on the

417

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfte ware of Souls

relationship between dragon and Knight, the blue might
well attack her with no regard for what happened to its
master. That was a risk Odila was prepared to take. She
was sick and tired of being lied to. Here was one man
who was going to tell her the truth or die in the process.

Odila recognized this cavern. She had come across it in
her earlier attempts to capture the dragon. She and her
patrol had searched the cave but had found no trace of
the beast. He must have moved here afterward, she con-
cluded, venturing forward. Concentrating on her footing,
taking care that she did not crack a stick beneath her boot,
or tread on a pile of rustling leaves, she listened intently
to what the voices were saying.

"Razor will carry you into Nightlund, First Master."
Gerard was speaking, his voice low and deferential,
respectful. "If, as the kender claims, the Tower of High
Sorcery is located there, the dragon will find it. You need
not rely on the kender's directions. But I beg you to
reconsider. First Master." His voice grew more earnest,
his tone more intense. "Nightlund has an evil reputation
that, from all I have heard, is well deserved."

A pause, then, "Very well. First Master, if you are com-
mitted to this action—"

"I am. Sir Knight." Goldmoon's voice, clear and res-
olute, echoed in the cave.

Gerard spoke again. "Caramon's dying request was
for me to take Tasslehoff to Dalamar. Perhaps I should
reconsider and travel with you." He sounded reluctant.
"Yet, you hear the horns. Solanthus is under attack. I
should be back there...."

"I know what Caramon intended. Sir Gerard," said
Goldmoon, "and why he made that request. You have
done more than enough to fulfill his last wishes. I absolve
you of the responsibility. Your life and that of the kender
have been intertwined, but the threads are now untangled.

418

DreaqoNe of a Lost Stan

You are right to return to defend Solanthus. I will go forth
on my own. What have you told the dragon about me?"

"I told Razor that you are a dark mystic, traveling in
disguise. You have brought the Render because he claims
to have found a way inside the Tower. The gnome is an
accomplice of the kender who will not be separated from
him. Razor believed me. Of course, he believed me."
Gerard was bitter. "Everyone believes the lies I tell. No
one believes the truth. What sort of strange, twisted
world do we inhabit?"

He sighed heavily.

"You have the letter from King Gilthas," Goldmoon
said. "They must believe that."

"Must they? You give them too much credit. You should
make haste. First Master." Gerard paused, arguing with
himself. "Yet, the more I think about it, the more I am
loath to allow you to enter Nighuund alone—"

"I need no protection," Goldmoon assured him, her
voice softening. "Nor do I think there is any protection
you could offer me. Whoever summons me will see to it
that I arrive safely at my destination. Do not lose faith
in the truth. Sir Gerard," she added gently, "and do not
fear the truth, no matter how awful it may seem."

Odila stood irresolute outside the cave, pondering what
to do. Gerard had a chance to escape, and he was not
taking it. He was planning to return to defend Solanthus.
Everyone believes the lies I tell. No one believes the truth.

Drawing her sword, gripping the hilt tightly in her
hand, Odila left the cover of the trees and walked boldly
into the mouth of the cave. Gerard stood with his back to
her, gazing into the darkness beyond. He wore the leathers
of a dragonrider, the only clothes he had, the same that
he'd worn in prison. He had recovered his sword and
sword belt. In his hand he held the leather headgear of a
dragonrider. He was alone.

419

DRA<50NLANCE 'OfC WBR Of SOUlS

Hearing Odila's footsteps, Gerard glanced around. He
sighted her, rolled his eyes, shook his head.

"You!" he muttered. "All I need." He looked away into
the darkness.

Odila thrust the tip of her sword into the back of his
neck. She noted, as she did so, that he'd made a hasty job
of putting on his leathers. Either that or he'd dressed in
the dark. The tunic was on backward.

"You are my prisoner," she said, her voice harsh. "Make
no move. Do not try to call out to the dragon. One word
and I will—"

"You'll what?" Gerard demanded.

Whipping around, he shoved aside her sword with his
hand and strode past her, out of the cave.

"Make haste. Lady, if you're coming," he said brusquely.
"Or we will arrive back in Solanthus after the battle has
ended."

Odila smiled, but only when his back was turned and
he couldn't see her. Rearranging her face to look stern
and severe, she hurried after him.

"Wait a minute!" she said. "Where do you think you
are going?"

"Back to Solanthus," he said coolly. "Don't you hear the
horns? The city is under attack."

"You are my prisoner—"

"Fine, I'm your prisoner," he said. Turning, he handed
her his sword. "Where is your horse? I don't suppose
you brought another one for me to ride. No, of course
not. That would have required forethought, and you have
all the brains of a newt. As I recall, however, your horse is
a sturdy animal. The distance back to Solanthus is not far.
He can carry us both."

Odila accepted the sword, used the hilt to rub her cheek.
"Where did the Mystic go? And the others? The kender
and the gnome. Your... um ... accomplices."

420

DnaooNS of a Lost Stan

"In there," Gerard said, waving his hand in the direc-
tion of the cave. "The dragon is in there, too, at the far
end. They plan to wait until nightfall before they leave.
Feel free to go back to confront the dragon. Espedally
since you brought only one horse."

Odila pressed her lips tightly together to keep from
laughing.

"You really intend to go back to Solanthus?" she
demanded, frowning darkly.

"I really do. Lady Knight."

"Then I guess you'll need this," she said and tossed
him his sword.

He was so startled, he fumbled, nearly dropped it.

Odila walked past, giving him a wink and sly look from
out the comer of her eye. "My horse can carry both of us,
Combread. As you yourself said, we'd best hurry. Oh, and
you better dose your mouth. You might swallow a fly."

Gerard stared, dumbfounded, then sprang after her.

"You believe me?"

"Now I do," she said pointedly. "I don't want to hurt
your feelings, Combread, but you're not clever enough to
have put on an act like the one I just witnessed. Besides"—
she sighed deeply—"your story is such a muddle, what
with young ninety-year-old crones, a dead living kender,
and a gnome. One has to believe it. No one could make up
something like that." She looked at him over her shoul-
der. "So you really do have a letter from the elf king?"

"Would you like to see it?" he asked with a grudging
smile.

Odila shook her head. "Not me. To be honest, I didn't
even know the elves had a king. Nor do I much care. But
ifs good that someone does, I guess. What sort of a fighter
are you, Combread? You don't look to have much in the
way of muscle." She glanced disdainfully at his arms.
"Maybe you're the small, wiry type."

421

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctfe Wan of Souls

"If Lord Tasgall will even let me fight," Gerard mut-
tered. "I will offer my parole that I will not try to escape. If
they will not accept it, I will do what I can to assist with the
wounded or put out fires or however else I may serve—"

"I think they'll believe you," she said. "As I said, a
story with a kender and a gnome ..."

They reached the place where Odila had left her horse.
Odila swung herself up into the saddle. She looked at
Gerard, who looked up at her. He truly had the most
startling blue eyes. She had never seen eyes that color
before, never seen eyes of such clarity and brilliance. She
reached out her hand to him.

Gerard grabbed hold, and she pulled him up to sit
uncomfortably on the horse's rump behind her. Clucking
her tongue, she commanded the horse forward.

"You had better put your arms around my waist. Corn-
bread," she said, "so that you don't fall off."

Gerard clasped his arms around her midriff, holding
her firmly, sliding forward on the horse's rump so that he
was pressed against her.

"Nothing personal. Lady Odila," he said.

"Ah, me," she returned with a gushy sigh. "And here
I was going to go choose my wedding dress."

"Don't you ever take anything seriously. Lady?" Gerard
asked, nettled.

"Not much," Odila answered, turning to grin at him.
"Why should I, Combread?"

"My name is Gerard."

"I know," she replied.

'Then why don't you call me that?"

She shrugged. 'The other suits you, thafs all."

"I think ifs because calling me by my name makes me
a person, not a joke. I despise women, and I have the feel-
ing you don't think much of men. We've both been hurt.
Maybe both of us fear life more than we fear death. We

422

DreaqoNS of a Lost StaR

can discuss that later over a cold pitcher of ale. But for
now let's agree on this much: You will call me Gerard. Or
Sir Gerard, if you prefer."

Odila thought she should have an answer to this, but
she couldn't come up with one readily, one that was funny,
at least. She urged her horse to a gallop.

"Stop!" Gerard said suddenly. "I thought I saw some-
thing."

Odila reined in the horse. The animal stood panting,
flanks heaving. They had emerged from the tree line
along the stream bank, were heading out into the open.
The road lay before them, dipped down into a shallow
depression before rising again to enter the city. She saw
now what Gerard had seen. What she should have seen if
she hadn't been so damn preoccupied with blue eyes.

Riders. Riders on horses. Hundreds of riders pouring
across the plains, coming from the west. They rode in for-
mation. Their flags fluttered in the wind. Sunlight gleamed
off spear tips and flashed off steel helms.

"An army of Dark Knights," said Odila.

"And they are between us and the city," said Gerard.

423

29
Capton Captive




uick, before they see us!" said Gerard. "Turn this
beast's head around. We can hide in the cave—"
"Hide!" Odila repeated, casting him a shocked
glance over her shoulder. Then she grinned. "1 like you,
Corn—" She paused, then said, with a wry smile, "Sir
Gerard. Any other Knight would have insisted we rush
into battle." Sitting up straight and tall, she placed her
hand on her sword hilt and declaimed, "I will stand and
fight though the odds are a hundred to one. My honor is
my life."

She turned her horse's head, began to ride back toward
the cave.

Now it was Gerard who looked shocked. "Don't you
believe that?"

"What good is your honor going to do you when you're
dead? What good will it do anyone? I'll tell you what. Sir
Gerard" she continued, "they'll make a song for you.
Some damn stupid song they'll sing in the taverns, and
all the fat shopkeepers will get misty-eyed and slobber in

424

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

their beer about the brave Knight who fought odds of six
hundred to one. But you know who won't be singing?
Those Knights inside Solanthus. Our comrades. Our
friends. The Knights who aren't going to have a chance to
fight a glorious battle in the name of honor. Those Knights
who have to fight to stay alive to protect people who have
put their trust in them.

"So maybe our swords are only two swords, and two
swords won't make a difference. What if every one of those
Solamnic Knights in Solanthus decided to ride out onto the
battlefield and challenge six hundred of the enemy to
glorious combat? What would happen to the peasants
who fled to the Knights for safety? Will the peasants die
gloriously, or will they be spitted on the end of some sol-
dier's spear? What will happen to the fat shopkeepers?
Will they die gloriously, or will they be forced to watch
while enemy soldiers rape their wives and daughters and
burn their shops to the ground. The way I see it. Sir
Gerard, we took an oath to protect these people. We didn't
take an oath to die gloriously and selfishly in some hope-
less, inane contest.

"The main objective of the enemy is to kill you. Every
day you remain alive you defeat their main objective.
Every day you stay alive you win and they lose—even if
it's only skulking about, hiding in a cave until you can
find a way to return to your comrades to fight alongside
them. That, to me, is honor."

Odila paused for breath. Her body trembled with the
intensity of her feeling.

"I never thought of it like that," Gerard admitted,
regarding her in admiration. "I guess there is something
you take seriously, after all. Lady Odila. Unfortunately, it
all appears to have been for nothing." He raised his arm,
pointed past her shoulder. "They've sent outriders to
guard the flanks. They've seen us."

425

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl7e Wan of Souls

A group of horsemen, who had been patrolling the
edge of the tree line, rode into view about a half mile
away. The horse and riders standing alone amidst the
prairie grass had been easily spotted. The patrol wheeled
as one and was now galloping toward them to investigate.

"I have an idea. Unbuckle your sword belt and give it
to me," Gerard said.

"What—" Frowning, Odila glanced around to see him
pulling the leather helm over his head. "Oh!" Realizing
what he meant to do, she began to unbuckle her sword.
"You know. Sir Gerard, this ruse might work better if you
weren't wearing your tunic backside-front. Hurry, shift it
before they get a good look at us!"

Cursing, Gerard pulled his arms out of the sleeves and
wriggled the tunic around until the emblem of the Dark
Knights of Neraka was in the front.

"No, don't turn around," he ordered her. "Just do it. Be
quick. Before they can get a good look at us."

Odila unbuckled her sword belt and slipped it into his
hands. He thrust her sword, belt and all, inside his own
swordbelt, then pulled on his helm. He did not fear he
would be recognized, but the helm was excellent for con-
cealing facial expressions.

"Hand me the reins and put your hands behind your
back."

Odila did as he ordered. "You've no idea how exciting
I find this. Sir Gerard," she murmured, breathing heavily.

"Oh, shut up," he muttered, fumbling with the knot.
'Take this seriously, at least."

The patrol was drawing near. He could see details
now, and he noted with astonishment that the leader
was a minotaur. Gerard's hopes that they might get out
of this alive increased. He had never met or even seen a
minotaur before, but he had heard that they were thick-
skulled and dim-witted. The remainder of the patrol

426

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

were Knights of Neraka, experienced cavalrymen, judg-
ing by their skill in handling their mounts.

The enemy patrol galloped across the prairie, their
horses sending up clouds of dust from the dry grass. A
single gesture from the minotaur, who rode in the lead,
sent the other members of the patrol out in a wide circle,
surrounding Gerard and Odila.

Gerard had thought about riding forward to meet them
but decided this might seem suspicious. He was a Dark
Knight of Neraka near an enemy stronghold, encumbered
with a prisoner, and he had good reason to react as warily
to them as they did to him.

The minotaur raised his hand in salute. Gerard returned
the salute, thanking whoever might be listening for his
training under Marshal Medan. He sat his horse in silence,
waited for the minotaur, who was his superior, to speak.
Odila's cheeks were flushed. She glared at them all in stony
silence. Gerard only hoped that silence would continue.

The minotaur eyed Gerard closely. The minotaur's
eyes were not the dull eyes of a beast but were bright
with intelligence.

"What is your name, your rank, and your command-
ing officer?" the minotaur demanded. His voice was gruff
and growling, but Gerard had no difficulty understand-
ing him.

"I am Gerard uth Mondar, aide to Marshal Medan."

He gave his real name because if, by some wild chance,
they checked with Marshal Medan, he would recognize
Gerard's name and know how to respond. He added the
number of the unit serving in Qualinesti but nothing more.
Like any good Knight of Neraka, he was suspicious of his
comrades. He would answer only what he was asked,
volunteering nothing.

The minotaur frowned. "You are a long way from
home, dragonrider. What brings you this far north?"

427

DRAQONLANCE X:De wan of Souls

"I was en route to Jelek on Marshal Medan's blue
dragon with an urgent message from Marshal Medan to
Lord of the Night Targonne," Gerard replied glibly.

"You are still a long way from home," the minotaur
stated, the bestial eyes narrowing. "Jelek is a long way
east of here."

"Yes, sir," said Gerard. "We flew into a storm and were
blown off course. The dragon thought he could make it,
but we were hit by a sudden gust of wind that flipped us
over. I almost fell from the saddle, and the dragon tore a
shoulder muscle. He continued to fly as long as he could,
but it proved much too painful. We had no idea where we
were. We thought we were near Neraka, but then we saw
the towers of a dty. Having grown up near here, I recog-
nized Solanthus. At about the same time, we saw your
army advancing on the dty. Fearing to be noticed by the
cursed Solamnics, the dragon landed in this forest and
located a cave where he could rest and heal his shoulder.

"This Solamrdc"—Gerard gave Odila a rough poke in
the back—"saw us land. She tracked us to the cave. We
fought, and I disarmed and captured her."

The minotaur looked with interest at Odila. "Is she
from Solanthus?"

"She will not talk, sir, but I have no doubt that she is
and can provide details about the number of troops sta-
tioned inside the dty, its fortifications, and other informa-
tion that will be of interest to your commander. Now,
Talon Leader," Gerard added, "I would like to know your
name and the name of your commander."

This was bold, but he felt that he'd been interrogated
enough, and to continue meekly answering questions with-
out asking a few of his own would look out of character.

The minotaur's eyes flashed, and for a moment, Gerard
thought he had overplayed his part. Then the minotaur
answered. "My name is Gaidar. Our commander is Mina."

428

DnaooNS or a Lost Stan

He spoke the odd name with a mixture of reverence and
respect that Gerard found disconcerting. "What is the
message you were carrying to Jelek?"

"My message is to Lord Targonne," Gerard replied
and at the word message, his heart upended and slid
down his gullet.

He remembered, suddenly, that he was carrying on
his person a message that was not from Marshal Medan,
but from Gilthas, king of the Qualinesti; a letter that
would ruin him if it fell into the hands of the Dark
Knights. Gerard could not believe his ill luck. The day
when the letter might have done him some good, he'd left
it with the dragon. The day when the letter could do him
irreparable harm, it was tucked in his belt. What had he
done in his lifetime to so outrage Fate?

"Lord Targonne is dead," responded the minotaur.
"Mina is now Lord of the Night. I am her second-in-
command. You may deliver the message to me, and I will
relay it to her."

Gerard was not unduly surprised to hear that Tar-
gonne was dead. Promotion up the ranks of the Dark
Knights often took place at night in the dark with a knife
thrust to the ribs. This Mina had presumably taken com-
mand. He wrested his mind from dwelling on that blasted
incriminating letter to dealing with the new turn of
events. He could give his false message to this minotaur
and be done with it. Then what would happen? They
would take Odila from him and haul her off to be tor-
tured while he would be thanked for his service and
dismissed to return to his dragon.

"I was told to deliver the message to the Lord of the
Night," returned Gerard stubbornly, playing the quintes-
sential commander's aide—officious and self-important.
"If that is not Lord Targonne, then my orders require me
to deliver it to the person who has taken his place."

429

DRAQONLANCE 'CI^e Wan of Souls

"As you will." The minotaur was in a hurry. He had
more important things to do than bandy words with a
marshal's aide. Gaidar jerked a thumb in the direction of
the dust cloud. "They'll be raising the command tent
now. You'll find Mina there, directing the siege. I'll send a
man with you to guide you."

"There is really no need, sir—" Gerard began, but the
minotaur ignored him.

"As to your prisoner," the minotaur continued, "you
can turn her over to the interrogator. He'll be setting up
shop somewhere near the blacksmith's forge."

An image of red hot pokers and flesh-ripping iron
tongs came unpleasantly to mind. The minotaur ordered
one of his Knights to accompany them. Gerard would
have liked to have dispensed with the company, but he
didn't dare argue. Saluting the minotaur, Gerard urged
the horse forward. For a moment he feared that the
animal, feeling an unfamiliar hand on the reins, would
balk, but Odila gave a slight kick with her heels, and the
horse started moving. The minotaur stared intently at
Gerard, during which the sweat trickled down the front
of Gerard's breast. Then the minotaur wheeled his horse
and galloped off. He and the rest of the patrol were soon
lost to sight, entering the tree line. Gerard pulled up and
peered back in the direction of the river.

"What is it?" their Dark Knight escort demanded.

"I'm concerned about my dragon," Gerard said. "Razor
belongs to the Marshal. They've been comrades for years.
It would mean my head if anything happened to the
beast." He turned back to face the Knight. "I'd like to go
check on the dragon, let Razor know whafs going on."

"My orders are to take you to Mina," said the Knight.

"You don't have to come," said Gerard shortly. "Look,
you don't seem to understand. Razor must have heard
the hom calls. He's a blue. You know how blues are. They

430

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

can smell battle. He probably thinks that the cursed Solam-
nics have turned out the dty to search for him. If he feels
threatened, he might mistakenly attack your army—"

"My orders are to take you to Mina," the Knight
repeated with dull-witted stubbomess. "When you have
reported to her, you can return to the dragon. You need not
be concerned about the beast. He will not attack us. Mina
wouldn't let him. As to his wounds, Mina will heal him,
and you both will be able to return to Qualinesti."

The Knight rode on, heading for the main body of the
army. Gerard muttered imprecations at the Knight from
the safety of the helm, but he had no choice except to
ride after him.

"I'm sorry," he said under cover of the horse's hoof-
beats. "I thought sure he'd fall for it. He gets rid of us,
gets out of patrol duty, does what he wants for an hour or
two, then reports back." Gerard shook his head. "Just my
luck that I have to run into the only reliable Dark Knight
who ever lived."

"You tried," said Odila and by twisting her hands, she
managed to give him a pat on his knee. "You did the best
you could."

Their guide rode on ahead, eager to do his duty.
Annoyed that they weren't moving faster, he gestured
with his arm for them to hasten their pace. Gerard
ignored the Knight. He was thinking about what the
minotaur had said, about the Dark Knights laying siege
to Solanthus. If that was the case, he might well be riding
into an army of ten thousand or more.

"What did you mean when you said I hated men?"
Odila asked.

Jolted out of his thoughts, Gerard had no idea what
she was talking about, and he said so.

"You said that you despised women and that I hated
men. What did you mean?"

431

DRAQONLANCE 'C.fJe Wan of Souls

"When did I say that?"

"When we were talking about what to call you. You
said that both of us feared life more than we did death."

Gerard felt his skin bum and was glad he was wearing
the helm to cover his face. "I don't remember. Sometimes
I say things without thinking—"

"I had the feeling you'd been thinking about this for a
long time," Odila interrupted.

"Yes, well, maybe." Gerard was uncomfortable. He
hadn't meant to lay himself wide open, and he certainly
didn't want to talk to her about what was inside. "Don't you
have other things to worry about?" he demanded irritably.

"Like having red-hot needles jabbed beneath my
fingernails?" she asked coolly. "Or my joints dislocated
on the rack? I have plenty to worry about. I'd rather talk
about this."

Gerard fell silent a moment, then he said, awkwardly,
"I'm not sure what I meant. Maybe it's just the fact that
you don't seem to have much use for men. Not just me.
That's understandable. But I saw how you reacted to
the other Knights during the council meeting and to the
warden and—"

"How do I react?" she demanded, shifting in the
saddle to look back at him. "What's the matter with
the way I react?"

"Don't turn around!" Gerard snapped. "You're my
prisoner, remember? We're not supposed to be having a
cozy chat."

She sniffed. "For your information, I adore men. I just
happen to think they're all cheats and scoundrels and
liars. Part of their charm."

Gerard opened his mouth to reply to this when the
Knight escort dashed back toward them at a gallop.

"Blast!" Gerard muttered. "What does this great idiot
want now?"

432

OnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

"You are dawdling," said the Knight accusingly. "Make
haste. I must return to my dudes."

"I've lost a dragon to injury," Gerard returned. "I don't
plan to lose a horse."

There was no help for it, however. This Knight was
apparently going to stick to them like a bloodsucking
tick. Gerard increased the pace.

As they entered the outskirts of the camp, they saw the
army that was beginning to dig in for the siege. The sol-
diers were setting up camp well outside the range of
arrows from the city walls. A few Solanthus archers tried
their luck, but their arrows fell well short, and eventually
the firing ceased. Probably their officers told them to quit
being fools and save their arrows.

No one in the enemy camp paid the archers any
attention, beyond glancing now and then at the walls
that were lined with soldiers. The glances were furtive
and were often followed by an exchange of words with
a comrade, both of whom would raise their eyebrows,
shake their heads and return to work quickly before an
officer noticed. The soldiers did not appear frightened
at the daunting sight of the walled city, merely bemused.

Gerard indulged his curiosity, looked about intently.
He was not part of this army and so his curiosity would
appear justified.

He turned to his guide. "When do the rest of the
troops arrive?"

The Knight's voice was calm, but Gerard noted that
the man's eyes flickered behind his helm. "Reinforce-
ments are on the way."

"A great number, I suppose," Gerard said.

"A vast number," said the Knight. "More than you can
imagine."

"They're nearby?"

433

DRAQONLANCE 'CI}e Wan of Souls

The Knight eyed Gerard narrowly. "Why do you want
to know? What is it to you?"

Gerard shrugged. "I thought I might lend my sword to
the cause, that's all."

"What did you say?" the Knight demanded.

Gerard raised his voice to be heard above the din of
hammers pounding, officers shouting orders, and the gen-
eral tumult that went along with setting up a field camp.

"Solanthus is the most well-fortified city on the conti-
nent. The mightiest siege engines on Krynn couldn't
make a dent in those walls. There must be five thousand
troops ready to defend the city. What do you have here?
A few hundred? Of course, you're expecting reinforce-
ments. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out."

The Knight shook his head. Rising in his stirrups, he
pointed. "There is Mina's command tent. You can see the
flag. I will leave you to find your own way."

"Wait a minute," Gerard shouted after the Knight. "I
want to deliver my prisoner safely to the interrogator.
There'll be a reward in this for me. I don't want her
dragged off and lynched!"

The Knight cast him a scornful glance. "You are not in
Neraka, sir," he said disdainfully and rode off.

Gerard dismounted, began leading the horse through
the ordered confusion. The soldiers were working swiftly
and with a will. The officers gave direction, but they were
not haranguing, not threatening. No whips urged the
men to work faster and smarter. Morale appeared high.
The soldiers were laughing and joking with each other
and singing songs to help ease their labor. Yet, all they
had to do was to look up on the city walls to see ten times
more than their own number.

'This is a joke," said Odila, keeping her voice low. They
were surrounded by the enemy, and although the din was
deafening, someone might overhear. "They have no army

434

DnaqoNS Of a Lost Stan

of reinforcements nearby. Our patrols go out daily. They
would have seen such a massive buildup of troops."

"Apparently, they didn't," Gerard returned. "Solan-
thus was caught with its pants down."

Gerard kept his hand on his sword hilt, ready to fight
should anyone decide to take it into his head to have a
little fun with the Solamnic prisoner. The soldiers glanced
at them with interest as they passed. A few halted to jeer
at the Solamnic, but their officers quickly ordered the
men back to work.

You're not in Neraka, the Knight had said. Gerard was
impressed, also uneasy. This was not a mercenary army
that fought for loot, for gain. This was a seasoned army, a
disciplined army, one dedicated to its cause, whatever
that cause might be.

The flag that fluttered on the spear driven into the
ground beside the command was not really a flag, noth-
ing more than a dirty scarf that looked as if it had been
dipped in blood.

Two Knights posted guard outside the command tent
that had been the first tent raised. Other tents were now
going up around it. An officer stood in front of the tent,
speaking with another Neraka Knight. The officer was an
archer by his dress and the fact that he wore an enormous
longbow slung over one shoulder. The Knight had his back
to Gerard. He could not see the face. Judging by his slight
build, this Knight was no more than a youth, eighteen, if
that. He wondered if he was some Knighfs son dressed
up in his father's armor.

The archer spotted Gerard and Odila first. The archer's
gaze was keen and appraising. He said something to the
Knight, who turned to look at them. Gerard saw with a
shock that the Knight was not a youth, as he had supposed,
but a girl. A sheen of red hair, dosely cropped, covered her

435

DRAQONLANCE toe Wan of Souls

head. Her eyes caught and held both of them in an amber
gaze. He had never seen such extraordinary eyes. He felt
uncomfortable under their scrutiny, as if he were a child
again and she had caught him in some crime, perhaps steal-
ing apples or teasing his little sister. She forgave him his
offense because he did not know better. He was just a
child. She might punish him, but the punishment would
help him understand how to do right in the future.

Gerard was thankful for the helm, for he could avert his
gaze and she wouldn't know it. But even as he tried, he
couldn't keep his eyes from her. He stared at her, enthralled.

Pretty was not the word to describe her, nor beautiful.
Her face was marked by its equanimity, its purity of
thought. No line of doubt marred her smooth forehead.
Her eyes were clear and saw far beyond what his eyes
saw. Here was a person who would change the world for
good or for evil. He recognized in that calm equanimity,
Mina, commander of this army, whose name had been
spoken with reverence and respect.

Gerai-d saluted.

"You are not one of my Knights, sir," Mina said. "I like
to see faces. Remove your helm."

Gerard wondered how she knew he wasn't one of her
Knights. No badge or emblem marked him as having come
from Qualinesti, Sanction, or any other part of Ansalon.
He removed his helm reluctantly, not because he thought
she might recognize him, but because he had enjoyed its
meager protection, shielded him from the intense scrutiny
of her amber eyes.

He gave his name and related his story that had the
advantage of being true for the most part. He spoke con-
fidently enough, but the parts where he was forced to
twist the truth or embellish it proved difficult. He had the
strange feeling that she knew far more about him than he
knew about himself.

436

DuaqoNS of a Lost Stare

"What is Marshal Medan's message?" Mina asked.

"Are you the new Lord of the Night, Lady?" Gerard
asked. The question seemed expected of him, but he was
uncomfortable. "Forgive me, but I was told that my mes-
sage was to be delivered to the Lord of the Night."

"Such titles hold no meaning for the One God," she
answered. "I am Mina, a servant of the One. You may
deliver your message to me or not, as you choose."

Gerard stared, baffled and uncertain. He dared not
look at Odila, although he wondered what she was think-
ing, how she was reacting. He had no idea what to do and
realized that no matter what he did, he risked looking
foolish. For some reason, he did not want to look foolish
in those amber eyes.

"I choose to deliver my message to Mina," he said and
was surprised to hear that same note of respect in his
voice. "My message is this: Qualinesti is coming under
attack from the green dragon Beryl. She has ordered
Marshal Medan to destroy the city of Qualinost and
threatens that if he does not, she will do so herself. She
has ordered him to exterminate the elves."

Mina said nothing, indicated by a slight nod that she
was listening and understood.

Gerard drew in a breath and continued. "Marshal
Medan respectfully reminds the Lord of the Night that
this attack on Qualinesti breaks the pact between the
dragons. The Marshal fears that should Malys hear of it,
all-out war will erupt among the dragons, a war that is
likely to devastate much of Ansalon. Marshal Medan
does not consider himself under the orders of Beryl. He
is a loyal Knight of Neraka and therefore he requests
orders from his superior, the Lord of the Night, on how
to proceed. Marshal Medan also respectfully reminds his
lordship that a city in ruins is worth very little and that
dead elves pay no tribute."

437

DRAQONLANCE 'CtJe Wan of Souls

Mina smiled slightly. The smile warmed the amber
eyes, and they seemed to flow over Gerard like honey.
"Lord Targonne would have been deeply moved by that
sentiment. The late Lord Targonne."

"I am sorry to hear of his death." Gerard glanced some-
what helplessly at die archer, who was grinning at him as if
he knew exactly what Gerard was thinking and feeling.

'Targonne is with the One God," Mina replied, her
tone solemn and earnest. "He made mistakes, but he
understands now and repents."

Gerard was thoroughly astounded by this. He had no
idea what to say. Who was this One God, anyway? He
dared not ask, thinking that as a Dark Knight, he might
be supposed to know.

"I've heard of this One God," Odila said in dire tones.
She ignored Gerard, who pinched her calf to warn her to
keep her mouth shut. "Someone else spoke of a One God.
One of those false Mystics from the Citadel of Light. Blas-
phemy! I tell you. All know that the gods are gone."

Mina lifted the amber eyes, fixed them on Odila.

'The gods may be gone to you, Solamnic," Mina said,
"but not to me. Release the Knight's bindings. Let her dis-
mount. Don't worry. She will not try to escape. After all,
where could she go?"

Gerard did as he was told, helped Odila from the horse.
"Are you trying to get us both killed?" he demanded under
his breath as he undid the knot of the leather thong around
her wrists. 'This is no time to be discussing theology!"

"It got my hands untied, didn't it?" Odila returned,
glancing at him from beneath her long lashes.

He gave her a rough shove toward Mina. Odila
stumbled but caught herself and stood in front of the
girl, who reached only to Odila's shoulder.

"There are no gods for anyone," Odila repeated with
typical Solamnic stubbornness. "For you or me."

438

DnaQONS of a Lost Stan

Gerard wondered what she had in mind. No way to
tell. He would have to stay alert, be ready to pick up on
her plan.

Mina was not angry or even annoyed. She regarded
Odila with patience, rather like a parent watching a
spoiled child throwing a temper tantrum. Mina reached
out her hand.

"Take hold," she said to Odila.

Odila regarded her in blank astonishment.

'Take hold of my hand," Mina repeated, as if the child
was rather a slow child.

"Do as she says, cursed Solamnic," Gerard ordered.

Odila cast him a glance. Whatever she had hoped
would happen, this wasn't it. Gerard inwardly sighed,
shook his head. Odila looked back at Mina and seemed
on the point of refusing. Then her hand extended,
reached out to Mina. Odila looked at the hand in amaze-
ment, as if the hand were acting of its own accord,
against her will.

"What sorcery is this?" she cried, and she was in
earnest. "What are you doing to me?"

"I am doing nothing," Mina said softly. "The part of you
that seeks nourishment for your soul reaches out to me."

Mina took hold of Odila's hand in her own.

Odila gasped, as if in pain. She tried to break the hold,
but could not, though Mina was not exerting any force
that Gerard could see. Tears sprang to Odila's eyes, she bit
her lip. Her arm shook, her body trembled. She gulped
and seemed to try to bear the pain, but the next moment
she sank to her knees. The tears spilled over, coursed
down her cheeks. She bowed her head.

Mina moved close to Odila. She stroked Odila's long
black hair.

"Now you see," said Mina softly. "Now you under-
stand."

439

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct)e Wan Of Souls

"No!" Odila cried in a choked voice. "No, I don't
believe it."

"You do believe," Mina said. She put her hand beneath
Odila's chin, lifted her head so that Odila was forced to
look into the amber eyes. "I do not lie to you. You are
lying to yourself. When you are dead, you will go to the
One God, and there will be no more lies."

Odila stared at her wildly.

Gerard shuddered, chilled to the core of his being.

The archer leaned forward, said something to Mina.
She listened and nodded.

"Captain Samuval says that you can undoubtedly
provide us with valuable information about the defenses
of Solanthus." Mina smiled, shrugged. "I do not require
such information, but the captain believes that he does.
Therefore you will be questioned first, before you are
put to death."

"I won't tell you anything," Odila said thickly.

Mina regarded her with sorrow. "No, I don't suppose
you will. Your suffering will be wasted, for, I assure you,
you could not tell me anything that I do not already know.
I do this only to humor Captain Samuval."

Bending down, Mina kissed Odila on the forehead. "I
commend your soul to the One God," Mina said, and
straightening, she turned to Gerard.

"I thank you for delivering your message. I would not
advise you to return to Qualinost. Beryl would not permit
you to enter that city. She launches her attack tomorrow at
dawn. As for Marshal Medan, he is a traitor. He has fallen
in love with the elves and their ways. His love finds shape
and form in the Queen Mother, Lauralanthalasa. He has
not evacuated the city as he was ordered. Qualinost is
filled with elven soldiers, prepared to give their lives in
defense of their city. The king, Gilthas, has laid a trap for
Beryl and her armies—a cunning trap, I must admit."

440

DnagoNS of a Lost Stan

Gerard gaped. His jaws went slack. His mouth hung
open. He thought he should defend Medan, then knew
he shouldn't, for doing so might implicate him. Or per-
haps she already knew Gerard wasn't what he appeared
and nothing that he did or didn't do would make any dif-
ference. He managed, at last, to ask the one thing that he
had to know.

"Has Beryl . . . been warned?" Gerard's mouth was
dry. He could barely speak the words.

"The dragon is in the keeping of the One God, as are
we all," Mina replied.

She turned away. Waiting officers moved forward to
claim Mina's attention, badgered her with questions.
She walked off to listen to them, answer them. Gerard
was dismissed.

Odila stood up, staggering, and would have fallen if
Gerard had not stepped forward and, under the guise
of seizing her arm, supported her. He wondered, at
that, who was leaning on whom. He was in need of
some sort of support himself. Sweating profusely, he
felt wrung out.

"I can't answer you," Captain Samuval said, although
Gerard had not asked a question. The captain walked
over to converse. "Is what Mina said about Medan true?
Is he a traitor?"

"I don't... I don't..." Gerard's voice failed him. He
was tired of lying, and it seemed pointless anyway. The
battle for Qualinost would be held tomorrow at dawn, if
he believed her, and he believed her, although he had no
idea how or why. He shook his head wearily. "I guess it
doesn't matter. Not now."

"We'd be glad if you joined our ranks," Captain
Samuval offered. "Here, I'll show you where to take
your prisoner. The interrogator's setting up, but he
should be in business by tomorrow morning. We could

441

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfte wan of Souls

use another sword." He glanced at the city, whose walls
were dark with soldiers. "How many troops do you
reckon are in there?"

"A lot," Gerard said with emphasis.

"Yes, I suppose you're right." Captain Samuval
rubbed his grizzled chin. "I'll wager she knows, eh?"
He jerked a thumb at Odila, who walked as if in a daze,
hardly seeming to notice where she was going, hardly
seeming to care.

"I don't know if she does or not," Gerard said glumly.
"She hasn't said anything to me about it, and she won't say
anything to that torturer of yours. She's stubborn, that one.
Where do I put her? I'll be thankful to be rid of her."

Captain Samuval led Gerard to a tent that was close
to where the blacksmith and his assistants were setting
up his portable forge. Pausing at the smith's. Captain
Samuval appropriated a pair of leg irons and manacles,
assisted Gerard in attaching them to Odila's legs and
wrists. He handed Gerard the key.

"She's your prisoner," he said.

Gerard thanked him, tucked the key into his boot.

The tent had no bedding, but the captain brought water
and food for the prisoner. Odila refused to eat, but she
drank some water and managed to sound grudgingly
grateful for the attention. She lay down on the tent floor,
her eyes wide open and staring.

Gerard left her, went outside, wondering what he was
going to do now. He dedded the best thing he could do
was to eat. He had not realized how hungry he was until
he saw the bread and dried meat in the captain's hand.

"I'll take that food," Gerard said, "since she doesn't
want it."

Samuval handed it over. "No mess tent as yet, but
there's more where this came from. I was headed that
way myself. You want to join me?"

442

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

"No," said Gerard. 'Thanks, but I'll keep an eye on her."

"She's not going anywhere," said the captain, amused.

"Still, she's my responsibility."

"Suit yourself," said Captain Samuval and strode off.
He had sighted a friend apparently, for he began waving
his hand. Gerard saw the minotaur who had been leading
the patrol waving back.

Gerard squatted down outside the prison tent. He ate
the meal without tasting it. Realizing that he'd left the
waterskin inside with Odila, he entered the tent to retrieve
it. He moved quietly, thinking she might be asleep.

She had not stirred since he had left her, except that
now her eyes were closed. He was reaching quietly for
the waterskin, when she spoke.

"I'm not asleep," she said.

"You should try to rest," he returned. "Nothing to do
now except to wait for nightfall. I have the key to the leg
irons. I'll try to find you some armor or a soldier's tunic—"

She shifted her gaze from him, looked away.

Gerard had to ask. "What did you see, Odila? What
did you see when she touched you?"

Odila closed her eyes, shivered.

"I saw the mind of God!"

443

30

'Cl7€ Wan of Souls BCQINS




aldar walked through the slumbering camp,
yawning so wide he heard a distinct crack. A sharp
pain in his jaw made him wince. Resolving not to
do that again, he rubbed his jaw and continued on. The
night was bright. The moon, within a sliver of being full,
was large, lumpish, and vacuous. Gaidar had the impres-
sion that it was a doltish moon. He'd never liked it much,
but it would serve its purpose, if all went according to plan.
Mina's plan. Mina's strange, bizarre plan. Gaidar yawned
again, but this time he took care not to crack his jaw.

The guards in front of Mina's tent recognized him—
easy to spot the only minotaur in the entire army. They
saluted and looked at him expectantly.

Her tent was dark. Not surprising, considering it was
nearly dawn. He was loath to wake her, for she had been
up before the sunrise the day before and had gone to bed
well after midnight. He hesitated. After all, there wasn't
anything she could do that he hadn't already done. Still,
he felt she should know.

444

DnaooNS of a Lost Stan

He thrust aside the flap and entered the command tent.

"What is it, Gaidar?" she asked.

He was never certain if she was awake before he
entered or if she woke on hearing him enter. Either way,
she was always alert, responsive.

"The prisoner has escaped, Mina. The female Solamnic
Knight. We can't find her captor, either. We believe they
were in this together."

She slept in her clothes, woolen hose, and tunic. Her
armor and her morning star stood at the foot of the bed.
He could see her face, pale white, colder, more awful than
the gibbous moon.

She evinced no surprise.

"Did you know of this, Mina? Did someone else come
to tell you?" Gaidar frowned. "I gave orders you were
not to be disturbed."

"Yet now you disturb me, Gaidar." Mina smiled.

"Only because all our efforts to find the Solamnic and
this traitor Knight have failed."

"They are back in Solanthus now," Mina replied. Her
eyes had no color in the darkness. He felt more comfortable
with her in the darkness. He could not see himself in the
amber. 'They have been greeted as heroes. Both of them."

"How can you take this so calmly, Mina?" Gaidar
demanded. "They have been in our camp. They have tal-
lied our numbers. They know how few of us there are."

"They can see that from the walls, Gaidar."

"Not dearly," he argued. He had been opposed to this
wild scheme from the beginning. "We have done what we
could to deceive them. Put up empty tents, kept the men
milling about so that they could not be easily counted.
Our efforts have gone for naught."

Mina propped herself up on one elbow. "You remember
that you wanted to poison their water supply, Gaidar?"

"Yes," he said dourly.

445

DRAQONLANCE •CiTe wan of Souls

"I counseled against it, for then the city would be use-
less to us."

He snorted. The city was useless to them right now
and would remain so, for all he could see.

"You have no faith, Gaidar," Mina said sadly.

Gaidar sighed. His hand stole to his right arm,
rubbed it involuntarily. It always seemed to ache now, as
with rheumatism.

"I try, Mina. I truly do. I thought I had settled my
doubts back in Silvanost, but now... I do not like our new
allies, Mina," he stated abruptly. "And I am not alone."

"I understand," Mina said. "That is why I have been
patient with you and with the others. Your eyes are clouded
by fear, but the time will come when you will see clearly.
Your eyes will be the only eyes that see clearly."

She smiled at her own jest.

Gaidar did not smile. This was no laughing matter, as
far as he was concerned.

She looked at him and very slightly shook her head.
"As to the Solamnic, I have sent her into the city carrying
a poison more destructive than the nightshade you wanted
to dump in the city well."

He waited, suppressing a yawn. He had no idea what
she was talking about. All he could think of was that it
had all been for nothing. Hours of lost sleep sending out
search parties, ransacking the camp, all for nothing.

"I have sent them the knowledge that there is a god,"
Mina continued, "and that the One God fights on our side."

Their escape had been ridiculously easy. So easy,
Gerard would have said that it had been facilitated, if he
could have thought of one single reason why the enemy
would want them to return to Solanthus in possession of
damning information about the enemy army camped
outside their walls.

446

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

The only really tense moments came at Solanthus's
outer gate, when there was some question as to whether
or not the sentries were going to shoot them full of arrows.
Gerard blessed Odila's strident voice and mocking tone,
for she was immediately recognized and, on her word,
they were both allowed admittance.

After that came hours of questioning from the officers
of the Knighthood. The sun was rising now, and they
were still at it.

Gerard had not had much sleep the night before. The
day's strain and tension and the night's adventure had
left him completely worn out. He'd told them everything
he had seen or heard twice and was propping his eyelids
open with his fingers when Odila's next words caused a
minor explosion that jolted him into full wakefulness.

"I saw the mind of God," she said.

Gerard groaned and slumped back in his chair. He'd
tried to warn her to keep quiet on that score, but, as usual,
she had not listened to him. He'd been hoping for his
bed, even if it was back in his cell, whose cool, quiet, and
kenderless darkness was now strongly appealing. Now
they were going to be here the rest of the day.

"What do you mean, exactly. Lady Odila?" Lord Tasgall
asked carefully. He was thirty years Gerard's senior. His
hair was iron gray and worn long, and he had the tradi-
tional mustaches of the Solamnic Knight. Unlike some
Rose Knights Gerard had met. Lord Tasgall was not, as
someone once disparagingly phrased it, a "solemnic"
Knight. Although his face was suitably grave on this seri-
ous occasion, laugh lines around the mouth and eyes tes-
tified that he had a sense of humor. Obviously respected
by those under his command. Lord Tasgall appeared to
be a sensible, wise leader of men.

"The girl called Mina touched my hand, and I saw ...
eternity. There's no other way to describe it." Odila spoke

447

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctfe Wan of Souls

in low tones, halting, obviously uncomfortable. "I saw a
mind. A mind that could encompass the night sky and
make it seem small and confining. A mind that could
count the stars and know their exact number. A mind that
is as small as a grain of sand and as large as the ocean. I
saw the mind, and at first I knew joy, because I was not
alone in the universe, and then I knew fear, terrible fear,
because I was rebellious and disobedient and the mind
was displeased. Unless I submitted, the mind would
become angrier still. I... I could not understand. I did
not understand. I still don't understand."

Odila looked helplessly at the Lord Knights as if
expecting answers.

"What you saw must have been a trick, an illusion,"
Lord Ulrich replied soothingly. He was a Sword Knight,
only a few years older than Gerard. Lord Ulrich was on
the pudgy side, with a choleric face that indicated a love
of spirits, perhaps more than was entirely good for him.
He had a bright eye and a red nose and a broad smile.
"We all know that the dark Mystics cause members of the
Knighthood to experience false visions. Isn't that true,
Starmaster Mikelis?"

The Starmaster nodded, agreed almost absently. The
Mystic looked worn and haggard. He had spent the night
searching for Goldmoon and had been amazed and
bewildered when Gerard told him that she had left on the
back of a blue dragon, flying to Nightlund in search of
the wizard Dalamar.

"Alas," the Starmaster had said sadly. "She is mad.
Quite mad. The miracle of her returned youth has over-
thrown her mentally. A lesson to us, I suppose, to be con-
tent with what we are."

Gerard would have been inclined to think so himself,
except that her actions last night had been those of a sane
person who is in command of the situation. He made no

448

DRaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

comment, kept his thoughts to himself. He had come to
feel a great admiration and reverence for Goldmoon,
although he had known her only one night. He wanted to
keep the memory of their time together secret, sacred.
Gerard closed his eyes.

The next moment, Odila elbowed him. Gerard jerked
awake, sat up straight, blinking his eyes and wondering
uneasily if anyone had noticed him napping.

"I tend to agree with Lord Ulrich," Lord Tasgall was
saying. "What you saw. Lady Odila—or thought you
saw—was not a miracle, but a trick of a dark mystic."

Odila was shaking her head, but she held her tongue,
for which miracle Gerard was grateful.

"I realize we could debate the subject for days or even
weeks and never reach a satisfactory conclusion," Lord
Tasgall added. "However, we have much more serious
matters that require our immediate attention. I also realize
that you are both probably very tired after your ordeal."
He smiled at Gerard, who flushed deeply and squirmed
uncomfortably in his chair. "First, there is the matter of
Sir Gerard uth Mondar. I will now see the letter from the
elf king. Sir Knight."

Gerard produced the letter, somewhat crumpled, but
quite legible.

"I am not familiar with the elf king's signature," said
Lord Tasgall, reading the letter, "but I recognize the royal
seal of Qualinesti. Alas," he added quietly, "I fear there is
little we can do to help them in their hour of need."

Gerard bowed his head. He might have argued, but
the presence of enemy troops camped outside Solanthus
would render any argument he might make ineffective.

"He may have a letter from an elf," said Lord Nigel,
Knight of the Crown, "but he was still apprehended in
company with a dragon of evil. I cannot easily reconcile
the two."

449

DRAQONLANCE Vie Wan of Souls

Lord Nigel was in his forties, one of those people who
do not want to make a decision until he has ruminated on
it long and hard and looked at every fact three times over
from all possible angles.

"I believe his story," said Odila in her forthright
manner. "I saw him and heard him in the cave with the
First Master. He had the chance to leave, and he didn't
take it. He heard the horns, knew we were under attack,
and came back to help defend the city."

"Or betray it," said Lord Nigel, glowering.

"Gerard told me that if you would not let him wear his
sword, as a true Knight, he would do anything he could
to help, from fighting fires to tending the wounded,"
Odila returned heatedly. "His quick thinking saved both
our lives. He should be honored, not castigated."

"I agree," said Lord Tasgall. "I think we are all in
agreement?" He looked at the other two. Lord Ulrich
nodded at once and gave Gerard a grin and a wink. Lord
Nigel frowned, but he had great respect for Lord Tasgall
and so agreed to abide by his ruling.

Lord Tasgall smiled. "Sir Gerard uth Mondar, all charges
against you are formally dropped. I regret that we have no
time to publidy dear your name, but I will issue an edict to
the effect that all may know of your innocence."

Odila rewarded Gerard with a grin and kicked his leg
underneath the table, reminding him that he owed her
one. This matter now dispensed with, the Knights could
turn their attention to the problem of the enemy.

Despite the information they had received about the
ridiculously small numbers of the enemy army currently
besieging their dty, the Solamnics did not take the situa-
tion lightly. Not after what Gerard told them about the
expected reinforcements.

"Perhaps she means an enemy army marching out of
Palanthas, my lord," Gerard suggested deferentially.

450

DRBQONS OF a Lost Stan

"No," said Lord Tasgall, shaking his head. "We have
spies in Palanthas. They would have reported any mas-
sive troop movement, and there has been none. We have
scouts watching the roads, and they have seen nothing."

"Begging your pardon, my lord," said Gerard, "but
you didn't see this army coming."

"There was sorcery at work," said Lord Nigel
grimly. "A magical sleep affected everyone in the city
and its environs. The patrols reported that they were
overcome with this fey sleep that affected man and
beast alike. We thought the sleep had been cast upon
us by the First Master Goldmoon, but Starmaster Mike-
lis has assured us that she could not possibly cast such
a powerful spell."

He looked uneasily at Odila. Her words about the
mind of God had brought a disquieting notion. "He tells
us that no mortal could. Yet, we all slept."

I did not sleep, Gerard thought. Neither did the
kender or the gnome. Goldmoon caused the iron bars to
melt as if they were wax. What was it she said? J don't
know how I have the power to do what I do. I know only that
whatever I want I am given.

Who is the giver? Gerard glanced at Odila, troubled.
None of the other Knights spoke. They were all sharing
the same unwelcome thoughts, and no one wanted to
give them voice. To go there was to walk the edge of a
predpice blindfolded.

"Sir Gerard, Lady Odila, I thank you for your patience,"
Lord Tasgall said, rising to his feet. "We have information
enough on which to act. If we have further need of you, we
will summon you."

They were being dismissed. Gerard rose, saluted,
thanked each Knight in turn. Odila waited for him,
walked out with him. Looking back, Gerard saw the
Knights already deep in discussion.

451

DRAQONLANCE 1:1)6 Wan of Souls

"Ifs not as if they have much choice," Odila said, shak-
ing her head. "We can't just sit here and wait for them to
bring in reinforcements. We'll have to attack."

"Damn strange way to run a siege," Gerard reflected.
"I could understand it, their leader being hardly out of
her baby clothes, but that captain looked to me to be a
savvy officer. Why do they go along with her?"

"Perhaps she has touched their minds, as well,"
Odila muttered.

"What?" Gerard asked. She had spoken so softly he
didn't think he'd heard right.

She shook her head glumly, and kept walking. "Never
mind. It was a stupid thought."

"We'll be riding to battle soon," Gerard predicted,
hoping to cheer her up.

"It can't be too soon for me. I'd like to meet that red-
haired vixen with a sword in my hand. What about a
drink?" she asked abruptly. "Or two or six or thirty?"

An odd tone in her voice caused Gerard to look at
her sharply.

"What?" she demanded, defensive. "I want to drink that
blasted God out of my mind, that's all. Come on. I'll buy."

"Not for me," he said. "I'm for my bed. Sleep. You
should be, too."

"I don't know how you expect me to sleep with those
eyes staring at me. Go to bed, then, if you're so tired."

He started to ask, "What eyes?" but Odila walked off,
heading for a tavern whose signboard was a picture of a
hunting dog holding a limp duck in its mouth.

Too exhausted to care, Gerard headed for a well-
earned rest.

Gerard slept through the daylight and far into the
night. He woke to the sounds of someone pounding on
the door.

452

DRaqoNS of a Lost Stan

"Turn out! Turn out!" a voice called softly. "Muster
in the courtyard in one hour. No lights, and keep the
noise down."

Gerard sat up. The room was bright, but it was the
white, eerie brightness of moonlight, not sunlight. Out-
side his door came the muffled sounds of Knights, their
pages, squires, and servants up and about. So it was to be
an attack by night. A surprise attack.

No noise. No lights. No drums calling the troops to
muster. Nothing to give away the fact that the army of
Solanthus was preparing to ride out and break the siege.
Gerard approved. An excellent idea. They would catch
the enemy asleep. With luck, perhaps they'd catch them
sleeping off a night of carousing.

He had gone to bed in his clothes, so he had no need to
dress, only to pull on his boots. Hastening down stairs
crowded with servants and squires dashing about on
errands for their masters, he shoved his way through the
mob, pausing only to ask directions to the armory.

The streets were eerily silent, for most of the city was
deep in slumber. Gerard found the armorer and his assis-
tants scantily clad, for they had been yanked out of their
beds at a moment's notice. The armorer was distraught
that he could not outfit Gerard in proper Solamnic armor.
There was no time to make any.

"Just give me the stuff you use in training," Gerard said.

The armorer was appalled. He couldn't think of send-
ing a Knight to battle in armor that was dented, ill fitting,
and scratched. Gerard would look like a scarecrow. Gerard
didn't care. He was riding to his first battle, and he would
have gone stark naked and not minded. He had his sword,
the sword given to him by Marshal Medan, and that was
what counted. The armorer protested, but Gerard was
firm, and eventually the man brought what was required.
His assistants—two pimple-faced, thirteen-year-old boys—

453

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl)e Wan of Souls

were wild with excitement and bemoaned the fact that they
could not ride out to fight. They acted as Gerard's squires.

He went from the armory to the stables where grooms
were frantically saddling horses, trying to quiet the ani-
mals, excited by the unusual commotion. The stable
master eyed Gerard dubiously in his borrowed armor,
but Gerard gave the man to know in no uncertain terms
that he intended to steal a horse if he wasn't provided
one. The stable master still might not have gone along
with Gerard's demand, but Lord Ulrich entered at that
moment, and although he laughed uproariously at the
sight of Gerard's shabby accoutennents, he vouchsafed
Gerard's credentials, giving orders that he was to be
treated with the consideration due a Knight.

The stable master didn't go quite that far, but he did
provide Gerard with a horse. The beast looked more
suited to drawing a wagon than carrying a Knight. Gerard
could only hope that it would head for the field of battle
and not start morning milk deliveries.

His arguings and persuadings appeared to Gerard to
take forever, and he was in a fever of impatience, afraid
he would miss the battle. As it was he was already
ahead of most of the other Knights. By the time he
arrived in the courtyard, the foot soldiers were forming
ranks. Well trained, they moved into position quickly,
obeying soft-spoken commands. They had muffled the
jingling of their chain mail with strips of cloth, and woe
betide the spearman who dropped his spear with an
awful rattle onto the cobblestones. Hissing curses, the
officers pounced on the offender, promising all sorts of
dire punishments.

The Knights began to assemble. They, too, had wrapped
parts of their armor in doth to reduce the noise. Squires
stood by the side of each horse, ready to hand up weapon
and shield and helm. The standard-bearers took their

454

DnaQONS of a Lost Stan

places. The officers took their places. Except for the normal
sounds of the City Guard making their accustomed
rounds, the remainder of the city was quiet. No one was
shouting out, demanding to know what was going on.
No crowds of gawkers had gathered. Gerard admired
both the efficiency of the Knights' officers and the loyalty
and common sense of the citizenry. Word must have been
passed from household to household, warning everyone
to stay indoors and douse their lights. The marvel was
that everyone was obeying.

The Knights and soldiers—five thousand strong—
were ready to march. Here and there the silence was
broken by the muffled whinny of an exdted steed, a nerv-
ous cough from one of the foot soldiers, or the rattle of a
Knight putting on his helm.

Gerard sought out Odila. A Knight of the Crown, she
took her place riding among the front ranks. She was
accoutered in armor similar to that of the other Knights,
but he picked her out immediately by the two long black
braids that trailed down from the gleaming silver helm
and her laughter that rang out for a brief moment, then
was suitably stifled.

"Bless the woman, she'd clown at her own funeral,"
he said, laughing, and then, realizing the ill omen of his
remark, he wished uneasily he hadn't made it.

Lord Tasgall, Knight of the Rose, rode at the head
among his command staff, a white scarf fluttering from
his hand. He raised it high, so that everyone could see,
then let it fall. The officers started their men marching,
the Knights rode forward. Gerard took his place in the
very last ranks among the youngsters newly knighted.
He didn't mind. He could have walked with the foot sol-
diers and wouldn't have minded. The army of Solanthus
moved out with a shuffling, scraping sound like some
huge wingless, moon-glittering dragon sliding over the

455

DRAQONLANCE 'CHe WBR of Souls

ground. The inner gates, whose hinges had been well
greased, were silently shoved open by silent men.

A series of bridges allowed access over the moat. After
the last foot soldier had crossed the bridges, they were
drawn up. The gates were closed and barred, the murder
holes manned.

The army marched on to the outer gates that pierced
the thick curtain wall surrounding the city. The hinges on
these gates had also been well oiled. Gerard, riding under-
neath the walls, saw archers crouching down among the
shadows of the crenellations to avoid being seen. He
trusted the archers would have nothing to do this night.
The Solamnic army should be able to wipe out the army
of the Dark Knights almost before they knew what hit
them. Still, the Lord Knights were wise to take no chances.

Once the foot soldiers and Knights were outside the
last gate, and that gate had been shut, barred, and manned,
the Lord Knight paused, looked back to see his command
solid behind him. He raised another white scarf, let this
one fall.

The Knights broke the silence. Lifting their voices in a
song that was old when Huma was a boy, they urged
their horses into a thundering gallop. The song sent the
blood coursing through Gerard's veins. He found himself
singing lustily, shouting whatever came to mind in the
parts where he didn't remember the words. The order to
the cavalry had been to split the ranks, to send half the
Knights charging to the east, the other half to the west.
The plan was to encircle the slumbering camp, drive the
inhabitants into the center, where they would be attacked
by the foot soldiers, who were to charge straight on down
the center.

Gerard kept his eyes fixed on the enemy encampment.
He expected, at the sound of thundering hooves, to see
the camp roused. He expected torches to flare, sentries to

456

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stare

cry out the alarm, officers to shout, and men to race for
their weapons.

Strangely, the camp remained quiet. No sentry
shouted a warning and, now that Gerard looked, he
couldn't see a picket line. No movement, no sound came
from the camp, and it began to look as if the camp had
been abandoned in the night. But why would an army of
several hundred troops walk off and leave tents and
supplies behind?

Had the girl realized she'd bitten off more than she
could chew? Had she dedded to slink off in the night, save
her own skin and that of her men? Thinking back to her, to
her supreme faith in the One God, Gerard doubted it.

The Solamrdc Knights continued their charge, sweep-
ing around both sides of the camp in a great widening
circle. They continued to sing, but the song had lost its
charm, could not dispel the uneasiness creeping into their
hearts. The silence was uncanny, and they didn't like it.
They smelled a trap.

Lord Tasgall, leading the charge, was presented with a
problem. Did he proceed as planned? How was he to
react to this new and unexpected situation? A veteran of
many campaigns. Lord Tasgall was well aware that the
best-laid strategy never survives contact with the enemy.
In this instance, however, the problem appeared to be
the absence of contact with the enemy. Tasgall figured the
girl had simply come to her senses and departed. If so, he
and his forces had lost nothing but a few hours sleep.
Lord Tasgall could not count on this, however. Quite
possibly it was a trap. Better to error on the side of cau-
tion. Changing strategies now would only throw every-
one into confusion. The Lord Knight would carry out his
plan, but he did raise his hand to slow the progression of
the cavalry, so that they were not riding heedlessly into
whatever might await them.

457

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfte Wan of Souls

He might have spared himself the trouble. The Knights
were not prepared for what awaited them. They could
never have been prepared for it.

Another song lifted into the air, a song that was a minor
to their major, a song that ran counterpoint to theirs. One
person sang the song, and Gerard, who had heard her
voice, recognized Mina.

MARIONETTE

In bygone times and warmer climes

You Marionettes played.
Now restless, silent in a box,

Your scattered limbs are splayed.
Come feel the tug of dancing strings.

Your dust responds on shivering wings.

The Master Puppeteer now sings!
Rise up from where you're laid.

The Master calls you from the dark.

Your bones respond in haste.
Come act the part of living souls.

Their glory once more taste.
Connect again with warmer days,

And hearken to your former ways.

Out of that darkness you will raise
Up from your place of waste!
Now dance, you spirits gone before

The surging blood of old.
You sundered souls from times of yore

Play at a life once bold!
The Master heaves on strings of woe.

Tom from the dark your bones must go

To act once more that all may know
The Master's tale is told!

458

DRBOONS of a Lost Stan

Soldiers on the right flanks began to shout and point.
Gerard turned to look to see what was happening.

A thick fog rolled out of the west. The strange fog
advanced swiftly, roiling over the grass, obliterating all it
touched, blotted out the stars, swallowed the moon.
Those watching it could see nothing within the fog, noth-
ing behind it. Reaching the city's western walls, the fog
boiled over them. The towers on the west side of Solan-
thus vanished from sight as thoroughly as if they had
never been built. Faint cries came from that part of the
city, but they were muffled, and no one could make out
what was going on.

Watching the advance of this strange and unnatural
fog. Lord Tasgall halted the charge and, with a wave of
his hand, summoned his officers to him. Lord Ulrich and
Lord Nigel left the ranks and galloped forward. Gerard
edged near enough to overhear what they were saying.

"There is sorcery at work here." Lord Tasgall's voice
was grim. "We've been duped. Lured out of the city. I say
we sound the retreat."

"My lord," protested Lord Ulrich, chuckling, "it is a
heavy dew, nothing more."

"Heavy dew!" repeated Lord Tasgall, with a snort of
disgust. "Herald, sound the retreat!"

The herald lifted his hom to his lips, gave the signal to
retreat. The Knights reacted with discipline, did not give
way to panic. Rounding their horses, they began to ride
in column toward the dty. The foot soldiers wheeled about,
headed in orderly march back to the walls. The Knights
advanced to cover the footmen's retreat. The archers were
now visible on the walls, arrows nocked.

Yet Gerard could see—everyone could see—that no
matter how fast they moved, the strange fog would engulf
them before the closest soldier could reach the safety of
the sheltering walls. The fog slid over the ground with the

459

DRAQONLANCE 'CQe wan of Souls

rapidity of a cavalry charging at full gallop. Gerard stared
at the fog as it drew nearer. Stared at it, blinked, rubbed
his eyes. He must be seeing things.

This was not fog. This was not a "heavy dew." These
were Mina's reinforcements.

An army of souls.

An army of conscripts, for the souls of the dead were
trapped in the world, unable to depart. As each soul left
its body that had bound it to this world, it knew an
instant's elation and exultation and freedom. That feeling
was quashed almost immediately. An Immortal Being
seized the spirit of the dead and gave it to know an
immense hunger, a hunger for magic.

"Bring me the magic, and you will be free," was the
promise. A promise not kept. The hunger could never be
satiated. The hunger grew in proportion to what it fed on.
Those souls struggling to free themselves found there
was nowhere to go.

Nowhere to go until they received the summons.

A voice, a human voice, a mortal voice, Mina's voice
called to them. "Fight for the One God, and you will be
rewarded. Serve the One God, and you will be free."

Desperate, suffering unending torments, the souls
obeyed. They formed no ranks for their numbers were
too great. The soul of the goblin, its hideous visage recre-
ated from the soul's memory of its mortal shell, barred
teeth of mist, grappled for a sword of gossamer and
answered the call. The soul of a Solamnic Knight that had
long ago lost all notions of honor and loyalty answered
the call. The souls of goblin and Knight walked side by
side and knew not what they attacked or what they
fought. Their only thought was to please the Voice and,
by pleasing, escape.

A fog it seemed at first to the mortals who faced it, but
Mina called upon the One God to open mortal eyes to see

460

DnaooNe or a Lost Stan

what previously had been kept from their sight. The
living were constrained to look upon the dead.

The fog had eyes and mouths. Hands reached out
from the fog. Voices whispered from the fog that was not
fog at all but a myriad souls, each holding a memory of
what it had been, a memory traced in the ethers with the
magical phosphoresence of moonlight and foxfire. The
face of each soul bore the horror of its existence, an exis-
tence that knew no rest, knew only endless seeking and
the hopeless desolation of not ever finding.

The souls held weapons, but the weapons were mist
and moonglow and could not kill or maim. The souls
wielded a single weapon, a most horrible weapon. Despair.

At the sight of the army of trapped souls, the foot
soldiers threw down their weapons, heedless to the
furious shouts of their officers. The knights guarding
their flanks looked at the dead and shuddered in horror.
Their instinct was to do the same as the soldiers, to give
way to the feelings of terror and panic. Discipline held
them for the moment, discipline and pride, but when
each turned to look at the other, uncertain what to do, each
saw his own fear reflected back to him in the faces of
his comrades.

The ghostly army entered the enemy camp. The souls
flitted restlessly among the tents and the wagons.
Gerard heard the panicked neighing of horses and now,
at last, sounds of movement from the camp—calls of
officers, the clash of steel. Then all sound was swallowed
up by the souls, as if jealous of sounds their dead mouths
could not make. The enemy camp vanished from sight.
The army of souls flowed toward the city of Solanthus.

Thousands of mouths cried out in silent torment, their
whispered shouts a chill wind that froze the blood of the
living. Thousands and thousands of dead hands reached
out to grasp what they could never hold. Thousands

461

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct)e Ware of Souls

upon thousands of dead feet marched across the ground
and bent not a single blade of grass.

Officers fell prey to the same terror as their men, gave
up trying to keep their men in order. The foot soldiers
broke ranks and ran, panic-stricken, for the walls, the
faster shoving aside or knocking down the slower in
order to reach safety.

The walls afforded no sanctuary. A moat is no deter-
rent to those who are already dead, they have no fear of
drowning. Arrows cannot halt the advance of those who
have no flesh to pierce. The ghostly legions slid beneath
the wicked points of the portcullis and swarmed over the
closed gates, flitted through the murder holes and glided
through the arrow slits.

Behind the army of souls came an army of the living.
Soldiers of Mina's command had kept hidden inside their
tents, waiting for the army of souls to advance, to terrify
the enemy and drive him into panicked chaos. Under
cover of this dread army, Mina's soldiers emerged from
their tents and raced to battle. Their orders were to attack
the Solamnic Knights when they were out in the open,
isolated, cut-off, a prey to horror.

Gerard tried to halt the soldiers' flight as they tram-
pled each other, fought to escape the ghost army. He
rode after the men, yelling for them to stand their
ground, but they ignored him, kept running. Every-
thing disappeared. The souls of the dead surrounded
him. Their incorporeal forms shimmered with an incan-
descent whiteness that outlined hands and arms, feet
and fingers, clothing and armor, weapons or other
objects that had been familiar to them in life. They closed
in on him, and his horse screamed in terror. Rearing
back on its hind legs, the horse dumped Gerard on the
ground and dashed off, vanishing into a swirling fog of
grasping, ghostly hands.

462

DnaqoNS oy a Lost Stan

Gerard scrambled to his feet. He drew his sword out
of instinct, for what was he going to kill? He had never
been so terrified. The touch of the souls was like cold
mist. He could not count the number of dead that encir-
cled him. One, a hundred, twelve hundred. The souls
were intertwined, one with another. Impossible to tell
where one ended and another began. They flitted in and
out of his vision so that he grew dizzy and confused
watching them.

They did not threaten or attack him, not even those
who might have done so in life. An enormous hobgoblin
reached out hairy hands, which were suddenly the
hands of a beautiful young elven woman, who became a
fisherman, who shriveled into a frightened, whimpering
dwarf child. The faces of the dead filled Gerard with a
nameless horror, for he saw in all of them the misery and
hopelessness of the prisoner who lies forgotten in the
dungeon that is the grave.

The sight was so awful that Gerard feared he might
go mad. He tried to remember the direction to take to
reach Solanthus, where he could at least feel the touch of
a warm hand as opposed to the caress of the dead, but
the fall from the horse had disoriented him. He listened
for sounds that might give him some indication which
way to go. As in a fog, all sound was distorted. He heard
steel clash and cries of pain and guessed that somewhere
men fought the living, not the dead. But whether the
sounds of battle came from in front of him or behind, he
could not tell.

Then he heard a voice speaking coldly and dispassion-
ately. "Here's another one."

Two soldiers, living men, wearing the emblem of
Neraka, rushed at him, the ghostly figures parting like
white silken scarves cut through by a cleaver. The sol-
diers fell on Gerard, attacking without skill, slashing

463

ORAQONLANCE 'C^C WBR Of SOUlS

and beating at him with their swords, hoping to over-
whelm him with brute force before he could recover
from his panicked horror. What they had not counted on
was the fact that Gerard was so relieved to see a flesh-
and-blood foe, one that could be punched and kicked and
bloodied, that he defended himself with spirit.

He disarmed one man, sent his sword flying, and
drove his fist into the jaw of the other. The two did not
stick around to continue the fight. Finding their foe
stronger than they had hoped, they ran off, leaving
Gerard to his dread jailers, the souls of the dead.

Gerard's hand clenched spasmodically around his
sword's hilt. Fearing another ambush, he looked constantly
over his shoulder, afraid to stay where he was, more afraid
to move. The souls watched him, surrounded him.

A horn call split the air like a scythe. The call came
from within the city, sounding the retreat. The call was
frantic and short-lived, ending in midnote, but it gave
Gerard a sense of where he must go. He had to overcome
his instincts, for the last time he'd seen the city walls, they
were behind him. The horn call came from in front. He
walked forward, slowly, unwilling to touch the souls,
though he need not have worried, for though some
reached out their hands to him with what seemed pitiful
supplication and others reached out their hands in what
seemed murderous intent, they were powerless to affect
him, other than by the horror and fear they inspired. Still,
that was bad enough.

When the sight became too awful for him to bear, he
involuntarily shut his eyes, hoping to find some relief,
but that proved even more harrowing, for then he could
feel the touch of the ghostly fingers and hear the whis-
pers of ghostly voices.

By this time the foot soldiers had reached the enormous
iron gate that pierced the curtain wall. The panic-stricken

464

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stare

men beat on the gate, shouted for it to open. The gate
remained closed and barred against them. Angry and
terrified, they cried out for their comrades within the city
to open the gate and let them enter. The soldiers began to
shove on the gate and shake it, cursing those within.

White light flared. A blast shook the ground, as a sec-
tion of the wall near the gate exploded. Huge chunks of
broken stone rained down on the soldiers massed in front
of the closed gate. Hundreds died, crushed to death
beneath the rubble. Those who survived lay pinned in the
wreckage, begging for help, but no help came. From
inside the city, the gates remained locked and barred. The
enemy began to pour through the breech.

Hearing the blast, Gerard peered ahead, trying to see
what had happened. The souls swirled around him, flit-
ted past him, and he saw only white faces and grasping
hands. Desperate, he plunged into the wavering figures,
slashing at them wildly with his sword. He might have
tried to skewer quicksilver, for the dead slid away from
him, only to gather around him ever more thickly.

Realizing what he was doing, Gerard halted, tried to
regain control of himself. He was sweating and shivering.
The thought of his momentary madness appalled him.
Feeling as if he were being smothered, he removed his
helm and drew in several deep breaths. Now that he was
calm, he could hear voices—living voices—and the
sound of ringing steel. He paused another moment to
orient himself and replace his helm, leaving the visor
raised in order to hear and see better. As he ran toward
the sound, the dead snatched at him with their chill
hands. He had the skin-crawling sensation he was run-
ning through enormous cobwebs.

He came upon six enemy soldiers, who were very
much alive, fighting a knight on horseback. He could not
see the knight's face beneath the helm, but he saw two

465

DRAQONLANCE •CITS Wan of Souls

long black braids whipping around the knighfs shoul-
ders. The soldiers surrounded Odila, tried to drag her
from her horse. She struck at them with her sword,
kicked at them, fended off their blows with her shield.
All the while, she kept the horse under control.

Gerard attacked the enemy from behind, taking them
by surprise. He ran his sword through one. Yanking his
weapon free of the corpse, Gerard elbowed another in the
ribs. Doubling him over, he smashed his nose with a
thrust of a knee.

Odila brought her sword down on a man's skull
with such force that it split his helm and cleaved
through his skull, splattering Gerard with blood and
brains and bits of bone. He wiped the blood from his
eyes and turned to a soldier who had hold of the
horse's bridle, was trying to haul the animal down to
the ground. Gerard slashed at the man's hands as
Odila bashed another with her shield and struck again
with her sword. Another man ducked beneath the
horse's belly, came up behind Gerard. Before Gerard
could turn from one foe to defend himself against the
new one, the soldier struck Gerard a savage blow to the
side of the head.

Gerard's helm saved him from a killing stroke. The
blade glanced off the metal and cut open Gerard's cheek.
He felt no pain and knew he'd been hit only because he
could taste the warm blood that flooded his mouth. The
man caught hold of Gerard's sword hand in a clench of
iron, began trying to break his fingers to force him to
drop his weapon. Gerard struck the man in the face,
breaking his nose. Sdll the man hung on, grappled with
Gerard. Flinging the man backward, Gerard kicked him
in the gut, sent the man sprawling. Gerard moved to
finish him, but the man scrambled to his feet and ran.
Gerard was too exhausted to pursue him.

466

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

Gerard stood gasping for breath. His head hurt now,
hurt abominably. Holding a sword was painful, and he
shifted the weapon to his left hand, although what he
would do with it there was open to question, since he'd
never attained the skill to fight with both hands. He could
at least use it as a club, he supposed.

Odila's armor was dented and blood-covered. He
could not tell if she was hurt, and he lacked the breath
to ask. She sat on her horse, looking around her, sword
poised, waiting for the next assault.

Gerard realized suddenly that he could see trees sil-
houetted against the stars. He could see other knights,
some mounted, some standing on the ground, some kneel-
ing, some fallen. He could see stars, he could see the walls
of Solanthus, gleaming white in the bright moonlight,
with one terrible exception. An enormous section of wall
was missing, a section near the gate. A huge pile of
blasted rock lay in front.

"What happened?" Odila gasped, snatching off her
helm to see better. "Who did this? Why did the gates not
open? Who barred them?" She stared at the walls that
were silent and empty. "Where are our archers? Why
have they left their posts?"

In an answer that seemed almost personal, so nearly
did it coincide with Odila's question, a lone figure
came to stand atop the city's outer walls above the
gates that had had remained closed and barred against
their own defenders.

The dead soldiers of Solanthus lay stacked in front of
the city gate, an offering before an enormous altar. An
offering to the girl Mina, whose black armor was sleek in
the moonlight.

"Knights of Solamnia. Citizens of Solanthus." Mina
addressed them, her voice ringing so that none on that
bloody field had to strain to hear. "Through the might of

467

DRAQONLANCE "CDe Wan of Souls

the One God, the city of Solanthus has fallen. I hereby
claim the city of Solanthus in the name of the One God."

Hoarse cries of shocked anger and disbelief rose from
the battlefield. Lord Tasgall spurred his horse forward.
His armor was dark with blood, his right arm hung
limply, uselessly at his side.

"I do not believe you!" he shouted. "Perhaps you have
won the outer walls, but you cannot fool me into thinking
you have conquered the entire city!"

Archers appeared on the walls, archers wearing the
emblems of Neraka. Arrows landed all around him;

stuck, quivering, in the ground at his feet.

"Look to the heavens," said Mina.

Reluctantly, Lord Tasgall raised his head, his gaze
searching the skies. He did not have to search long to
see defeat.

Black wings slid over the stars, blotting them from
view. Black wings sliced across the face of the moon.
Dragons wheeled in the air, flying in low victorious cir-
cles over the city of Solanthus.

Dragonfear, awful and debilitating, shook Lord Tas-
gall and all the Solamnic Knights, caused more than one
to quail and fling up his arm in terror or grip his weapon
with hands that sweat and trembled.

No arrows from Solanthus fired at the dragons. No
machines spewed forth flaming oil. One horn call alone
had sounded the alarm at the start of battle, and that had
been silenced in death.

Mina had spoken truly. The battle was over. While the
Solamnic Knights had been held hostage by the dead and
ambushed by the living, Mina and the remainder of her
forces had flown on dragonback unimpeded into a city
that had been emptied of most of its defenders.

"Knights of Solamnia," Mina continued, "you have
witnessed the power of the One God, who rules the living

468

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

and the dead. Go forth and carry word of the One God's
return into the world with you. I have given the dragons
orders not to attack you. You are free to leave. Go where
you will." She waved her hand in a graceful, magnani-
mous gesture. "Even to Sanction. For that is where the
gaze of the One God turns next. Tell the defenders of
Sanction of the wonders you have seen this night. Tell
them to fear the One God."

The Lord Knight sat unmoving in his saddle. He was
in shock, stunned and overwhelmed by this unexpected
turn of events. Other Knights rode or walked or limped
to stand at his side. They gathered around him. Judging
by their raised voices, some were demanding that they
ride to the attack.

Gerard snorted in derision. Let them, he thought. Let
this horde of dragons come down and snap off their fool
heads. Idiots like that don't deserve to live and should
certainly never father progeny. One had only to look up
into the sky to see that there was nothing left for the
Solamnic Knighthood in Solanthus.

Mina spoke one last time. "The night wanes. The dawn
approaches. You have one hour to depart in safety. Any
who remain within sight of the city walls by this day's
dawning will be slain." Her voice grew gentle. "Have no
fear for your dead. They will be honored, for they now
serve the One God."

The bluster and the fury of the defeated Knights soon
blew out. Those few foot soldiers who had escaped alive
began to straggle off across the fields, many looking back-
ward over their shoulders as if they could not believe what
had happened and must constantly assure themselves by
staring at the gruesome sight of their comrades crushed
to death beneath the rubble of the once-mighty city.

The Knights managed to salvage what dignity they
had left and returned to the field to pick up their fallen.

469

DRAQONLANCE 'cue Wan of Souls

They would not leave their dead behind, no matter what
Mina or the One God promised. Lord Tasgall remained
seated on his horse. He had removed his helm to wipe
away the sweat. His face was grim and fixed, his com-
plexion as white as that of the ghosts.

Gerard could not look at him, could not bear to see
such suffering. He turned away.

Odila had not joined the rest of the Knights. She had
not appeared even to see what was transpiring. She sat
her horse, staring at the wall where the girl Mina had
been standing.

Gerard had planned to go assist the other Knights
with the wounded and dead, but he didn't like the
expression on Odila's face. He grasped hold of her boot,
jogged her foot to gain her attention.

She looked down at him and didn't seem to recognize
him.

'The One God," Odila said. "The girl speaks the truth.
A god has returned to the world. What can mortals do
against such power?"

Gerard looked up to where the dragons danced in
the heavens, flying triumphant amidst ragged wispy
clouds that were not clouds, but the souls of the dead,
still lingering.

"We do what she told us to do," Gerard said flatly, glanc-
ing back at the walls of the fallen dty. He saw the minotaur
standing there, watching the Solamnic Knights' retreat.
"We ride to Sanction. We warn them of what is coming."

470

51

'Cl^e Ret) Rose




In the dark hours before the dawn, on the day
the dragon Beryl had appointed for the destruc-
tion of Qualinost, Marshal Medan took his breakfast in
his garden. He ate well, for he would need the reserves
of energy food provided later in the day. He had known
men unable to swallow a mouthful before a fight or
those who ate and then disgorged the contents of their
stomachs shortly after. He had disciplined himself long
ago to eat a large meal before a campaign and even to
enjoy it.

He was able to accomplish this by focusing on each
single minute as it happened, looking neither ahead to
what must come or behind to what might have been.
He had made his peace with the past last night before
he slept—another discipline. As to what brief future
might remain to him, he put his trust in himself. He
knew his limits; he knew his strengths. He knew and
trusted his comrades.

471

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfle Wan of Souls

He dipped the last of the season's strawberries in the
last of his elven wine. He ate olive bread and soft white
cheese. The bread was hard and a week old, for the bakery
fires had not been lighted these many days, the bakers
either having left Qualinost or gone into hiding, work-
ing toward this day. Still, he relished the taste. He had
always enjoyed olive bread. The cheese, spread on the
bread, was excellent. A simple pleasure, one he would
miss in death.

Medan did not believe in life beyond the grave. No
rational mind could, as far as he was concerned. Death
was oblivion. Each night's short sleep prepares us for
the final night's long one. Yet he thought that even in
oblivion, he would miss his garden and the soft cheese
on the fragrant bread, he would miss moonlight shin-
ing on golden hair. He finished the cheese, scattered
bread crumbs to the fish. He sat for another hour alone
in the garden, listening to the sparrow sing her mourn-
ful song. His eyes misted for a moment, but that was
for the birdsong that would for him be silenced, and
for the beauty of the late-blooming flowers that he also
would miss. When his eyes misted, he knew it was
time to depart.

The Dark Knight Dumat was on hand to assist Medan
into his armor. The Marshal would not wear full plate
this day. Beryl would notice and find it suspidous. The
elves had been killed, driven out, vanquished. The elven
capital city was being delivered to her without a fight.
Her Marshal was here to greet her in triumph. What use
did he have for armor? Besides that, Medan needed to
be free to move swiftly, and he was not going to be
encumbered by heavy plate or chain mail. He wore his
ceremonial armor—the highly polished breastplate with
the lily and the skull, and his helm—but he dispensed
with all the rest.

472

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stare

Dumat helped fasten the long, flowing cloak around
Medan's shoulders. The cloak was made of wool that
had been dipped in black dye and then in purple.
Trimmed in gold braid, the cloak reached to the floor
and weighed nearly as much as a chain-mail shirt.
Medan despised it, never wore it except on those days
when he had to make a show for the Senate. Today,
though, the cloak would come in handy, for it covered
a multitude of sins. Once he was attired, he experi-
mented with the cloak to make certain it would per-
form as required.

Dumat assisted him to arrange the folds so that cloak
fell over his left shoulder, concealing beneath those
folds the sword he wore on his left hip. The sword he
wore now was not the magical sword, not the Lost Star.
For now, his customary sword would serve his purpose.
He had to remember to make certain he held fast the
cloak's edge with his left hand, so that the wind created
by the dragon's fanning wings would not cause it to
billow out. He practiced several times, while Dumat
watched with a critical eye.

"Will it work, do you think?" the Marshal asked.

"Yes, my lord," Dumat replied. "If Beryl does catch a
glimpse of steel, she will think it is only your sword, such
as you always wear."

"Excellent." Medan let fall the cloak. He unbuckled his
sword from its belt, started to set it aside. Then, thinking
better of it, he handed the weapon to Dumat. "May it
serve you well as it has served me."

Dumat rarely smiled, and he did not smile then. He
removed his own sword—that was regulation issue—and
buckled on the Marshal's, with its fine, tempered steel
blade. He made no show of gratitude, other than a mut-
tered thanks, but Medan saw that his gift had pleased
and touched the soldier.

473

DRAQONLANCE 'Cire Wan of Soute

"You had better leave now," Medan said. "You have a
long ride back to Qualinost and much to do this morning
before the appointed time."

Dumat started to salute, but the Marshal extended his
hand. Dumat hesitated, then grasped Medan's hand,
shook it heartily in silence. Dumat took his leave. Mount-
ing his horse, he headed at a gallop back to Qualinost.

Medan went over the plan again in his mind, check-
ing and rechecking to see if he had missed anything. He
was satisfied. No plan was perfect, of course, and events
rarely went as one hoped, but he was confident he and
Laurana had anticipated most contingencies. He shut
his house and locked it up. He wondered, idly, if he
would be returning to unlock it or if they would carry
his body back here to bury him in his garden as he had
requested. In the afterdays when the elves came back to
their homeland, would anyone live in this house? Would
anyone remember?

"The house of the hated Marshal Medan," he said to
himself with half a smile. "Perhaps they'll burn it to the
ground. Humans would."

But elves were not like humans. Elves did not take sat-
isfaction in such petty revenge, knowing that it would
serve no purpose. Besides, they would not want to harm
the garden. He could count on that.

He had one more task to perform before he left. He
searched the garden until he found two perfect roses—
one red, one white. He plucked them both and stripped
the white one of its thoms. He placed the red rose, thorns
and all, beneath his armor, against his breast.

The white rose in hand, he left his garden without a
backward look. What need? He carried the sight and the
fragrance in his mind, and he hoped, if death took him,
that his last thought would wend its way back here, live
forever in beauty and peace and solitude.

474

DreaqoNS of a Lost Stan

In her house, Laurana was doing much the same thing
as the Marshal, with a few exceptions. She had managed
to swallow only a few mouthfuls of food before putting
aside the plate. She drank a glass of wine to give her
heart, then retired to her room.

She had no one to assist her to dress and arm herself,
for she had sent her maidservants away to safety in the
south. They had gone reluctantly, separating from their
mistress with tears. Now, only Kelevandros remained
with her. She had urged him to leave, as well, but he had
refused, and she had not pressed him. He wanted to
stay, he said, to redeem his family's honor that had been
besmirched by the treachery of his brother.

Laurana understood, but she was almost sorry he had
done so. He was the perfect servant, anticipating her wants
and needs, unobtrusive, a hard and diligent worker. But he
no longer laughed or sang as he went about his tasks. He
was quiet, distant, his thoughts turned inward, rebuffing
any offers of sympathy.

Laurana wrapped around her waist the leather skirt
that had been designed for her years ago when she was
the Golden General. She had just enough feminine vanity
to note that the skirt was a little tighter on her than it had
been in her youth and just enough sense of the absurd to
smile at herself for minding. The leather skirt was slit up
the side for ease of movement and served well as protec-
tive armor whether standing or riding. When this was
done, she started to summon Kelevandros, but he had
been waiting outside and entered the room as his name
formed on her lips.

Without speaking, he fastened on her the breastplate,
blue with golden trim, she had worn those long years
ago, then she draped a cloak around her shoulders. The
cloak was oversized. She had made it spedally for this
occasion, working on it day and night so it would be

475

DRAQONLANCE 0)e Wan of Souls

ready in time. The cloak was white, of finely carded
wool, and was fastened in the front by seven golden
clasps. Slits had been placed in the side for her arms. She
studied herself critically in the looking glass, moving,
walking, standing still, making certain that no hint of
leather or glint of metal gave her away. She had to look
the part of the victim, not the predator.

Because the cloak restricted the movement of her
arms, Kelevandros brushed and arranged her long hair
around her shoulders. Marshal Medan had wanted her
to wear her helm, arguing that she would need its protec-
tion. Laurana had refused. The helm would look out of
place. The dragon would be suspidous.

"After all," she had said to him, half-teasing, wholly
serious, "if she attacks, I don't suppose a helmet will make
much difference."

Silver chimes rang outside the house.

"Marshal Medan is here," Laurana said. "It is time."

Lifting her gaze, she saw that Kelevandros's face had
gone pale. His jaw tightened, his lips pressed tight. He
looked at her, pleading.

"I must do this, Kelevandros," Laurana said, laying
her hand gently on his arm. "The chance is a slim one, but
it is our only hope."

He lowered his gaze, bowed his head.

"You should leave now," Laurana continued. "It is
time you took your place in the tower."

"Yes, Madam," Kelevandros said in the same empty,
toneless voice he had used since the day of his brother's
death.

"Remember your instructions. When I say the words,
Ara Qualinesti you will light the signal arrow and shoot
it into the air. Fire it out over Qualinost, so that those
watching for it can see it."

"Yes, Madam." Kelevandros bowed silently and

476

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

turned to leave. "If you do not mind, I will depart through
the garden."

"Kelevandros," Laurana said, halting him. "I am sorry.
Truly sorry."

"Why should you be sorry. Madam?" he asked, not
turning, keeping his back to her. "My brother tried to
murder you. What he did was not your fault."

"I think perhaps it was," Laurana said, faltering. "If I
had known how unhappy he was ... If I had taken time
to find out... If I had not assumed that... that..."

"That we were happy to have been bom into servi-
tude?" Kelevandros finished her sentence for her. "No,
it never occurs to anyone, does it?" He looked at her
with a strange smile. "It will from now on. The old ways
end here. Whatever happens this day, the lives of the
elves will never be the same. We can never go back to
what we were. Perhaps we will all know, before the end,
what it means to be bom a slave. Even you. Madam.
Even your son."

Bowing, Kelevandros picked up his bow and a quiver
of arrows and started to take his leave. He was almost
out the door when he turned to face her, yet he did not
look at her.

"Oddly enough. Madam," he said, his voice rough, his
eyes downcast. "I was happy here."

With another bow, he left.

"Was that Kelevandros I saw skulking through the
garden?" Medan asked when Laurana opened the door
to him. He looked at her intently.

"Yes," she said, glancing in that direction, though she
could not see him for the thick foliage. "He has gone to
take his place in the tower."

"You look troubled. Has he said or done something to
upset you?"

477

DRAQONLANCE 'C17C Wan of Soute

"If he did, I must make allowances. He has not been him-
self since his brother's death. His grief overwhelms him."

"His grief is wasted," said the Marshal. "That wretched
brother of his was not worth a snivel, let alone a tear."

"Perhaps," Laurana said, unconvinced. "And yet.. ."
She paused, perplexed, and shook her head.

Medan regarded her earnestly. "You have only to say
the word. Madam, and I will see to it that you escape
safely from Qualinost this instant. You will be reunited
with your son—"

"No, I thank you. Marshal," Laurana answered calmly,
looking up at him. "Kelevandros must wrestle with his
own demons, as I have wrestled with mine. I am resolved
in this. I will do my part. You need me, I think, sir," she
added with a hint of mischief, "unless you plan to dress
up in one of my gowns and wear a blonde wig."

"I have no doubt that even Beryl, dense as she is,
would see through that disguise," said Medan dryly. He
was pleased to see Laurana smile. Another memory for
him to keep. He handed her the white rose. "I brought
this for you. Madam. From my garden. The roses will be
lovely in Qualinost this fall."

"Yes," said Laurana, accepting the rose. Her hand
trembled slightly. "They will be lovely."

"You will see them. If I die this day, you will tend my
garden for me. Do you promise?"

"It is bad luck to speak of death before the battle. Mar-
shal," Laurana warned, partly in jest, wholly in earnest.
"Our plan will work. The dragon will be defeated and her
army demoralized."

"I am a soldier. Death is in my contract. But you—"

"Marshal," Laurana interrupted with a smile, "every
contract ever written ends in death."

"Not yours," he said softly. "Not so long as I am alive
to prevent it."

478

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

They stood a moment in silence. He watched her,
watched the moonlight gently touch her hair as he longed
to touch it. She kept her gaze fixed upon the rose.

"The parting with your son Gilthas was difficult?" he
asked at last.

She replied with a soft sigh. "Not in the way you imag-
ine. Gilthas did not try to dissuade me from my chosen
path. Nor did he try to free himself from walking his. We
did not spend our last hours in fruitless argument, as I
had feared. We remembered the past and talked of what
he will do in the future. He has many hopes and dreams.
They will serve to ease his journey over the dark, perilous
road he must travel to reach that future. Even if we win
this day, as Kelevandros said, the lives of the elves will
never be the same. We can never go back to what we
were." She was pensive, introspective.

In his heart Medan applauded Gilthas. The Marshal
guessed how difficult it must have been for the young
man to leave his mother to face the dragon while he
departed safely out of harm's way. Gilthas had been wise
enough to realize that attempting to dissuade her from
her chosen course would have accomplished nothing
and left him with only bitter recriminations. Gilthas
would need all the wisdom he possessed to face what lay
ahead of him. Medan knew the peril better than Laurana,
for he had received reports of what was happening in Sil-
vanesti. He said nothing to her, not wanting to worry her.
Time enough to face that crisis when they had disposed
of this one.

"If you are ready. Madam, we should leave now," he
told her. "We'll steal through the city while nighfs shad-
ows yet linger and enter the tower with the dawn."

"I am ready," Laurana said. She did not look behind
her. As they walked down the path that led through the
late-blooming lilacs, she said to him, "I want to thank

479

DRAQONLANCE me WBR of Souls

you. Marshal, on behalf of the elven people, for what you
do for us this day. Your courage will be long remembered
and long honored among us."

Medan was embarrassed. "Perhaps it is not so much
what I do this day. Madam," he said quietly, "as what I try
to undo. Rest assured I will not fail you or your people."

"Our people. Marshal Medan," said Laurana. "Our
people."

Her words were meant kindly, but they pierced his
heart. He deserved the punishment, and he bore it in
silence, unflinching, as a soldier. Thus he bore unflinch-
ing the sting of the rose's thorns against his breast.

Muffled sounds could be heard coming from the
houses of the elves as Medan and Laurana passed swiftly
through the streets on their way to the tower. Although
no elf showed his face, the time for skulking in silence
was gone. There were sounds of heavy objects being
hauled up stairs, the rustlings of tree branches as the
archers took their places. They heard orders given in calm
voices both in Common and Elvish. Near the tower, they
actually caught a glimpse of Dumat adding the finishing
touches to a web of tree branches he had constructed over
the roof of his house. Chosen to watch for Kelevandros's
signal, Dumat would give the signal to the elves for the
attack. He saluted the Marshal and bowed to the Queen
Mother, then continued on about his work.

The morning sun rose, and by the time they reached
the tower, the sun shone bright. Shading his eyes, Medan
blessed the day for its clear visibility, although he caught
himself thinking that his garden would have welcomed
rain. He put the thought aside with a smile and concen-
trated on the task ahead.

The bright light streamed in through the myriad win-
dows, sent rainbows dancing in dazzling array around

480

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

the tower's interior, and lit the mosaic on the ceiling: the
day and the night, separated by hope.

Laurana had locked away the sword and the
dragonlance in one of the tower's many rooms. While
she retrieved them, Medan looked out one of the win-
dows, watching the preparations as Qualinost made
ready for war. Like its Queen Mother, the city was
transforming itself from lovely and demure maid into
doughty warrior.

Laurana handed Medan the sword. Lost Star. He
gravely saluted her with the sword, then buckled it
around his waist. She helped him arrange the folds of the
cloak to conceal it. Stepping back, she eyed him critically
and pronounced his disguise successful. No gleam of
metal could be seen.

"We climb this staircase." Laurana indicated a circular
stair. "It leads to the balcony at the top of the tower. The
climb is a long one, I fear, but there will be time to rest—"

Sudden night, strange and awful as that of an edipse,
quenched the sunlight. Medan hastened to look out the
window, well knowing, yet dreading what he would see.

The sky was dark with dragons.

"Very little time, I fear," Medan said calmly, taking the
dragonlance from her hand and shaking his head when
she started to try to retrieve it. 'The great green bitch has
launched her attack early. No surprise there. We must
make haste."

Opening the door, they began to climb the stairs that
wound around and around a hollow shaft, a vortex of
stone. A railing made of gold and of silver, twined
together, spiraled upward. Formed in an imitation of a
vine of ivy, the railing did not appear to have been built
into the stone but seemed to have grown around it.

"Our people are ready," Laurana said. "When Kele-
vandros gives the signal, they will strike."

481

DRAQONLANCE 'CDe Wan of Souls

"I hope we can count on him to carry out his part,"
the Marshal said. "He has, as you say, been acting strange
of late."

"\ trust him," Laurana replied. "Look." She pointed at
narrow booted footprints in the thick dust on the stairs.
"He is here already, waiting for us."

They climbed as rapidly as possible, yet they dared
not move too swiftly, lest they lose their strength before
they had reached the top. "I am thankful... I did not wear
full plate armor," the Marshal stated with what breath he
had left. As it was, he had only reached what Laurana
told him was the halfway mark and he was gasping for
breath, his legs burned.

"I used to race . . . my brothers and Tanis up these
stairs . . . when I was a girl," Laurana said, pressing her
hand over her side to ease a jabbing pain. "We had better
rest... a moment, or we're not going to make it."

She sank down on the staircase, wincing at the pain.
Medan remained standing, staring out the window. He
drew in deep breaths, flexed his legs to ease the cramped
muscles.

"What can you see?" Laurana asked tensely. "What is
happening?"

"Nothing yet," he reported. "Those are Beryl's min-
ions in the skies. Probably scouting the city, making cer-
tain it is deserted. Beryl is a coward at heart. Without her
magic, she feels naked, vulnerable. She won't come near
Qualinost until she is assured nothing will harm her."

"When will her soldiers enter the dty?"

Medan turned from the window to look down at her.
"Afterward. The commanders won't send in the men
until the dragons are gone. The dragonfear unsettles the
troops, makes them difficult to manage. When the drag-
ons are finished leveling the place, the soldiers will
arrive. To 'mop up.' "

482

DRBQONS OF a Lost Stan

Laurana laughed shakily. "I hope they will not find
much to 'mop.' "

"If all goes as planned/' said Medan, returning her
smile, "the floor will be wiped clean."

"Ready?" she asked.

"Ready," he replied and gallantly extended his hand
to help her to her feet.

The stairs brought them to the top of the tower, to an
entrance to a small alcove with an arched ceiling. Those
passing through the alcove walked out onto a balcony
that overlooked all of the city of Qualinost. The Speaker
of the Suns and the clerics of Paladine had been accus-
tomed to come to the top of the tower on holidays and
feast days, to thank Paladine—or Eli, as the elves knew
him—for his many blessings, the most glorious of which
was the sun that gave life and light to all. That custom
had ended after the Chaos War, and now no one came up
here. What was the use?

Paladine was gone. The sun was a strange sun, and
though it gave light and life, it seemed to do so grudg-
ingly, not gloriously. The elves might have kept up the old
tradition simply because it was tradition. Their Speaker,
Solostaran, had kept up the custom during the years after
the Cataclysm, when Paladine had not heeded their
prayers. The young king, Gilthas, had not been able to
make the arduous climb, however. He had pleaded ill
health, and so the elves had abandoned tradition. The
real reason Gilthas did not want to climb to the top of
the Tower of the Sun was that he did not want to look out
over a dty that was captive, a dty in chains.

"When Qualinost is no longer held in thrall," Gilthas
had promised his mother during their last night together,
"I will come back, and no matter if I am so old that my
bones creak and I have lost every tooth in my head, I will

483

DRAQONLANCB 'Cl)e Wan of Souls

run up those stairs like a child at play, for at the top I will
look out over a country and a people who are free."

Laurana thought of him as she set her foot gratefully
upon the last stair. She could see her son, young and
strong—for he would be young and strong, not old and
decrepit—bounding up the stairs joylessly to look out
upon a land bathed in blessed sunlight.

She looked out the open archway leading to the bal-
cony and saw only darkness. The wings of Beryl's sub-
ject dragons cut off the sunlight. The first tremors of
dragonfear caused her throat to constrict, her palms to
sweat, her hand involuntarily to tighten its grip around
the slender railing. She had felt such fear before, and as
had told Marshal Medan, she knew how to combat it.
She walked across the landing, faced her enemy squarely,
stared at the dragons long and hard until she had men-
tally conquered them. The fear did not leave her. It
would always be there, but she was the master. The fear
was under her control.

This settled, she looked around to find Kelevandros.
She had expected to find him waiting for them on the
landing, and she felt a twinge of worry that she did not
see him. She had forgotten the effects of dragonfear, how-
ever. Perhaps he had been overcome by it and run away.

No, that could not have happened. There was only one
way down. He would have passed them on the stairs.

Perhaps he had gone out on the balcony.

She was about to go in search of him when she heard
the Marshal's footsteps behind her, heard him heave a
great sigh of relief at finally reaching the top of the stairs.
She turned to face him, to tell him that she could not find
Kelevandros, when she saw Kelevandros emerging from
the shadows of the arched entryway.

I must have walked right past him, she realized.
Caught by the dragonfear, she had never noticed him.

484

DnagoNS OF a Lost Stan

He stood crouched in the shadows, paralyzed, seeming
unable to move.

"Kelevandros," Laurana said to the young elf in con-
cern, "what you are feeling is the dragonfear—"

Marshal Medan rested the dragonlance against the
wall. "And to think," he said, sucking in air, "we still have
to make the climb down."

Kelevandros gave a convulsive leap. Steel flashed in
his hand.

Laurana shouted a warning and lunged to stop him,
but she was too late.

Kelevandros stabbed through the cloak the Marshal
wore, aiming to strike beneath his upraised arm that had
been holding the dragonlance, strike a part of the body
the armor could not protect. The elf buried his knife to the
hilt in Medan's ribcage, then jerked the knife free. His
hand and the blade were stained with blood.

Medan gave a pain-filled cry. His body stiffened. He
pressed his hand to his side and stumbled forward, fell to
the floor on one knee.

"Ah!" He gasped for breath and found none. The blade
had punctured his lung. "Ah!"

"Kelevandros . .." Laurana whispered, overcome by
shock. "What have you done?"

He had been staring at the Marshal, but now he
turned his gaze to her. His eyes were wild and fevered,
his face livid. He held up his hand to ward her off,
raised the knife.

"Don't come near me. Madam!" he cried.

"Kelevandros," Laurana asked helplessly, "why? He
was going to help us—"

"He killed my brother," Kelevandros gasped, his pallid
lips quivering. "Killed him years ago with his filthy money
and his foul promises. He used him, and all the while he
despised him. Not dead yet, are you, you bastard?"

485

DRAQONLANCE •CiTe Wan of Souls

Kelevandros lunged to stab the Marshal again.

Swiftly, Laurana interposed her body between the elf
and the human. For a moment she thought Kelevandros,
in his rage, was going to stab her.

Laurana faced him, unafraid. Her death didn't matter.
She would die now or later. Their plan lay in ruins.

"What have you done, Kelevandros?" she repeated
sadly. "You have doomed us."

He glared at her. Froth bubbled on his lips. He raised
the knife, but not to stab. With a wrenching sob, he threw
the knife at the wall. She heard it hit with a clang.

"We were already doomed. Madam," he said, choking.

He fled the chamber, running blindly. Either he
could not see where he was going or he did not care,
for he crashed headlong into the railing of silver- and
gold-twined ivy. The ancient railing shuddered, then
gave way under the young elf's weight. Kelevandros
plunged over the edge of the staircase. He made no
attempt to catch himself. He fell to the floor below with-
out a cry.

Laurana pressed her hands over her mouth and closed
her eyes, aghast at the horror of the young elf's death. She
stood shivering, trying desperately to banish the sicken-
ing feeling of numbness that paralyzed her.

"I won't give up," she said to herself. "I won't... Too
much depends ..."

"Madam ..." Medan's voice was weak.

He lay on the floor, his hand still pressed against his
side, as if he could halt the flow of blood that was drain-
ing away his life. His face was ashen, his lips gray.

Tears dimming her eyes, Laurana sank down on her
knees beside him and began frantically to thrust aside the
folds of the bloody cloak to find the wound, to see if there
was anything she could do to stop the bleeding.

Medan caught her hand, held it fast, and shook his head.

486

DnaQONS Of a Lost Stan

"You weep for me," he said softly, astonished.

Laurana could not reply. Her tears fell on his face.

He smiled and made a move as if he would kiss her
hand, but he lacked the strength. His grip on her hand
tightened. He struggled to speak through the tremors of
pain that shook his body.

"You must go now," he told her, using his remaining
strength to force out each word. "Take the sword ... and
the lance. You are in command, Laurana."

Laurana shivered. You are in command, Laurana. The
words had a familiar sound, harkened back to another
time of darkness and death. She could not think why that
should be so or where she had heard them before. She
shook her head.

"No," she said brokenly. "I can't...."

"The Golden General," Medan whispered. "I would
have liked to have seen her...."

He gave a sigh. The bloodstained hand loosed its grip,
dropped limply to the floor. His eyes continued to look
fixedly at her, and although no life was in them, she saw
his faith in her, steadfast, unwavering.

He meant what he had said. She was in command.
Except it was not his voice speaking those words. Another
voice... far away.

You can command, Laurana. Farewell, elfmaid. Your light
will shine in this world... It is time for mine to darken.

"No, Sturm, I can't do this," she cried wretchedly. "I
am alone!"

As Sturm had been alone, standing by himself at the
top of another tower in the bright sunshine of a new day.
He had faced certain death, and he had not faltered.

Laurana wept for him. She wept for Medan and for
Kelevandros. She wept for the hatred that had destroyed
them both and would keep on destroying until someone
somewhere had the courage to love. She wept for herself,

487

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl)e Wan of Souls

for her weakness. When she had no more tears left, she
lifted her head. She was calm now, in command of herself.

"Sturm Brightblade." Laurana clasped her hands
together, praying to him, since there was no one else to
hear her prayer. "True friend. I need your strength. I need
your courage. Be with me, that I may save my people."

Laurana wiped away her tears. With hands that were
firm and did not tremble, she closed the Marshal's eyes
and kissed his cold forehead.

"You had the courage to love," she said to him softly.
'That will be your salvation and my own."

Sunlight lit the alcove, gleamed on the dragonlance
that stood against the wall, glistened in the splatters of
blood on the floor. Laurana glanced out through the arched
entrance to the blue sky, the empty blue sky. The minion
dragons had departed. She did not rejoice. Their depar-
ture meant that Beryl was coming.

She thought despairingly of the plan she and the Mar-
shal had made, then resolutely thrust aside both the
thought and the despair. Kelevandros's bow and the pitch-
covered signal arrow, his flint and tinderbox lay aban-
doned in the alcove where he had dropped them. She had
no one to fire the signal arrow. She could not do it herself,
not do that and face the dragon. She had no way now to
send word to Dumat, who would be watching for the
flare to give his order.

"No matter," she said to herself. "He will know when
it is time. They will all know."

She unbuckled the sword belt from around the Mar-
shal's waist. Trying to move hurriedly with fingers that
were stiff and shaking, she fastened the belt with the heavy
sword around her own waist and arranged the folds of
her cloak over the sword. Her white cloak was stained
red with the Marshal's blood. Nothing she could do about
that. She would have to find some way to explain it to the

488

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

dragon, explain not only the blood but why she was here
atop the tower, a hostage without a captor. Beryl would
be suspicious. She would be a fool not to be, and the
dragon was no fool.

This is hopeless. There is no chance, Laurana told
herself. She heard Beryl approaching, heard the creak-
ing of enormous wings that obliterated the sun. Darkness
descended. The air was tainted with the smell of the
dragon's poisonous breath.

The dragonfear overwhelmed Laurana. She began to
tremble, her hands were numb with cold. The Marshal
was wrong. She couldn't do this....

A ray of sunlight escaped from beneath the dragon's
wings and shone bright on the dragonlance. The lance
blazed with silver flame.

Moved by the beauty, Laurana remembered those who
had wielded the lances so long ago. She remembered
standing over Sturm's body, the lance in hand, defiantly
facing his killer. She had been afraid then, too.

Laurana reached out her hand to touch the lance. She did
not intend to take it with her. The lance was eight feet long.
She could not hide it from the dragon. She wanted only to
touch it, for memory's sake and in memory of Sturm.

Perhaps at this moment Sturm was with her. Perhaps
the courage of those who wielded the lance was a part of
the lance and now flowed through the metal and into her.
Perhaps her own courage, the courage of the Golden
General, the courage that had always been there, flowed
from her into the dragonlance. All she knew was that
when she touched the lance, her plan came to her. She
knew what she would do.

Resolute, Laurana took hold of the dragonlance and
carried it with her into the sunlight.

489

32
Lost Stan




nee, she had thought dragons beautiful.

The enemy dragons of Queen Takhisis. Beauti-
ful they were, and deadly. The red dragons, whose
scales flashed fire in the sunlight and whose breath was
flame. The blue dragons with their swift and graceful
flight, wheeling among the douds, drifting with the ther-
mals. White dragons, cold and glittering, and black drag-
ons, shining, sinuous, and green dragons, emerald death.
She feared them and hated them and loathed them, yet she
never killed one but that she did not feel a flashing pang
of remorse to see such a magnificent creature fall mortally
wounded from the skies.

This dragon was not beautiful. Beryl was ugly, fat, and
bloated—hideous. Her wings could barely support her
hulking body. Her head was misshapen, the forehead jut-
ting out over the eyes that were flat and opaque. Her
lower jaw was underslung, the teeth snaggled and rot-
ting. Her scales were not the shining green of emeralds
but the green of putrid flesh, of maggot-ridden meat. Her

490

OnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

eyes did not gleam with intelligence but flickered with
the feeble flame of greed and low cunning. It was then
Laurana knew with certainty that this dragon was not of
Krynn. Beryl was not a dragon who had been touched by
the minds of the gods. She worshiped nothing except her
own brutish desire, reverenced nothing but herself.

The shadow of Beryl's wings slid over Qualinost, cov-
ering the dty in darkness. Laurana stood proudly on the
balcony, looked out over the dty, and saw that the dark-
ness could not wither the aspen trees or cause the roses to
wilt. That might come later, but for now the elven people
and the elven homeland stood defiant.

"We will rid the world of one monster, at least," Lau-
rana said softly, as the first blast of wind from the dragon's
wings tore at her hair. "You were wrong, Kelevandros.
This hour is not our doom. This hour is our glory."

Beryl flew ponderously toward her, jaws gaping in a
slavering grin of triumph. The dragonfear rolled off the
dragon in waves but no longer affected Laurana. She had
known the fear of a god. This mortal monster held no
terror for her, no matter how hideous its visage.

The balcony of the Tower of the Sun was rimmed by a
wall of burnished gold that came to her waist. The wall
was thick and solid, for it had been shaped by andent
elven wizards from the bones of the tower itself. Flowing
out from the tower, the balcony wrapped protectively
around the people standing behind it. The balcony was
large enough to hold a delegation of elves. A single elf
standing alone in the center looked very small—almost
lost. There should have been two people on the balcony.
That had been the plan. Beryl would expect two: Marshal
Medan and his prisoner, the Queen Mother.

Nothing Laurana could say or do, no lie she could tell,
would alleviate Beryl's suspidons. Talk would only give
the dragon time to think and to react,

491

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl7e Wan Of Souls

Beryl's red gleaming eyes swept over the balcony. She
was close enough now that she could see, and what she
saw was apparently not sitting well with her, for the
eyes swept back and forth several times. The lumpish
forehead wrinkled, the wicked red eyes narrowed. The
fanged mouth widened in a knowing sneer, as if she had
foreseen something like this would happen.

That didn't matter now. Nothing mattered now except
that this day the elves of Qualinesti and those who were
their friends and allies would expend their last breaths to
destroy this loathsome beast.

Laurana reached to the clasp of the white cloak and
unfastened it. The cloak came off in her hands and fell
to the balcony floor. Laurana's armor, the armor of the
Golden General, shone in the sunlight. The wind of the
dragon's wings blew back her hair that streamed out
behind her, a gilded banner.

Beryl was perilously close to the tower now. A few
more ungainly flaps of her wings would bring her hulk-
ing head so dose to Laurana that she might have reached
out to touch it. Laurana gagged on the fumes of the
dragon's deadly, noxious gaseous breath. She choked,
feared she must lose consciousness. The wind—a chill
wind with a tinge of thunder in it—shifted directions to
blow from the north, blow away the fumes.

Laurana grasped the hilt of the sword. Lost Star,
clasped her hand around it. She drew the sword. The
blade flashed in the sunlight, the jewel sparkled.

Beryl saw the sword in the hands of the lone elf
woman and found the sight diverting. The dragon's jaws
creaked apart in what might have been a horrible laugh,
but then she sensed the magic. The red eyes flared, and a
drool of saliva dribbled from between the fangs. The
cruel eyes shifted to the dragonlance, a flame of argent in

492

DnaooNS op a Lost Stan

the sunlight. Beryl's eyes widened. She sucked in a breath
of awe and desire.

The fabled dragonlance—bane of dragons. Forged by
Theros Ironfeld of the Silver Arm, using the blessed
Hammar of Kharas, the lances had the power to pierce a
dragon's scales, penetrate through sinew, tissue, flesh,
and bone. Dragons native to this wretched world spoke
of the lance with fear and awe. Beryl had laughed in dis-
dain. But she had been curious, eager to see one and,
because the lances were magic, eager to possess one.

A magic sword, a magic lance, an elf queen, an elf
dty—rich reward for this day's work.

Clasping the sword beneath the hilt, Laurana walked
to the very edge of the balcony and held the Lost Star
high. She raised her voice and sang out in a rousing
paean of defiance and pride.

Soliasi Arath!

Far below the balcony of the Tower of the Sun, Dumat
crouched in the shadows of the rooftop of an elven house.
Concealed by the camouflaging branches of the aspen
trees, twenty elves watched him, awaiting the signal. At
Dumat's side was his elven wife, Ailea, ready to translate
should he need to give orders. Dumat spoke some Elvish,
but when he did, Ailea always laughed at his accent. She
had told him once it was like hearing a horse speak Elvish.
He smiled at her, and she smiled at him, both confident,
both ready. They had said their good-byes last night.

From his vantage point, Dumat could see the balcony
of the tower. He could not gaze at the sunlit building too
long. The light gleaming off the sides, made his eyes water.
He looked, then, blinking, looked away, then looked again,
waiting for Marshal Medan and Laurana to appear. The
advent of the flight of minion dragons overhead had

493

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctfe Wan oy Souls

shaken Dumat, caused him momentarily to lose sight of
the tower as the dragonfear cast a dimness over his eye-
sight and sent tremors through his body.

The elves on the roof were affected as well, but they,
like Dumat, clenched their teeth on the fear. No one cried
out, no one panicked. When Dumat was able to see again,
he could see the tower clearly now. The shadow of the
dragons' wings blotted out the sunlight.

The balcony was empty. No sign of Laurana or the
Marshal.

Dumat began to worry. He did not know why, could
not explain it. The instinct of a veteran soldier, perhaps.
Something had gone wrong. Dumat considered for a brief
moment making a dash for the tower, to see if there was
anything he could do, but rejected the idea almost imme-
diately. His orders were to remain here and wait for the
signal. He would obey those orders.

The minion dragons departed and, like Laurana, Dumat
realized that this was not a good sign. Beryl would be on
her way. He tensed, staring at the tower that once again
gleamed blindingly in the sunlight. He dared not look
away for fear he might miss the signal, and he was forced
to blink almost constantly to dear the tears from his eyes.
When he saw Laurana, he let out a grateful whistle and
watched for the Marshal.

Medan did not come.

Dumat gave the Marshal a count of ten, then a count of
ten again, then gave up. He had known the truth before
he started counting. Laurana would have never appeared
on that balcony alone if Medan had been alive and able
to stand beside her. Dumat said farewell to the Marshal, a
soldier's farewell, brief and silent, but heartfelt. He
crouched and waited, watching for the signal Hare.

Those were the orders. Dumat and the rest of the elves
and the few Dark Knights and dwarves who made up

494

ORaooNS or a Lost Stan

Qualinosfs defense force were to watch for the flaming
arrow and then launch the attack. Greatly daring, he
lifted his head above the branches in order to gain a
better view. Ailea pinched his leg to force him to duck
back down, but he ignored her. He had to see.

Beryl came in sight, flying toward the tower. Dragon-
fear washed off her in great, billowing waves, but the fact
that she had sent her followers first worked to her disad-
vantage. Those who were going to succumb to dragon-
fear had already done so and were recovering. Those who
had not were not going to start now. Beryl's cunning eyes
roved here and darted there, not trusting to Medan's
reports the city was abandoned.

Search all you want, you great bitch, Dumat told her
silently. You are here, you are right above us. There's no
escape now.

Dumat ducked back down moments before the
dragon's eyes might have seen him. Ailea gave him a
look he knew well. It meant he was in for a scolding. He
hoped against hope he'd live to receive it, but he wasn't
counting on it. He stared back at the tower.

His eyesight was good, and he could see Laurana
approach the edge of the balcony. He could not see her
face, not from this distance—she was a small smear of
white against the gold—but he could guess from the fact
that she went to meet the dragon that she was not afraid.

"Good for you. Mum," he said quietly. "Good for you."

Beryl was dose to the tower now. Dumat could see her
underbelly and the underside of the wings, the hulking
legs dangling beneath and the twitching tail. Her scaly
hide was an evil green, mud-covered from her wallows.

When devising his plan. King Gilthas had first thought
of trying to pierce her hide with arrows, but he had dis-
carded the idea. Beryl's hide was thick, the scales strong.
Arrows might bring her down but only if fired in massive

495

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct»e Wan of Souls

numbers, and the elves did not have those numbers.
Besides, she would expect such an attack and be prepared
for it. They hoped she would not expect what she was
about to get.

Dumat waited now only for the signal arrow that was
to have been fired by the elf Kelevandros... Kelevandros
... Dumat knew what had happened, knew it as well as
if he had seen it himself. Kelevandros had avenged his
brother. Medan was wounded . . . dead. Laurana was
alone up there now. She had no one to fire the signal.

He saw her lift her arms.

The sun in this new sky might have seemed pale and
strange to the people of Krynn, but perhaps they had
managed to win its favor. As Dumat watched, the sun
sent a ray of light, straight as an arrow to strike Laurana.
In that moment, he thought she held a star.

White flame flared, a flame so brilliant and dazzling that
Dumat had to squint his eyes against it and avert his gaze,
as he might have done looking into the sun itself. This was
the signal, he knew it more in his heart than his head.

With a wild shout, he reared up from among the tree
branches and flung them aside. Around him, elves jumped
to their feet, grabbed their slings and bows and took their
places. Dumat looked to the other rooftops. He was not
alone. He had no need to give another signal. Every one
of the commanders had seen that flash of light and
known it for what it was.

Dumat did not hear Laurana's shouted challenge
because he was shouting a challenge of his own, as were
the elves around him. Dumat gave the order, and the
elves opened fire.

Soliasi Arath! Laurana shouted as she had shouted so
many years before, challenging the dragons attacking
the High Clerist's Tower to fly to their deaths. She held

496

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

the sword with the Lost Star above her, held it with her left
hand. If the jewel failed, if the legends were wrong, if the
magic of the sword had dwindled as much of the magic in
the world had dwindled during the Age of Mortals, their
plans and hopes and dreams would end in death.

The sun pierced the jewel and the jewel burst in
white fire. Laurana whispered a blessing on the soul of
Kalith Rian and on the soul of that unknown elven
smith who had found the lost star glittering in the ashes
of the forge fire.

Beryl stared at the sword with intense longing, for its
magic was powerful, and she wanted it desperately. The
jewel in the hilt was the most fabulous she had ever seen.
She could not take her eyes from it. She must have it.
Malys had nothing this valuable in her treasure trove.
Beryl could not take her eyes from it....

Beryl was caught.

Laurana realized the spell had worked when she
saw the glow of the jewel burn in the dragon's eyes,
burn deep into the beast's brain. She held the sword
steady, held it high.

Enthralled, Beryl hung almost motionless in the air
above Qualinost, her wings fanning gently to keep her
aloft, her rapt gaze fixed upon the Lost Star.

The sword was heavy, and Laurana held it in an awk-
ward position in her left hand, but she dared not give
way to weakness, dared not drop the sword. She feared
even to move, afraid that she might break the spell. Once
freed from the enchantment. Beryl would attack in a vio-
lent rage. Laurana knew a moment's despair as she
waited in vain to hear some sign that the elves had
launched the attack. Her plan had failed. Dumat was
waiting for the signal arrow that would never come.

The cheering and shouted challenges rising up from
the rooftops were sweeter than bards' songs to her, gave

497

DRAQONLANCE Cfte Wan of Souls

her tired arm muscles renewed strength. Elves appeared
on the bridges that spanned the borders of Qualinost.
Elves and Knights could be seen bursting out from the
tree-branch rooftops, a blossom of deadly flowers. Ballis-
tae that had been covered with vines were wheeled into
position. The sling-throwers moved to the attack. A single
shouted command begat hundreds of others. The elves
launched the assault.

Spears fired from the ballistae streamed upward,
flew in a graceful arc over Beryl's body. Trailing behind
the spears were long lengths of rope—rope that had been
formed of wedding gowns and baby clothes, cooks'
aprons and senators' ceremonial robes. The hundreds of
spears carried the ropes up and over Beryl. When the
spears plummeted back down to the ground, the ropes
settled over the dragon, falling across her body and her
wings and her tail.

The sling-throwers launched their attack, sending lead
missiles soaring into the air. Attached to the missiles were
more ropes that sailed over the dragon. Reloaded, the
ballistae fired again. The sling-throwers hurled their mis-
siles again and yet again.

Elf wizards cast spells, not on the dragon, but on the
ropes. They cast their spells not knowing if the erratic,
wayward magic would work or not. They cast the spells
more out of hope and despair than out of certainty. In
some instances, the wizards cast spells as they had
known them in the Fourth Age. In other instances they
cast the spells of the wild magic of this new age. In all
instances, the spells worked perfectly. The elf wizards
were amazed—thrilled, but amazed.

Some spells strengthened the rope and made the doth
as strong as steel. Others caused the rope to burst into
magical fire. The enchanted flames ran along the length
of the cable, burning the dragon but not consuming the

498

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

rope. Certain spells made the rope as sticky as cobweb.
Adhering to the dragon's scales, the rope stuck fast.
Still other spells caused the rope to loop and spiral as if
it were alive. The living rope wrapped around and
around the dragon's feet, trussed Beryl like a chicken
going to market.

Now some of the elves dropped their weapons and
grabbed hold of the ends of the ropes, waiting for the
final command. More and more rope filled the air until
Beryl looked like an enormous moth caught in a web
spun by many thousands of spiders.

Beryl could do nothing. The dragon was aware of
what was happening to her. Laurana looked directly into
the reptilian eyes and saw first amusement at the feeble
efforts of these puny beings to ensnare her, then annoy-
ance, as Beryl realized her movements were becoming
increasingly hampered by the ropes. The annoyance
altered very rapidly to fury, when she realized she could
do nothing to help herself. She could do nothing but stare
at the jewel.

The dragon's body quivered in impotent rage. Saliva
dripped from her jaws. Her neck muscles bulged and
strained as she tried frantically to wrench her gaze from
the jewel. Rope after rope fell over her body. Her wings
were weighed down, her tail entangled. She could not
move her hind feet. They were tied together. The horrid
ropes were winding themselves around her forefeet.
She could feel herself being hauled down out of the sky,
and suddenly she was afraid. She was powerless to
save herself.

It was at this moment, while Beryl was caught by the
jewel and ensnared by the ropes, that Laurana had
planned to attack with the dragonlance. She had intended
to drive the lance into the dragon's throat, prevent her
from breathing her deadly fumes. She was to have

499

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl^e Wan OF Souls

wielded the lance. Medan was to have wielded the
sword, used it to slay the dragon.

A good plan, but Medan was dead. Laurana was
alone. To wield the lance, she would have to drop the
sword, free the dragon from the enchantment. This was
the moment of peril.

Laurana began to edge backward, still holding the
sword, still keeping it steady, though her tired arm mus-
cles quivered with the strain. Step by step, she moved
back to the wall where she had placed the dragonlance to
have it ready within reach. She groped behind her with
her right hand, feeling for the lance, for she did not dare
take her eyes off Beryl. At first, Laurana could not find
the lance, and fear seized her. Then her fingers touched
the metal, warm in the sunshine. Her hand closed over it,
and she sighed deeply.

Below Dumat was shrieking for those holding the
ropes to pull hard. The elves and Knights who had been
manning the ballistae and wielding the slings dropped
their weapons and leaped to grab hold of the ropes,
adding their weight to those already pulling. Slowly but
inexorably, they began to drag the enmeshed dragon
closer to the ground.

Laurana drew a deep breath, summoned all her
strength. Silently speaking the name of Stunn, she sought
inside herself for the courage and the will and the resolve
that had been with him on the tower when death dived at
him. Her one fear was that Beryl would attack her
instantly upon being freed of the spell and breathe the
deadly gas on her before Laurana could slay the dragon.
If Beryl did that, if Laurana died before she could achieve
her mission, the elves on the ground would die before
they had accomplished their goal, for Beryl would
breathe her poison on them, and they would fall where
they stood.

500

DnaooNS or a Lost Stan

Laurana had never felt so alone. There was no one
to help her. Not Sturm, not Tanis, not the Marshal. Not
the gods.

Yet at the end, we are all of us alone, she reminded
herself. Those I have loved held my hand on the long
journey, but when we came to the final parting, I released
them, and they walked forward, leaving me behind.
Now, it is my turn to walk forward. To walk alone.

Laurana lifted the sword with the Lost Star and flung
it over the parapet. The spell was broken. Beryl's eyes
blinked, then blazed with fury.

Beryl had two objectives. The first was to free herself
from the infuriating snare. The second was to kill the elf
who had tricked her, catching her in a magical trap that a
hatchling might have had wit enough to avoid. Beryl
could deal with one or the other. She was about to kill the
elf, when a particularly violent pull of the ropes jerked
her downward.

She heard laughter. The laughter came not from
below her, not from the elves. The laughter came from
the sky above.

Two of her minions, both reds, both dragons she had
secretly suspected of plotting against her, wheeled among
the clouds far, far above, and they were laughing. Beryl
knew immediately the reds were laughing at her, watch-
ing and enjoying her humiliation.

She had never trusted them, these native dragons. She
knew quite well they served her out of fear, not out of
loyalty. Ascribing to them motives of treachery best
suited to herself. Beryl concluded irrationally that the red
dragons were in league with the elves. The reds were
biding their time, waiting for her to become thoroughly
ensnared, then they would close in for the kill.

Beryl dismissed Laurana from consideration. A lone

501

DRAQONLANCE •Cl)e Wan of Souls

elf—what harm could she do compared to two treacher-
ous red dragons?

As Medan had said. Beryl was a coward at heart. She
had never been trapped like this, rendered helpless, and
she was terrified. She must free herself from this net,
must return to the skies. Only there, where she could
wheel and dive and use her enormous weight and
strength to her advantage, would she be safe from her
foes. Once in the heavens, she could destroy these
wretched elves with a single breath. Once in the heavens,
she could deal with her traitor servants.

Anger burned inside her. Beryl struggled to rid herself
of the entangling ropes that hampered her flight. Heav-
ing her shoulders, she lifted her wings and thrashed her
tail, attempting to snap the ropes. She clawed at them
with her sharp talons and turned her head to snap at
them with her teeth. She had thought to break the puny
ropes easily, but she had not counted on the strength of
the magic or the will of those who had twined their love
for their people and their homeland into the ropes.

A few strands broke, but most held. Her wild lashing
and gyrations caused some elves to lose their grips. Some
were dragged off rooftops or slammed into buildings.

Beryl cast a glance at the red dragons, saw that they
had flown closer. Fear evolved into panic. Maddened,
Beryl sucked in a huge breath, intending to destroy these
insects who had so humbled her. Out of the comer of her
eye, she caught sight of a flash of silver....

Laurana watched in awe and terror as Beryl fought
frantically to free herself. The dragon's head thrashed
wildly. She shrieked curses and snapped at the ropes
with her teeth. Appalled by the ferocity of the beast's
rage, Laurana could not move. She stood trembling,
clutching the lance in sweating hands. Her glance slid

502

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

to the doorway that led to the arched alcove beyond,
led to safety.

Beryl drew in a huge breath, drew it into lungs that
would breathe out death on Laurana's people. Seizing the
dragonlance with both hands, Laurana cried Quisalan
elevas! to Tanis and Stunn and those who had gone before
her. "Our loves-bond eternal." Aiming the lance at Beryl's
lashing head, Laurana lunged at the dragon.

The dragonlance gleamed silver in the light of the
strange sun. Putting all the strength of her body and soul
and heart into her effort, Laurana plunged the dragon-
lance into Beryl's skull.

Blood spurted out in a great torrent, splashing over
Laurana. Though her hands were wet and slippery with
the dragon's blood, she held desperately to the lance,
shoving it deeper into the dragon's head, as deep as it
would go.

Pain—burning, flaring pain—exploded in Beryl's
brain, as if someone had bored a hole through the bone,
let in the blazing sun to set her soul on fire. Beryl gagged
on her own poison breath. Attempting to free herself
from the horrible pain, she jerked her head.

The dragon's sudden, spasmodic movement lifted
Laurana off the balcony. She hung suspended in the air,
perilously close to the edge. Her hands lost their hold on
the lance, and she fell to the balcony's floor, landing on
her back. Bone snapped, pain flashed, but then, strangely,
she could feel nothing. She tried to stand, but her limbs
would not obey her brain's command. Unable to move,
she stared into the dragon's gaping jaws.

Beryl's pain did not end. It grew worse. Half
blinded by the blood that poured into her eyes, yet she
could still see her attacker. She tried to breathe death
on the elf woman, but the dragon failed, choked on her
own poison.

503

DRAQONLANCE Vfe Wan of Souls

Consumed by fear, maddened by pain, thinking only to
avenge herself on the elf that had done her such terrible
harm. Beryl brought her massive head crashing down on
the Tower of the Sun.

The shadow of death fell over Laurana. She looked
away from death, looked into the sun.

The strange sun, hanging in the sky. It seemed forlorn,
bewildered ... as though it were lost.

... a lost star...

Laurana dosed her eyes against the darkening shadow.

"Our loves-bond ..."

Hanging onto one of the ropes, pulling with all his
strength, Dumat was not able to see what had happened
on the tower, but he knew by Beryl's fearful shriek and
the fact that they were not all dead of poison gas that
Laurana must have dealt a blow to the creature. Dragon's
blood and saliva splashed on him and around him, a
hideous shower. The dragon was hurt. Now was the time
to take advantage of her weakness.

"Pull, damn you! Pull!" Dumat yelled hoarsely, his
voice rasping, almost gone. "She's not finished! Not by
a long shot!"

Elves and humans who felt their strength ebbing in the
battle with the dragon rallied and flung themselves with
renewed energy on the ropes. Blood, running from their
hands where the skin had been peeled off, stained the
ropes. The pain of the raw nerves was intense, and some
cried out even as they continued to tug, while others grit-
ted their teeth and pulled.

Dumat watched in shock as Beryl attacked the tower,
bashed her head into the building. His heart ached for
Laurana, who must be trapped up there, and he hoped
for her sake that she was already dead. Beryl's head
struck the balcony, tore it free of the tower. The balcony

504

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

plunged to the ground. Those people standing beneath
it stared up in terror. Some had wits enough to flee.
Others, bound up in fear, were unable to move. The bal-
cony struck with a horrific crash, taking out buildings
and cracking the paving stones. Debris flew through the
air, killing and maiming. Dust rose in an immense cloud
and rolled over them.

Dumat, coughing, turned to Ailea, to say some word
of comfort, for his wife would be grieving the Queen
Mother's death. The words of comfort were never spoken.
Ailea lay staring up at Dumat with eyes that could no
longer see him. A rock shard had pierced her breast. She
had not lived long enough to scream.

Dumat stared at the dragon. She was down at treetop
level now. Her forefeet touched the ground. Grim and
empty, he redoubled his efforts on the rope.

"Pull, damn you!" he shouted. "Pull!"

Beryl's mad assault on the tower managed to slay her
attacker, but that was all she accomplished. She was at
last able to draw breath again, though it was wheezing
and shallow, but the blow had not dislodged the dragon-
lance, as she had dimly hoped would happen. Far from
shaking loose the splinter, the blow seemed to have driven
it still deeper into her head. Her world was burning pain,
and all she wanted to do was end it.

Beryl thrashed about, trying to free herself from the
ropes, trying to dislodge the lance. Her flailings knocked
down buildings, toppling trees. Her tail smashed into
Dumat's house. He held onto the rope until the last
possible moment. When the dragon crushed the house to
tinder, Dumat fell through the broken roof. The house fell
down on top of him. Buried alive, Dumat lay trapped in
the rubble, pinned beneath a heavy tree limb, unable to
move. He tasted blood in his mouth. Looking through the
tangle of broken and twisted limbs and leaves, he saw

505

DRAQONLANCE 'CtfG WBR Of SOUlS

the dragon above him. She had freed her wings, though
ropes still dangled from them. She struggled to gain alti-
tude, to rise above treetop level. But for every rope that
snapped, two ropes held. More ropes fell across her. Elves
and humans had died, but more had survived, and they
continued the fight.

"Pull, damn you!" Dumat whispered. "Pull!"

The elves saw the Queen Mother die, they saw their
loved ones die. They saw the dragon destroy the Tower
of the Sun, the symbol of elven pride and hope. They
used the strength lent them by grief and anger to drag
down the dragon, drag her from the skies.

Beryl fought to free herself from the ropes and the
horrible pain, but the more she struggled, the more she
tangled herself in the elven cobweb. Her thrashing limbs
and head and tail, her flailing wings crushed buildings
and snapped trees. She struggled furiously to free her-
self, for she knew that when she hit the ground, she was
vulnerable. The elves would move in with spear and
arrow and finish the kill.

The elves saw that Beryl was starting to weaken. Her
flailing grew less violent, her thrashing less destructive.

The dragon was dying.

Certain of that now, the elves pulled with a will and
finally succeeded. They dragged Beryl's hulking body to
the ground.

She landed with a shattering crash that crushed build-
ings and all those who had not been able to scramble out
of the way. The force of the impact sent tremors rip-
pling through the ground, shook the dwarves who
waited in the tunnels below, sent rock and dust down
on their heads, caused them to look in consternation at
the beams that shored up the walls, kept the tunnels
from collapsing.

506

DnaQONS of a Lost Stan

When the tremors ceased and the dust settled, the
elves grabbed their spears, moved in for the kill. After
they had destroyed the dragon, they would be ready to
fight her army.

The elves began to speak of victory. Qualinost had
been grievously hurt, many had died, but the elven nation
would live. They would bury their dead and weep for
them. They would sing songs, grand songs about the
death of the dragon.

But Beryl was not dead. Not by a long shot, as Dumat
had said. The dragonlance had caused her great pain and
disordered her thinking, but now the pain was starting to
lessen. Her panic subsided and gave way to a fury that
was cold and calculating and dangerous, far more dan-
gerous than her tumultuous flailing. Her troops were
massing on the banks of the two streams—offshoots of
the White-rage River—that surrounded and protected
Qualinost. Her troops were even now preparing to cross
those streams. The elves had taken out the bridges, but
Beryl's soldiers had brought hundreds of rafts and tem-
porary bridges to carry her army across the one-hundred-
foot-wide ravines.

Soon her soldiers would overrun Qualinost, put the elves
to the sword. Elf blood would flow through the streets,
sweeter to Beryl than May wine. The advent of her troops
caused Beryl one difficulty: She could not use her poison
gas to kill the elves, not without killing her troops as
well. This was only a minor inconvenience, nothing to be
concerned about. She would simply kill elves by the tens
and not by the hundreds.

Relaxing, Beryl feigned weakness, lay sprawled igno-
miniously on the ground. She took a grim satisfaction in
feeling the trees—so beloved of the elves—smash to splin-
ters beneath her crushing body. Blinking her eyes free of
blood. Beryl could see the damage she had wrought upon

507

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl^e Wan of Souls

the once-beautiful city, and the sight was a boost to her
spirits. She had never hated anyone or anything—not even
her cousin Malys—more than she now hated these elves.

The elves were creeping out of their rat holes, coming
to stare at her. They held spears and bows with arrows
pointed at her. Beryl scorned them. The spear had not been
made that could stay her, not even the fabled dragonlance.
Nor could the arrows that were to her the size of bee
stingers. She could see the elves all around her, puny,
witless creatures, staring at her with their little squint
eyes, gibbering in their greasy language.

Let them gibber. They would have something to chat-
ter about shortly, that much was certain.

The pain in her head continued to ease. Resting on the
ground. Beryl took careful stock of the situation. She had
flung off or dislodged some of the ropes, and she could
feel others starting to loosen. The magic spells were
waning. Soon Beryl would be free to kill elves, slaying
them one by one, stomping on them and snapping them
in two. Her army would join her, and between them not
one elf would remain alive in the world. Not one.

The dragonlance continued to be an irritant. Every
once in a while, molten hot pain shot through her head,
increased her rage. She lay on the ground, the elves at eye
level, peering at them through squinted lids. In the dis-
tance, she heard horn calls, the sounds of her army advanc-
ing. They must have seen her fall. Perhaps they thought
her dead. Perhaps her commanders were already spend-
ing in their feeble brains the loot that they would have
been forced to share with her. They were in for a surprise.
They were all in for a grand surprise....

Bellowing a roar of defiance and triumph. Beryl lifted
her head. Her huge clawed talons dug into the ground.
With one push, one massive thrust of her gigantic legs,
Beryl heaved herself to her feet.

508

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

The dwarven tunnels, a labyrinthine honeycomb built
beneath Qualinost, buckled and collapsed under the
dragon's weight. The ground gave way.

Beryl's roar changed to a startled shriek. She fought
to save herself, scrabbling with her feet, frantically
beating her wings to lift herself from the ruin. But her
wings were still entangled with rope, her feet could
find no purchase. An Immortal Hand cracked the bones
of the world, split the ground asunder. Beryl plunged
into the gaping fissure.

Torvold Bellowsgranite, cousin to the Thane of Thor-
bardin and leader of the dwarven army that had come to
Qualinost to fight the Dark Knights of Neraka, heard the
battle being fought above him, if he could not see it. Tor-
vald stood at the foot of a ladder that led up to the sur-
face, about twenty feet above him. He waited for the
signal that meant the invading army had started to ford
the river. His own army, comprised of a thousand dwarves,
would then swarm up out of this tunnel and others dug
beneath the city, march to attack.

The tunnel was as dark as deepest night, for the dig-
ging worms and their glowing larva had been dispatched
back to Thorbardin. The darkness and the confined
space and smell of freshly turned earth and worm leav-
ings didn't bother the dwarves, who found the darkness
and the smell familiar, comfortable. They were eager to
depart the tunnels, however; eager to face their enemies,
to do battle, and they fingered their axes and spoke of the
coming glories with grim anticipation.

When the dwarves felt the first shudderings of the
ground beneath their feet, they gave a cheer that echoed
up and down the tunnels, for they hoped that meant that
the elven strategy was working. The dragon had been
hauled out of the skies and was lying helpless on the

509

DRAQONLANCE 'Cflc Wan of Souls

ground, emeshed in magical rope from which she could
not escape.

"Whafs going on?" Torvald bellowed up at the scout,
who was hunkered down near the entrance, his head
poking up through the branches of a lilac bush.

"They got her," was the scout's laconic answer. "She's
not moving. She's a goner."

The dwarves cheered again. Torvald nodded and was
about to give the order for his men to start to climb the
ladder when a fierce roar proved the scout wrong. The
ground shook beneath Torvald's feet, the tremor so severe
that the beams shoring up the walls creaked ominously.
Dirt rained down on their heads.

"What the—" Torvald started to holler at the scout,
then changed his mind. He began to climb the ladder to
see for himself.

Another quake rumbled through the ground. The
tunnel's ceiling split wide open. Dazzling sunlight streamed
down through the gaping hole, half-blinding the dwarves.
The horrified Torvald saw the blazing red eye of the infu-
riated dragon glaring down at him, and then the beams
holding up the tunnel's roof cracked, the ladder splin-
tered. The eye vanished amidst a huge cloud of dust and
debris. The roof of the tunnel collapsed.

The world fell on top of Torvald, knocking him from the
ladder. The horrifying screams of his dying comrades rose
above the rending bones of Krynn, the last sounds he
heard as tons of rock smashed down on him, crushing his
skull and shattering his chest.

Stone, long trusted by the dwarves to shelter and to
guard them against their enemies, became their enemy.
Their killer. Their tomb.

Rangold of Balifor, now forty years old, had been a mer-
cenary since he was fourteen. He fought for one reason

510

DRBQONS OF a Lost Stare

and one alone—plunder. He had no other loyalties, knew
nothing of politics, would switch sides in the middle of
battle if someone made it worth his while. He had joined
Beryl's army because he had heard they were going to be
march on Qualinost. He had long anticipated the looting
and sacking of the elven city. A man of foresight, Rangold
had brought with him several large burlap bags in which
he intended to carry home his fortune.

Rangold stood on the riverbank, eating stale bread
and munching on dried beef, waiting his turn to cross
the river. The blasted elves had cut the bridges. The
ropes dangled far above them, for the banks were steep,
the river low this time of year. Their scouts kept watch
but reported seeing no elves. The first units had started
across, some carrying their packs over their heads,
others carrying their weapons. Those who could not
swim were clearly uncomfortable as they waded deeper
and deeper into the water that swirled around them.
The water was cold, but ran calmly this time of year.
In the spring, fed by the melting snows, the river would
have been impassable.

Occasionally a red dragon could be seen circling
high above the army, keeping watch. The men did not
like the red dragons, did not trust them, even though
they were on the same side, and kept glandng upward,
hoping that the beast would fly away. Rangold didn't
care anything about dragons. He shivered when the
dragonfear was on him, shrugged it off when it was past
and continued to eat his food. The thought of slaughter-
ing elves and stealing their riches gave a fine, sharp edge
to this appetite.

His first twinge of unease came when the ground
suddenly lurched beneath his feet, throwing Rangold
off balance and causing him to drop his sandwich. A
limb fell with a shattering crash. A tree toppled. The

511

DRAQONLANCE X:t7C Wan Of Souls

river water heaved and surged, splashing up onto the
bank. Rangold dung to the tree and stared around, trying
to figure out what was happening. Overhead, the red
dragon spread her wings and flew low over the woods,
shouting out what sounded like warnings, but no one
could make out what she was screaming.

The tremors continued, grew more severe. An enor-
mous cloud of debris roiled into the air, so thick that it
obliterated the light of the sun. Those crossing the river
lost their footing, tumbled into the water. Those on the
bank began hollering and running this way and that in
confusion and panic, as the ground continued to heave
and buckle beneath their feet.

"What are your orders?" a captain shouted.

"Hold your ground," his superior, a Knight of Neraka,
answered tersely.

"That's easier said than done," the captain returned
angrily, staggering to keep his balance. "I think we should
get the hell out of here!"

"You have your orders. Captain," the Knight shouted.
"This will stop in a—"

With an ear-splitting crack, an enormous tree limb
broke loose and fell with a thundering crash, burying the
Knight and the captain beneath its branches. Cries and
moans came from the wreckage, pleas for help, pleas that
Rangold ignored. He didn't know what the rest of the
army planned to do, and he didn't care. As the captain had
suggested, Rangold was going to get the hell out of here.

He started to scramble up the bank, but at that moment
he heard an ominous, rolling, thunderous rumble. Turning
to find the source of the sound, he saw a horrifying sight.
A wall of water, bubbling and foaming, rushed down on
them. The quakes caused the banks of the White-rage
River to crumble. Fissures split open the rock ravines
through which the river ran. Freed of its confinement,

512

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

driven into tumult by the repeated tremors, the river
went on a wild rampage.

The water uprooted trees, tore huge chunks of rock
from the cliff faces through which it thundered, carried
the rock and debris before it.

Rangold stared, appalled, and then turned and began
to run. Behind him, those trapped in the water shrieked
for help, but the rising river swiftly drowned their cries,
as it swept them downstream. Rangold tried to clamber
up the bank, but the sides were steep and slippery. He
knew a moment's horrible fear, and then the water
crashed into him with a force that shattered his breast-
bone and stopped his heartbeat. His body, limp and
bloody, became just one more bit of debris the river car-
ried downstream.

Bellowing and shrieking in rage. Beryl sank deeper
and deeper as the ground gave way. The earth cracked
beneath her weight. The cracks spread and radiated
outward. Buildings, trees and homes collapsed and slid
into the widening fissures. The headquarters of the
Knights of Neraka, that squat, ugly building, fell in upon
itself with booming crash. Debris rained down upon the
dragon, striking her in the head, puncturing her wings.
The castle of the king, built of living aspen trees, was
destroyed, the trees uprooted, limbs shattered, huge
trunks twisted and snapped.

The elves of Qualinost, who had remained to defend
their homeland, died in the rubble of the homes they
had wrought with such care, died in the gardens they had
loved. Though they knew death was imminent and that
there was no escape, they continued to fight their enemy,
stabbing at Beryl with spear and sword until the pave-
ment split asunder, gave way beneath their feet. The
elves died with hope, for though they had perished, they

513

DRAQONLANCE 'cue Wan of Souls

believed that their city would survive and rise again from
the ruins.

It was well they died, before they knew the truth.
Beryl realized suddenly that she was not going to sur-
vive, that she could not escape. The knowledge bewil-
dered her. This wasn't the way it was supposed to end.
She—the mightiest force to have ever been seen on
Krynn—was going to die an ignominious death in a hole
in the ground. How could this have happened? What
had gone wrong? She didn't understand....

Boulders rained down on her, cracking her skull and
breaking her spine. Splintered trees ripped holes in her
wings, falling rocks snapped the tendons. Sharp, jagged
stones slashed open her belly. Blood spurted from beneath
her scales. Pain wrenched her and twisted, her and she
screamed for death to come to release her. The monster
who had slain so many moaned and writhed in agony as
rocks and trees and crumbling buildings pummeled her.
The immense, misshapen head sank lower and lower. The
red eyes rolled back. The broken wings, the thrashing tail
grew still. With a last sigh, a bitter curse. Beryl died.

Tremors shook the ground around the elven city as
the Immortal Hand pounded on it with a fist of hatred. The
earth quaked and shattered. Cracks widened, fissures
split the bedrock on which Qualinost had been built. The
red dragons, looking down from the skies, saw an enor-
mous, gaping hole where once had stood a beautiful city.
The reds had no love for elves, for they had been enemies
since the beginning of time, but so terrible was this sight,
expressive of awful power, that the reds could not rejoice.
They looked down upon the ruin and bowed their heads
in reverence and respect.

The tremors ceased. The ground settled, no longer
heaved and quivered. The White-rage River overflowed

514

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

its banks, poured into the immense chasm where once
had stood the elven dty of Qualinost. Long after the quakes
stopped, the water continued to boil and bubble and surge
and heave, wave after wave crashing upon the newly
created banks. Gradually, the river grew calm. The water
lapped tremulously at the new banks that now sur-
rounded it, hugged them close, as if shocked by its own
fury and bewildered by the destruction it had wrought.

Night came without starlight or moonlight, a shroud
drawn over the dead who rested far beneath the dark,
quivering water.

515

53

Nalis ARGN




any miles away, Gilthas and his retinue parted
with Tarn Bellowsgranite, the dwarven thane,
then traveled south. They had ridden with
what haste they could, the Lioness pushing them, for
she feared that Beryl's army would split, send one force
marching south to intercept the refugees while one
force seized and held Qualinost. Despite her urging,
their pace was slow, for their hearts were heavy and
seemed to weigh them down. Whenever they came to
the top of hill or ridge, Gilthas halted and turned in the
saddle to stare at the horizon in some vain hope of seeing
what was happening.

"We are too far away," his wife reminded him. "The
trees block the view. I left runners, who will come after us
swiftly to report. All will be well. We must move on, my
love. We must move on."

They had stopped to rest and water their horses when
they felt the ground shudder beneath their feet and
heard a low rumble, as of a distant storm. The tremor

516

DnaqoNS Of a Lost Stan

was mild, but it caused Gilthas's hand to shake so that he
dropped the water skin he had been filling. He rose and
looked to the north.

"What was that? Did you feel that?" he demanded.

"Yes, I felt it," said the Lioness, coming to stand beside
him. Her gaze joined his, and she was troubled. "I don't
know what that was."

"There are sometimes quakes in the mountains. Your
Majesty," Planchet suggested.

"Not like that. I've never felt anything like that.
Something has gone wrong. Something terrible has
happened."

"We don't know that," the Lioness said. "Perhaps it
was nothing but a tremor, as Planchet says. We should
keep going—"

"No," said Gilthas. "I'm staying here to wait for the run-
ners. I'm not leaving until I find out what has happened."

He walked away, heading for a rock promontory that
thrust up out of the ground. The Lioness and Planchet
exchanged glances.

"Go with him," the Lioness said softly.

Planchet nodded and hurried after Gilthas. The Lioness
instructed her troops to set up camp. She looked often to
the north, and when she did, she sighed softly and shook
her head.

Gilthas climbed with fevered energy; Planchet had
difficulty keeping up with his king. Reaching the top,
Gilthas stood long moments, staring intently to the north.

"Is that smoke, do you think, Planchet?" he asked
anxiously.

"A cloud. Your Majesty," Planchet replied.

Gilthas continued to stare until he was forced to lower
his gaze, wipe his eyes.

"Ifs the sun," he muttered. "It's too bright."

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Planchet softly, looking away.

517

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl»c WBR of Souls

Imagining he could read the young king's thoughts, he
added, "Your Majesty's decision to leave was the right—"

"I know, Planchet," Gilthas interrupted him. "I know
my duty, and I will try to do it, as best as I am able. I wasn't
thinking about that." He looked back to the north. "Our
people have been forced to leave their ancient homeland.
I was wondering what would happen to us if we could
not go back."

"That will never come to pass. Your Majesty," said
Planchet firmly.

"Why not?" Gilthas turned to look directly at him,
curious to hear the answer.

Planchet was confounded. This was so simple, so ele-
mentary. "Qualinesti is ours. Your Majesty. The land belongs
to the elves. It is ours by right."

Gilthas smiled sadly. "Some might say the only plot
of land to which we mortals have an inherent right is
the plot where we are finally laid to rest. Look down there.
My dear wife paces like the giant cat for which she was
named. She is nervous, worried. She does not want to
stop. She wants to keep going. Why? Because our ene-
mies pursue us. They hunt us—on our land."

"We will take it back—"

"Will we?" Gilthas asked quietly. "I wonder." He
turned back to the north. "We are a people in exile. We
have nowhere to go." He slightly turned his head. "I've
heard the reports about Silvanesti, Planchet."

"Rumors, Your Majesty," Planchet returned, embar-
rassed and uncomfortable. "We cannot confirm them. We
were going to tell you, but the Lioness said you were not
to be troubled. Not until we knew something certain—"

"Certain." Gilthas shook his head. With the tip of his
boot, he traced in the dust an outline of an oblong, six feet
in length and three feet wide. "This is all that is certain,
my friend."

518

DnaqoNS OF a Lost Stare

"Your Majesty—" Planchet began, worried.

Gilthas turned to stare back to the north.

"Is that smoke, do you think?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Planchet. "That is smoke."

The runner caught up with them during the night.
Accustomed to traveling under the cover of darkness, the
Lioness and her rebel elves marked the trails as her Kagon-
esti ancestors had done long before her, using the petals of
flowers that glowed in the darkness to indicate which fork
to take, leaving glow worms trapped in bottles on a pile of
rocks, or smearing a tree with phosphor. Thus the runner
had been able to follow their trail even after night fell.

They had not lit a fire. The Lioness had counseled
against it. They sat silently in the darkness, no one telling
tales or singing a starsong, as they might have done in
happier times.

Gilthas kept apart from the others, his thoughts
straying back to his childhood as they had done often
since his parting from his mother. He was remembering
these times, thinking of his mother and his father, of
their love and tender care for him, when he saw the
guards jump to their feet. Their hands going to their
swords, they ran to surround him.

Gilthas had not heard a sound, but that was not
unusual. As his wife constantly teased him, he had
"human ears." Sword drawn, Planchet came to stand
by the side of his king. The Lioness remained in the
center of the clearing, peering into the darkness. She
whistled the notes of the song of the nightingale.

The answer came back. The Lioness whistled again.
The elves relaxed, although they still kept up their
guard. The runner entered the camp and, sighting the
Lioness, approached her and began to speak to her in
Kagonesti, the language of the Wilderelves.

519

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctfe wan of Souls

Gilthas could speak some Kagonesti, but he could
catch only fragments of the conversation, for the two kept
their voices low, and the runner spoke too fast to be
understood, his speech broken only by pauses for breath.
Gilthas might have walked over and joined in the con-
versation, but he was suddenly unable to move. He could
tell by the runner's tone that the news he was conveying
was not good.

Then Gilthas saw his wife do something she had
never before done. She fell to her knees and bowed her
head. Her mane of hair covered her face like a veil of
mourning. She lifted her hand to her eyes, and Gilthas
saw that she wept.

Planchet gripped Gilthas's arm, but the king shook him
off. Gilthas walked forward on feet that were numb. He
could not feel the ground beneath them, and he stumbled
once but caught himself. Hearing him approaching, the
Lioness regained control of herself. Scrambling to rise, she
hastened to meet him. She clasped his hands in hers. Her
hands were as cold as death, and Gilthas shivered.

"What is it?" he demanded in a voice he did not rec-
ognize. "Tell me! My mother—" He could not speak it.

"Your mother is dead," the Lioness said softly, her
voice trembling and husky with her tears.

Gilthas sighed deeply, but his grief was his own. He
was king. He had his people to think about.

"What about the dragon?" he asked harshly. "What
about Beryl?"

"Beryl is dead," the Lioness said. 'There is more," she
added quickly, when she saw Gilthas about to speak.

'The tremor we felt..." Her voice cracked. She mois-
tened dry lips, then continued. "Something went wrong.
Your mother fought alone. No one knows why or what
happened. Beryl came and .. . your mother fought the
dragon alone."

520

DRBOONS of a Lost Stare

Gilthas lowered his head, unable to bear the pain.

"Laurana struck Beryl with the dragonlance but did
not kill her. Furious, the dragon smashed the tower. . . .
Your mother could not escape...."

The Lioness was silent a moment, then went on. Her
voice sounded dazed, as if she could not believe the
words she was speaking. "The plan to snare the dragon
worked. The people dragged her out of the skies. Your
mother's attack kept Beryl from breathing her foul gas.
The dragon was down on the ground, and it seemed she
was dead. She was only shamming. Beryl heaved herself
off the ground and was about to attack when the ground
gave way beneath her."

Gilthas stared, appalled, unable to speak.

"The tunnels," said the Lioness, tears trailing down
her cheeks. "The tunnels collapsed beneath the dragon.
She fell in and ... the city fell in on top of her."

Planchet gave a low cry. The elven guards, who had
edged dose to hear, gasped and cried out.

Gilthas could say nothing, could make no sound.

'Tell him," the Lioness ordered the runner in a choked
voice, averting her face. "I can't."

The runner bowed to the king. The man's face was
white. His eyes were wide. He was only now starting to
recover his breath.

"Your Majesty," he said, speaking the Qualinesti tongue,
"I grieve to tell you that the dty of Qualinost is no more.
Nothing remains."

"Survivors?" Gilthas asked without a voice.

"There could be no survivors. Your Majesty," the elf
said. "Qualinost is now a lake. Nalis Aren. A lake of death."

Gilthas took his wife in his arms. She held him fast,
murmuring incoherent words of comfort that could bring
no comfort. Planchet wept openly, as did the elven guards,
who began to whisper prayers for the spirits of the dead.

521

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl^e Wan of Souls

Bewildered, overwhelmed, unable to comprehend the
enormity of the disaster, Gilthas held fast to his wife and
stared out into the darkness that was a lake of death wash-
ing over him.

522

54

'CiTe PnescNce




he blue dragon circled over the treetops, search-
ing for a place to land. The cypress trees grew
thick, so thick that Razor talked of flying back to
the east, to where grassy fields and low rolling hills pro-
vided more suitable sites. Goldmoon would not permit the
dragon to turn back, however. She was nearing the end of
her journey. Her strength waned with the passing seconds.
Each beat of her heart was a little slower, a little weaker.
What time she had left to her was predous, she could not
waste a moment. Looking down from the dragon's back,
she watched the river of souls flowing beneath her, and it
seemed to her that she was not borne forward by the
dragon's strong wings but by that mournful tide.
There!" she said, pointing.

An outcropping of rock, gleaming chalk-white in the
moonlight, thrust up from amid the cypress trees. The
shape of the outcropping was strange. Seen from above, it
had the look of a hand outstretched, palm upward, as if
to receive something.

523

DRAQONLANCE 'me wan of Soute

Razor regarded it intently and, after some thought,
opined that he could land safely, although it would be their
task to climb down the steep sides of the outcropping.

Goldmoon was not concerned. She had only to wade
into the river to be carried to her destination.

Razor landed in the palm of the chalk-white hand,
settling down as easily as possible, so as not to jar his
passengers. Goldmoon dismounted, her strong youthful
body carrying within it the faltering spirit.

She assisted Conundrum to slide down off the dragon's
back. Her assistance was needed, for Razor rolled an eye,
glared at the gnome balefully. Conundrum had spent the
entire journey discoursing on the inefficiency of dragons
for flight, the unreliability of scales and skin, bones and
tendon. Steel and steam, said the gnome. Machines. That
was the future. Razor flicked a wing, came very near
knocking Conundrum off the cliff. The gnome, lost in a
happy dream of hydraulics, never noticed.

Goldmoon looked up at Tasslehoff, who remained
comfortably seated on the dragon's back.

"Here you are, Goldmoon," said Tas, waving his hand.
"I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for. Well,
come along, dragon. Lefs get going. Can't waste time. We
have cities to bum, maidens to devour, treasure to carry
off. Good-bye, Goldmoon! Good-bye, Conund—"

Snapping his teeth. Razor arched his back, shook his
mane. Tasslehoff's farewells were cut off in midsentence
as the kender went flying heels over topknot, to land with
uncomfortable finality on the rock.

"Bad enough I had to carry the little beast this tar," Razor
snarled. He shifted his gaze to Goldmoon. The dragon's red
eye nickered. "You are not what the Knight Gerard claimed
you to be, are you? You are not a dark mystic."

"No, I am not. But I thank you for bringing me to
Nightlund," said Goldmoon absently. She was not afraid

524

DreaqoNS or a Lost Stare

of the dragon's wrath. She felt a protective hand over her,
as strong as the hand of rock that now supported her. No
mortal being could harm her.

"\ do not want your thanks," Razor returned. "Your
thanks are nothing. I did this for her." His eyes clouded,
his gaze lifted to the bright moon, the starlit heavens. "I
hear her voice." He shifted the red eyes back to fix intently
on Goldmoon. "You hear the voice, too, don't you? It
speaks your name. Goldmoon, princess of the Que-shu.
You know the voice."

"I hear the voice," said Goldmoon, troubled. "But I do
not know it. I do not recognize it."

"I do," said Razor restlessly. "I am called, and I will
heed the call. But not without my master. We stand
together, he and I."

The dragon spread his wings and soared off the rock,
leaping straight up in order to clear the towering trees.
He flew south, toward Qualinesti.

Tasslehoff picked himself up and collected all his
pouches.

"I hope you know where we are, Burrfoot," said
Conundrum in grim and accusing tones.

"No, I don't," said Tasslehoff cheerfully. "I don't rec-
ognize any of this." He added, with a heartfelt sigh of
relief, "We're lost, Goldmoon. Most definitely lost."

"They know the way," said Goldmoon, looking down
on the upturned faces of the dead.

Palin and Dalamar stood on the lowest floor of the
Tower, staring intently into the darkness that lay thick
and heavy beneath the cypress trees. Thick and heavy and
empty. The roving, restless dead had vanished.

"We could leave now," Palin suggested.

He stood by the window, hands folded in his robes,
for the Tower was chill and dank in the early morning

525

DRAQONLANCE T:t)e Wan Of Souls

and he was cold. Dalamar had mentioned something
about mulled wine and a fire in the library, but although
warmth for body and belly sounded good, neither man
left to go in search of it.

"We could leave now, while the dead are not here to
harass us. We could both leave."

"Yes," said Dalamar, standing, his hands in the sleeves
of his robes, staring out the window. "We could leave."
He cast a sidelong glance at Palin. "Or rather, you could
leave, if you want. Search for the kender."

"You could leave, too," Palin returned. "Nothing's
holding you here anymore." A sudden thought came to
him. "Or perhaps since the dead have departed, so has
your magic."

Dalamar smiled a dark smile. "You sound almost
hopeful, Majere."

"You know I didn't mean it like that," Palin returned,
nettled, although something deep inside him muttered
that perhaps he had very much meant it like that.

Here am I, a middle-aged man, a spellcaster of con-
siderable power and renown. I have not lost my abili-
ties, as I had once feared. The dead have been stealing
my magic. Yet, in the presence of Dalamar, I feel young
and inferior and inadequate, as when I first came to the
Tower to take my Test. Worse, perhaps, for youth by its
nature is filled with confidence. I am constantly striving
to prove my worth to Dalamar and always falling short
of the mark.

And why should I? Palin demanded of himself. What
does it matter what this dark elf thinks of me? Dalamar
will never trust me, never respect me. Not because of
anything I am, but because of what I am not. I am not my
uncle. I am not Raisuin.

"I could leave, but I will not," Dalamar stated, his del-
icate brows drawing together as he continued to stare

526

OnaqoNS OF a Lost Stan

into the empty darkness. He shivered and withdrew
more snuggly into his robes. "My thumbs prick. My
hackles rise. There is a Presence here, Palin. I have felt it
all this past night. A breath on the back of my neck. A
whisper in my ear. The sound of distant laughter. An
Immortal Presence, Majere."

Palin was uncomfortable. 'That girl and her talk of her
One God has gotten to you, my friend. That and an over-
active imagination and the fact that you don't eat enough
to keep my wife's canary bird alive."

Palin wished immediately he had not mentioned his
wife, wished he had not thought about Usha. I should
leave the Tower now if for no other reason than to return
home. Usha will be worried_about me. If she had heard
of the attack on the Citadel of Light, perhaps she thinks
I am dead.

"Let her think me dead," he said softly. "She will
find more peace in the thought that I am dead than she
knew when I was alive. If she thinks me dead, she will
forgive me for hurting her. Her memories of me will be
fond ones...."

"Quit mumbling to yourself, Majere, and look outside.
The dead have returned!"

Where before there had been stillness and quiet, the
darkness was once again alive—alive with the dead.
The restless spirits were back, roaming among the trees,
prowling about the Tower, staring at it with eyes that
were hungry and burning with desire.

Palin gave a sudden, hoarse cry and sprang to the
window. He hit it with his hands so hard that he very
nearly broke the glass.

"What?" Dalamar was alarmed. "What is it?"

"Laurana!" Palin gasped. He stared searchingly out
into the shifting river of souls. "Laurana! I saw her! I
swear! Look! Out there! No... She's gone...."

527

DRAQONLANCE Vye Wan OF Souls

Pushing away from the window, he walked resolutely
toward the spellbound door.

Dalamar sprang after him, laid a wresting hand on his
arm. "Majere, this is madness—"

Palin shook him off. "I'm going out there. I have to
find her."

"No, Palin." Dalamar stood in front of him, grasped
hold of him tightly, fingers digging into the flesh of Palin's
arms. "You don't want to find her. Believe me, Majere.
She won't be Laurana. She won't be the Laurana you
knew. She'll be ... like the others."

"My father wasn't!" Palin retorted angrily, struggling
to free himself. Who would have thought the emaciated
elf could be so strong? "He tried to warn me—"

"He wasn't, at first," Dalamar said. "But he is now.
He can't help himself. I know. I've used them. They have
served me for years."

He paused, still retaining his grip on Palin, watching
him warily.

Palin shook off Dalamar's grip. "Let go of me. I'm not
going anywhere." Rubbing his arms, he returned to stand
staring out the window.

"Are you certain it was Laurana?" Dalamar asked after
a moment's silence.

"I am not certain of anything anymore." Palin was
chilled through, worried, frustrated. "So much for your
blasted hackles—"

"—we've come to the wrong place," a high, shrill
voice cried plaintively from out of the darkness. "You
don't want to go there, Goldmoon. Trust me. I know my
Towers of High Sorcery, and this is not the right one."

"I seek the wizard, Dalamar!" another voice called.
"If he is within, let him please open the doors of the
Tower to me."

"I don't know how or why," Palin exclaimed, peering

528

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

in astonishment through the glass, "but there's Tassle-
hoff, and he has brought Goldmoon with him."

"The other way round, from the sounds of it," Dalamar
remarked, as he removed the magical spell from the door.

Tasslehoff continued to argue, as they stood outside
the door of the Tower, that this was the wrong Tower.
Goldmoon wanted Dalamar's Tower, the Tower of High
Sorcery in Palanthas, and she could see quite obviously
that this was not Palanthas. Therefore, she had the
wrong Tower.

"You're not going to find anyone inside there," Tassle-
hoff was beginning to sound desperate. "You won't find
Dalamar or Palin either, for that matter. Not that there's
any reason to think Palin would be here," he added
hastily. "I haven't seen Palin in the longest time. Not
since Beryl attacked the Citadel of Light. He went one
way, and I went another. He had the magical Device of
Time Journeying with him, except that he lost it. He
tossed bits of it at the draconians. The device is lost,
destroyed. No sign of it anywhere. So don't go looking
for it, because you won't find it—"

"Dalamar," came Goldmoon's voice. "Please let me in!"

"I keep telling you," Tasslehoff argued, "Dalamar's
not— Oh, hullo, Dalamar." The kender tried very hard to
sound astonished. "What are you doing here in this strange
Tower?" Tasslehoff winked several times and motioned
with his head at Goldmoon.

"Welcome, Goldmoon, Healer, Priestess of Mishakal,"
said Dalamar in gracious tones, using her old tide. "I am
honored by your visit."

Ushering her into his dwelling with elven courtesy,
Dalamar whispered a soft aside, "Majere! Don't let the
kender get away!"

Palin seized hold of Tasslehoff, who was hovering on
the threshold. Palin was about to haul him bodily inside

529

DRAQONLANCE 'Ctfe Wan of Souls

the Tower, when he was considerably disconcerted to
find a gnome planted on the threshold, as well. The gnome
had his hands shoved into his pockets and was looking
about. Apparently, from his expression, he was not much
liking what he saw.

"Eh?" said Palin, staring at the gnome. "Who are you?"

"Short version: Conundrum. I'm with her." The gnome
pointed a grimy finger at Goldmoon. "She stole my sub-
mersible. Cost a lot of money, submersibles. And who's
going to pay? That's what I want to know. Are you going
to pay for it? Is that why we're here?"

Conundrum held up a small fist. "Cold, hard steel.
That's what I want. No wizard stuff. Bat's eyes." The
gnome sniffed disdainfully. "We've got a vault full of
them. Once you've ruled out ball bearings, what good
are they?"

Keeping a firm grip on Tasslehoff's collar, Palin
dragged the kender, kicking and squirming, over the
doorstoop. Conundrum followed on his own, his small,
quick eyes taking in everything and dismissing it all
out of hand.

Goldmoon said nothing in response to Dalamar's
greeting. She barely looked at him or at Palin. Her gaze
went around the Tower. She stared at the spiraling stair-
case that went up into darkness. She glanced around at
the chamber in which they stood. She looked, and her
eyes grew wide. Her face, already pale, went ashen.

"What is this I feel?" she asked, her voice low and
filled with dread. "Who is here?"

Dalamar shot Palin a glance that said / told you so.
Aloud, he replied, "Palin Majere and I are the only two
here. Healer."

Goldmoon looked at Palin and seemed not to recog-
nize him, for almost immediately her gaze went around
him, past him, beyond him.

530

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

in astonishment through the glass, "but there's Tassle-
hoff, and he has brought Goldmoon with him."

"The other way round, from the sounds of it," Dalamar
remarked, as he removed the magical spell from the door.

Tasslehoff continued to argue, as they stood outside
the door of the Tower, that this was the wrong Tower.
Goldmoon wanted Dalamar's Tower, the Tower of High
Sorcery in Palanthas, and she could see quite obviously
that this was not Palanthas. Therefore, she had the
wrong Tower.

"You're not going to find anyone inside there," Tassle-
hoff was beginning to sound desperate. "You won't find
Dalamar or Palin either, for that matter. Not that there's
any reason to think Palin would be here," he added
hastily. "I haven't seen Palin in the longest time. Not
since Beryl attacked the Citadel of Light. He went one
way, and I went another. He had the magical Device of
Time Journeying with him, except that he lost it. He
tossed bits of it at the draconians. The device is lost,
destroyed. No sign of it anywhere. So don't go looking
for it, because you won't find it—"

"Dalamar," came Goldmoon's voice. "Please let me in!"

"I keep telling you," Tasslehoff argued, "Dalamar's
not— Oh, hullo, Dalamar." The kender tried very hard to
sound astonished. "What are you doing here in this strange
Tower?" Tasslehoff winked several times and motioned
with his head at Goldmoon.

"Welcome, Goldmoon, Healer, Priestess of Mishakal,"
said Dalamar in gracious tones, using her old title. "I am
honored by your visit."

Ushering her into his dwelling with elven courtesy,
Dalamar whispered a soft aside, "Majere! Don't let the
kender get away!"

Palin seized hold of Tasslehoff, who was hovering on
the threshold. Palin was about to haul him bodily inside

529

DRAQONLANCE VJe Wan of Souls

the Tower, when he was considerably disconcerted to
find a gnome planted on the threshold, as well. The gnome
had his hands shoved into his pockets and was looking
about. Apparently, from his expression, he was not much
liking what he saw.

"Eh?" said Palin, staring at the gnome. "Who are you?"

"Short version: Conundrum. I'm with her." The gnome
pointed a grimy finger at Goldmoon. "She stole my sub-
mersible. Cost a lot of money, submersibles. And who's
going to pay? Thafs what I want to know. Are you going
to pay for it? Is that why we're here?"

Conundrum held up a small fist. "Cold, hard steel.
That's what I want. No wizard stuff. Bat's eyes." The
gnome sniffed disdainfully. "We've got a vault full of
them. Once you've ruled out ball bearings, what good
are they?"

Keeping a firm grip on Tasslehoff's collar, Palin
dragged the kender, kicking and squirming, over the
doorstoop. Conundrum followed on his own, his small,
quick eyes taking in everything and dismissing it all
out of hand.

Goldmoon said nothing in response to Dalamar's
greeting. She barely looked at him or at Palin. Her gaze
went around the Tower. She stared at the spiraling stair-
case that went up into darkness. She glanced around at
the chamber in which they stood. She looked, and her
eyes grew wide. Her face, already pale, went ashen.

"What is this I feel?" she asked, her voice low and
filled with dread. "Who is here?"

Dalamar shot Palin a glance that said / told you so.
Aloud, he replied, "Palin Majere and I are the only two
here. Healer."

Goldmoon looked at Palin and seemed not to recog-
nize him, for almost immediately her gaze went around
him, past him, beyond him.

530

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

"No/' she said softly. "There is someone else. I am
meeting someone here."

Dalamar's dark eyes flashed. He silenced Palin's star-
tled exclamation with a glance.

"The person you are expecting has not yet arrived.
Will you wait in my library. Healer? The room is warm,
and there is spiced wine and food."

"Food?" The gnome perked up, then was immediately
cast back into gloom. "Not bat's brains, is it? Monkey
toes? I won't eat wizard food. Ruins the digestion. Pork
rinds and tarbean tea. That's more like it."

"It has been nice seeing you again, Palin, and you, too,
Dalamar," Tasslehoff said, wriggling in Palin's grip, "and
I wish I could stay for -dinner, because the monkey toes
sound delidous, but I have to be running along—"

"I will show you to the library in just a moment,
Healer," Dalamar said, "but first I must settle our other
guests. If you will excuse me—"

Goldmoon didn't appear to hear. She continued to
stare around the Tower, searching for something or some-
one. The sight was unnerving.

Dalamar glided over to Palin, plucked at his sleeve.
"Regarding Tas—"

"What regarding me?" Tas asked, eyeing Dalamar
suspiciously.

"You recall what Mina said to you, Majere? About
the device?"

"Who said?" Tas demanded. "Said what? What device?"

"Yes," said Palin. "I remember."

"Take him and the gnome to one of the student rooms
in the north wing. The first one in the corridor will do. It
is a room that has no fireplace," Dalamar added with
grim emphasis. "Search the kender. When you find the
device, for mercy's sake, keep it safe. Don't go tossing
bits of it around. Oh, and you might want to remain

531

ORAQONLANCE 1:176 WBR Of SOUlS

hidden in that wing of the building. Our guest should not
find you here."

"Why be so mysterious?" Palin asked, irritated by Dala-
mar's smug tone. "Why not just tell Goldmoon that the
person coming to see her is her foster daughter, Mina?"

"You humans," Dalamar returned disparagingly. "So
quick to blurt out everything you know. Elves have
learned the power of secrets. We have learned the value
of keeping secrets."

"But what can you hope to gain—"

Dalamar shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe something.
Maybe nothing. You tell me that the two of them were
once dose. Much may come out of the shock of a sudden
reunion, the shock of recognition. People say things they
never intended in such circumstances, especially humans,
who are so swayed by wayward emotions."

Palm's expression hardened. "I want to be there. Gold-
moon may appear young, but that is only a facade. You
speak glibly of the shock to her to see this child that she
once dearly loved, but such a shock might be fatal."

Dalamar was shaking his head. "Too dangerous—"

"You can arrange it," Palin said firmly. "I know you
have ways."

Dalamar hesitated, then said ungraciously, "Very well.
If you insist. But the responsibility is entirely yours.
Remember that this Mina saw you though you were
hidden behind a wall. If you are discovered, I can do
nothing to save you."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Palin returned crisply.

"Meet us in the library, then, once you have those two
locked up tight." Dalamar jerked a thumb at the kender
and the gnome.

The dark elf turned away, then, pausing, glanced back
over his shoulder. "I suppose, by the way, Majere, that the
significance of the gnome has occurred to you?"

532

DnaqoNS oy a Lost Stan

'The gnome?" Palin was taken aback. "No. What—"
"Recall your uncle's history/' Dalamar said and his
voice was grim.

Returning to Goldmoon, he led her up the winding
stairs. He was gracious and charming, as he could be
when he wanted. Goldmoon followed where he led,
moving as one who walks in sleep, with no conscious
awareness of where she was or where she might be
going. The youthful, beautiful body walked and took
her with it.

"Significance of the gnome," Palin repeated in disgust.
"Gnomes ... my uncle's history ... what does he mean?
Always so damn mysterious..."

Muttering to himself, Palin hauled the reluctant
Tasslehoff up the stairs. Palin paid no attention to the
kender's pleadings and excuses and lies, some of them
quite original. His attention was focused on the small
and wizened gnome who was trudging up the stairs
alongside, complaining the entire way about the pains
in his legs and extolling the virtues of gnome-flingers
over stairs.

Palin couldn't find any significance to the gnome
whatsoever. Not unless Dalamar intended to install
gnome-Hingers.

He escorted the two to the room mentioned, pried
Tas's fingers loose when the kender tried to cling to the
doorjamb, and shoved him bodily inside. The gnome
clumped in after, talking of building code violations and
asking about yearly inspections. Casting a wizard-lock
spell on the door to keep his reluctant guests inside, Palin
turned to confront Tasslehoff.

"Now, about the Device of Time Journeying—"

"I haven't got it, Palin," Tas said quickly. "I swear by
the beard of my Uncle Trapspringer. You threw all the

533

DRAQONLANCE 'Cl)e wan of Souls

pieces at the draconians. You know you did. They are
scattered all over the Hedge Maze—"

"Hah!" the gnome shouted and went to stand in a
comer with his head pressed against the wall.

Tas was going on at a desperate pace. "—the pieces of
the device were scattered all over the Hedge Maze, along
with pieces of the draconians."

"Tas," Palin interrupted sternly, mindful of the pass-
ing time and wanting to hasten this along. "You have
the device. It came back to you. It must come back to
you, even if it is in pieces. I thought I had destroyed it,
but the device can't be destroyed, any more than it can
be lost."

"Palin, I—" Tas began, his lip quivering.

Palin steeled himself, expecting more lies. "What is
it, Tas?"

"Palin ... I saw myself!" Tas blurted out.

'Tas, really—"

"I was dead, Palin!" Tas whispered. His normally
ruddy face was pale. "I was dead and I... I didn't like it!
It was horrid, Palin. I was cold, so very cold. And I was
lost, and I was frightened. I've never been lost, and I've
never been frightened. Not like that, anyway.

"Don't send me back to die, Palin," Tas begged. "Don't
turn me into a ... a dead thing! Please, Palin. Promise me
you won't!" Tasslehoff clutched at him. "Promise me!"

Palin had never seen the kender so upset. The sight
moved him almost to tears himself. He stood perplexed,
wondering what to do, all the time absently smoothing
Tasslehoff's hair in an effort to calm him.

What can I do? Palin asked himself helplessly. Tassle-
hoff must go back to die. I have no choice in the matter.
The kender must return to his own time and die beneath
the heel of Chaos. I cannot make the promise he asks of
me. No matter how much I want to.

534

DnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

What Palin found perplexing was that Tasslehoff had
seen his own ghost. Palin might have thought this a
ruse, an attempt by the kender to distract Palin from
finding the device. But while Palin knew that Tas would
never hesitate to tell a lie—either out of self-interest or
for its entertainment value—Palin was convinced that
this was the truth. Palin had seen fear in the kender's
eyes, an uncommon sight, and one that Palin found
heart-wrenching.

At least this answered one nagging question: Had
Tasslehoff truly died or had he just been roaming about
the world for all those years? The fact that he had seen
his own ghost proved the answer conclusively. Tassle-
hoff Bun-foot had died in the final battle against Chaos.
He was dead. Or at least, he should be dead.

The gnome left his comer, walked up and poked Palin
in the ribs. "Didn't somebody mention food?"

The significance of the gnome. What was the signifi-
cance of this irritating gnome?

Disengaging Tas's clutching hands, Palin knelt
down in front of Tas. "Look at me, Tas," he said. "Yes,
that's it. Look at me and listen to what I am saying. I
don't understand what is going on. I don't understand
what is happening in the world and neither does Dala-
mar. But I know this. The only way we can find out
what has gone wrong and maybe fix it is if you are
honest with us."

"If I am honest," said Tas, wiping away his tears, "will
you still send me back?"

"I am afraid I have to, Tas," Palin said reluctantly. "You
must understand. I don't want to. I would do anything or
give anything not to have to. You've seen the dead souls,
Tas. You've seen for yourself that they are desperately
unhappy. They aren't supposed to be here in the world.
Something or someone is keeping them prisoner."

535

DRAQONLANCE O^e Wan of Souls

"You mean I'm not supposed to be here?" Tas asked.
"Not the live me. The dead me?"

"I don't know for sure, Tas. No one does. But I don't
think so. Don't you remember what Lady Crysania used
to say—that death was not the end but the beginning of
a whole new life? That we would join our loved ones
who have passed beyond, and we would be together and
make new friends—"

"I always thought I'd be with Flint," Tas said. "I
know he misses me." He was quiet a moment, then
said, "Well... if you think it will help . .."

He unhooked the strap of his pouch and, before Palin
could stop him, upended the bag, spilling its contents
onto the floor.

Amid the birds' eggs and the chicken feathers and ink
pots and jam jars and apple cores and what appeared to
be a peg someone had been using for an artificial leg, the
gears and jewels and wheels and chain of the Device of
Time Journeying winked and sparkled in the candlelight.

"Why, what's this?" said the gnome, squatting down
and sorting through the pile. "Cogs, a widget and a
whatsit and a thingamajig. Technical terms, you know,"
he added, glancing at Tas and Palin to see if they were
impressed. "Not understandable to the amateur. I'm not
sure what it was." He gathered up the pieces one by one,
eyeing each in turn. "But it doesn't appear to be in proper
working order. Thafs not a guess, mind you. Thafs the
opinion of a professional."

Making a tray of his robe, the gnome carried the
pieces of the device to a table. Bringing out the remark-
able knife that was also a screwdriver, he settled down
to work.

"You, there, boy," he said, waving his hand at Palin.
"Bring us some lunch. Sandwiches. And a pot of tarbean
tea. Strong as you can make it. Going to be an all-nighter."

536

DRBOONS of a Lost Stare

And, then, of course, Palin remembered the device's
history. He understood the significance of the gnome.

Apparently, so did Tasslehoff, who was staring at
Conundrum with a hopeless and woebegone expression.

"Where have you been, Majere?" Dalamar demanded,
confronting Palin as he came through the library door.
The dark elf was nervous, on edge. He'd obviously been
pacing the floor. "You took long enough! Did you find
the Device?"

"Yes, and so did the gnome." Palin looked intently at
Dalamar. "His coming here—"

"—completes the drcle," Dalamar finished.

Palin shook his head, unconvinced. He glanced around
the room. "Where is Goldmoon?"

"She asked to be taken to the old laboratory. She said
she was given to know that the meeting would be held
there."

"The laboratory? Is that safe?"

Dalamar shrugged. "Unless she's afraid of dust bun-
nies. They're the only danger I can see."

"Once a chamber of mystery and power, the labora-
tory is now a repository of dust, the refuge of two impo-
tent old men," Palin said bitterly.

"Speak for yourself." Dalamar laid a hand on Palin's
arm. "And keep your voice down. Mina is here. We must
go. Bring the light."

"Here? But how—"

"Apparently she has free run of my Tower."

"Aren't you going to be there with them?"

"No," said Dalamar shortly. "I was dismissed to go
about my business. Are you coming or not?" he demanded
impatiently. 'There's nothing we can do, either of us. Gold-
moon is on her own."

Still Palin hesitated, but then he dedded that he might

537

DRAQONLANCE 'Cfte wan of Souls

best serve Goldmoon by keeping an eye on Dalamar.
"Where are we going?"

"Through here/' Dalamar said, halting Palin as he was
continuing on down the stairs.

Making a turning, Dalamar passed his hand over the
wall and whispered a word of magic. A single rune began
to glow faintly on the stone. Dalamar put his hand over
the rune, and a section of the wall slid to one side, reveal-
ing a staircase. As they entered, they could hear heavy
footfalls echoing through the Tower. The minotaur, or so
they guessed. The door slid shut after them, and they
could hear nothing more.

"Where does this lead?" Palin whispered, holding up
the lamp to illuminate the stairs.

"The Chamber of the Live Ones," Dalamar replied.
"Hand me the lamp. I'll go first. I know the way." He
descended the stairs rapidly, his robes fluttering around
his ankles.

"I trust none of the 'Live Ones' are left alive," said
Palin with a grimace, remembering what he had heard of
some of his uncle's more gruesome experiments.

"No, they died a long time ago, poor wretches." Dala-
mar paused and looked up at Palin. His dark eyes glittered
in the lamplight. "But the Chamber of Seeing remains."

"Ah!" Palin breathed, understanding.

When Raistlin Majere became Master of the Tower
of High Sorcery of Palanthas, he also became a recluse.
Rarely leaving his Tower, he spent his time concentrat-
ing on increasing his powers: magical, temporal, and
political. In order to keep current on what was happen-
ing in the world, especially those events that might
affect him, Raistlin used his magic to create a window
onto the world. In the lowest regions of the Tower, he
carved out a pool and filled it with enchanted water.
Whoever looked into the pool could call to mind a

538

DRBQONS of a Lost Stan

location, and he would both see and hear what was
transpiring in the location.

"Did you question the kender?" Dalamar asked, as
they wound round and round down the hidden staircase.

"Yes. He has the device. He said something else that
I found interesting, Dalamar"—Palin reached out his
hand, touched the elf on the shoulder—"Tasslehoff saw
his own ghost."

Dalamar swung the lamp around. "He did?" The elf
was skeptical. "This isn't another of his swimming bird
stories, is it?"

"No," said Palin. He could see again the fear and
terror in the kender's bright eyes. "No, he was telling the
truth. He's afraid, Dalamar. I've never see Tasslehoff
afraid before."

"At least this proves he died," Dalamar said, offhand-
edly, and resumed his descent.

Palin sighed. "The gnome is trying to fix the device.
That's what you meant, wasn't it? The significance of the
gnome. A gnome fixed the device the last time it was
broken. Gnimsh. The gnome my uncle murdered."

Dalamar said nothing. He continued hurrying down
the stairs.

"Listen to me, Dalamar!" Palin said, moving so close
to the elf that he had to be careful not to trip on the skirts
of his robes. "How did the gnome come to be here? This
is ... this is not some simple coincidence, is it?"

"No," Dalamar murmured. "Not coincidence."

"Then what?" Palin demanded, exasperated.

Dalamar halted again, held up the light to illuminate
Palin's face. He drew back, half-blinded.

"You don't understand?" Dalamar asked. "Not even
now?"

"No," Palin retorted angrily. "And I don't think you
do, either."

539

DRAQONLANCE 'Ct»e WBR of Souls

"Not entirely/' Dalamar admitted. "Not entirely. This
meeting should explain much, however."

Lowering the lamp, he turned back to the descent. He
said nothing more, and neither did Palin, who had no
intention of demeaning himself further by continuing to
ask questions that would be answered only in riddles.

"I no longer keep the wizard-lock functional," Dala-
mar remarked. He gave the rune-covered door an impa-
tient shove. "A waste of time and effort."

"You've obviously used this chamber once or twice
yourself," Palin observed.

"Oh, yes," said Dalamar with a smile. "I keep close
watch on all my friends."

He blew out the lamplight.

They stood on the edge of a pool of water that was
as quiet and dark as the chamber in which they were
standing. A jet of blue flame burned in the center of
the pool. The flame gave no light. It seemed to exist in
another place, another time, and at first Palin saw noth-
ing except the reflection of the blue flame in the water.
Then the two merged in his vision. The flame flared,
and he could see the interior of the laboratory as clearly
as if he had been inside.

Goldmoon stood by the long stone table....

540

55

'Cl)€ ONE Q0t»




oldmoon stood by the long stone table, staring
down unseeing at several books that had been
left lying about. She heard voices coming nearer.
The voice of the person she was meeting, the person she
had been summoned by the dead to meet.

Shivering, Goldmoon clasped her hands tightly around
her arms. The Tower was cold with a chill that could
never be warmed. A place of darkness, a place of sorrow,
a place of overreaching ambition, a place of suffering
and of death. Her destination. The culmination of her
strange journey.

Dalamar had given her a lamp, but its feeble light
could not banish the immense darkness. The glow of the
lamplight did nothing more than keep her company. Yet,
for that she was grateful, and she kept near the lamp. She
did not regret sending Dalamar away. She had never
liked, never trusted the dark elf. His sudden reappear-
ance here in this forest of death only increased her suspi-
cions of him. He used the dead....

541

DRAQONLANCE Vt)e Wan of Souls

"But then," said Goldmoon softly, "so do I."

Amazing power ... for a person. A mere mortal.

Goldmoon began to tremble. She had stood before in
the presence of a god, and her soul remembered. But
something about this was not right....

The door opened, thrust aside by an impatient hand.

"I can see nothing in this wizard's murk," said a girl's
voice, a child's voice whose melody sang through Gold-
moon's dreams. "We need more light."

The light grew brighter gradually. Soft and warm, at
first, the flames of a few dozen candles. The light grew
brighter still, until it seemed that the limbs of the cypress
trees had parted, the top of the Tower had been lifted, and
sunlight poured down into the chamber.

A girl stood in the doorway. She was tall and well-
muscled. She wore a chain-mail shirt, a black tunic and
black hose and over that a black tabard decorated with a
white death lily, the symbol of a Dark Knight. Her head
was covered with a light down of red. Goldmoon would
not have recognized her but for the amber eyes and the
voice that sent a thrill through her body.

So terrible and wonderful was the shock that she caught
hold of the table and leaned against it to support herself.

"Mina?" Goldmoon faltered, not daring to believe.

The girl's face was suddenly illuminated, as if she
were the sun, and the sun shone from within.

"You ... you are so beautiful. Mother," Mina said softly,
awed. "You look just as I imagined."

Sinking to her knees, the girl extended her hands.
"Come, kiss me. Mother," she cried, tears falling. "Kiss
me as you used to. For I am Mina. Your Mina."

Bewildered, her heart made whole by joy and riven
by a strange and terrible fear, Goldmoon could feel noth-
ing except the wild and painful beating of her heart.
Unable to take her eyes from Mina, she stumbled forward

542

DnaqoNB Of a Lost StaR

and fell to her knees before her. She clasped the sobbing
girl in her arms.

"Mina," Goldmoon whispered, rocking her as she
used to rock her when Mina woke crying in the night.
"Mina. Child... why did you leave us, when we all loved
you so much?"

Mina raised her tearstained face. The amber eyes
gleamed. "I left for love of you. Mother. I left to seek what
you wanted so desperately. And I found it. Mother! I
found it for you.

"Dearest Mother." Mina took hold of Goldmoon's cold
and trembling hands and pressed them to her lips. "All
that I am and all that I have done, I have done for you."

"I... don't understand, child." Goldmoon kept hold
of Mina's hands, but her eyes went to the dark armor.
"You wear the symbol of evil, of darkness. . . . Where
did you go? Where have you been? What has happened
to you?"

Mina laughed. She glittered with happiness and
excitement. "Where I went and where I have been is not
important. What happened to me along the way—that is
what you must hear.

"Do you remember. Mother, the stories you used to tell
me? The story about how you traveled into darkness to
search for the gods? How you found the gods and brought
faith in the gods back to the people of the world?"

"Yes," said Goldmoon, but the word was a breath, not
spoken. She had ceased trembling and begun to shiver.

"You told me the gods were gone. Mother," said Mina,
her eyes shining like those of a child who has a delightful
surprise. "You told me that because the gods were gone
we had to rely on ourselves to find our way in the world.
But I didn't believe that story. Mother.

"Oh"—Mina placed her hand over Goldmoon's mouth,
silencing her—"I don't think you lied to me. You were

543

DRAQONLANCE •Cl}e Ware of Soute

mistaken, that was all. You see, I knew better. I knew
there was a god, for I heard the voice of the god when I
was little and our boat sank and I was cast alone into
the sea. You found me on the shore, do you remember,
Mother? But you never knew how I came to be there,
because I promised I would never tell. The others
drowned, but I was saved. The god held me and sup-
ported me and sang to me when I was afraid of the lone-
liness and dark.

"You said there were no gods. Mother, but I knew you
were wrong. And so I did what you did. I went to find
God and bring God back to you. And I've done that,
Mother." Mina was flushed with joy and pride in her
achievement. The amber eyes were radiant. 'The miracle
of the storm. That is the One God. The miracle of your
youth and beauty. That is the One God, Mother."

"You asked for this," Goldmoon cried, lifting her hand
to touch her face, the face that had always seemed strange
to her. 'This is not me. It is your vision of me...."

"Of course. Mother." Mina laughed delightedly.
"Aren't you pleased? I have so much to tell you that
will please you. I've brought the miracle of healing
back into the world with the power of the One God.
With the blessing of the One, I felled the shield the elves
had raised over Silvanesti, and I killed the treacherous
dragon Cyan Bloodbane. Another truly monstrous green
dragon. Beryl, is dead by the power of the One God.
The elven nations, which were corrupt and faithless,
have both been destroyed. In death, the elves will find
redemption. Death will lead them to the One God."

"Ah, child!" Goldmoon gasped. Casting off Mina's
hands, which had been wrapped tightly around her own,
Goldmoon stared at her in horror. "I see blood on these
hands. The blood of thousands! This god you have found
is a terrible god. A god of darkness and evil!"

544

OnaqoNS of a Lost Stan

"The One God told me you would feel this way,
Mother," Mina said patiently. "When the other gods
departed and you thought you were left alone, you were
angry and afraid. You felt betrayed, and that.was only
natural. For you had been betrayed." Mina's voice hard-
ened. "The gods in which you had so misguidedly placed
your faith Bed in fear...."

"No!" Goldmoon rose unsteadily to her feet. She fell
back, away from Mina, held out her hand in warding.
"No, child, I don't believe it. I won't listen you."

Mina followed after her, seized hold of Goldmoon's
hand. "You will listen. Mother. You must so that you will
understand. The gods fled in fear of Chaos. All except one.
One god remained loyal to the people she had helped to
create. One only had the courage to face the terror of the
Father of All and of Nothing. The battle left her weak. Too
weak for her to make manifest her presence in the world.
Too weak to fight the strange dragons who came to take
her place. But although she could not be with her people,
she gave gifts to her people to help them. The magic that
they call the wild magic. The power of healing that you
know as the power of the heart.... Those were her gifts.
Her gifts to you.

"There is her sign." Mina pointed to the heads of the
five dragons that guarded the Portal.

Shuddering, Goldmoon turned. Dark and lifeless, the
heads began to glow with an eerie radiance, one red, one
blue, one green, one white, one black.

She moaned and averted her eyes.

"Mother," said Mina, gently rebuking, "the One God
does not ask you for thanks for these past gifts. Rest
assured, she has more gifts to bestow on her faithful in the
future. But she does require service. Mother. She wants
you to serve her and to love her, as she has served you and
loved you. Do this. Mother. Kneel down and offer your

545

DRAQONLANCE X:l7e Wan of Souls

prayers of faith and thanksgiving to the One True God.
The One God who remained faithful to her creation."

"No! I don't believe what you are telling me!" Gold-
moon said through lips so stiff she could barely cause
them to form the words. "You have been deceived, child.
I know this One God. I know her of old. I know her tricks
and her lies and deceits."

Goldmoon looked back at the five-headed dragon,
whose terrible radiance shone undimmed, for no other
opposing force existed that could cloud it.

"I do not believe your lies, Takhisis!" Goldmoon cried
defiantly. "I will never believe that the blessed Paladine
and Mishakal left us to your mercy! You are what you
have always been—a God of Evil who does not want
worshipers but slaves. I will never bow down to you. I
will never serve you."

Fire flared from the eyes of the five dragons. The fire
was white hot, and Goldmoon withered in the terrible
heat. Her body shrank and shriveled. Her strength ebbed,
and she collapsed to the floor. Her hands shook with palsy.
The skin stretched tight over tendon and bone. Her arms
grew thin and splotched with age. Her face wrinkled. Her
beautiful silver-gold hair was white and wispy. She was an
old woman, her pulse feeble, her heartbeat slowing.

"See, Mother," Mina said and her voice was sorrowful
and afraid, "see what will happen if you continue to deny
the One God what is due her?"

Kneeling beside Goldmoon, Mina took hold of the old
woman's palsied hands and pressed them again to her
lips. "Please, Mother. I can restore your youth. I can bring
back your beauty. You can begin life all over again. You
will walk with me, and together we will rule the world
in the name of the One God. All you have to do is to come
to the One God in humility and ask this favor of her, and
it will be done."

546

DRaqoNs of a Lost Stan

Goldmoon closed her eyes. Her lips did not move.

Mina bent close. "Mother," she begged, and she
sounded fearful. "Mother, do this for me if not for your-
self. Do this for love of me!"

"I pray," said Goldmoon. "I pray to Paladine and
Mishakal that they forgive me for my lack of faith. I
should have known the truth," she said softly, her voice
weakening as she spoke the words with her dying breath,
"I pray that Paladine will hear my words, and he will
come ... for love of Mina ... For love of all... ."

Goldmoon sank, lifeless, to the floor.

"Mother," said Mina, as bewildered as a lost child, "I
did this for you... ."

547

EpilOQUC




hat night, in the small port dty of Dolphin View,
in northern Abanasinia, a ship set sail across the
Straits of Schallsea. The ship carried a single
passenger, whose identity was known only to the cap-
tain. Heavily cloaked and hooded, the passenger boarded
during the night, bringing with him nothing except his
horse, a wild-eyed, short-tempered beast, who was housed
below deck in a specially built stall.

The mysterious passenger was obviously a man of
means, for he had hired the Gull Wing specially, and he
had paid extra for his horse. The sailors, intensely curious
about the passenger's identity, were envious of the cabin
boy, who was granted permission to take the passenger
his supper. They waited eagerly for the boy to return to
tell them what he had seen and heard.

The cabin boy knocked on the door. No one answered
and after a few more knocks, he trepidatiously tried the
lock. The door opened.

A tall, slender man, wrapped in his cloak, stood staring

548

DnaqoNS of a Lost StaR

out the porthole at the vast and glittering sea. He did not
turn around, even after the cabin boy mentioned dinner
several times. Shrugging, the cabin boy was about to
withdraw when the mysterious passenger spoke. He used
Common, but with a heavy accent. His voice quivered
with impatience.

"Tell the captain I want this ship to go faster. Do you
hear? We must go faster."

m her mountain lair, surrounded by the skulls of the
dragons she had slain, the great red dragon Malystryx
dreamed of water, inky black water, rising up over her
red legs, her belly, her massive red tail. Rising to cover
her red wings, her back. Rising to her mane. Rising to cover
her head, her mouth and nostrils. She could not breathe.
She fought to lift herself above the water, but her legs were
pinned. She could not free herself. Her lungs were bursting.
Stars exploded before her eyes. She gasped, opened her
mouth. The water poured in, and she was drowning....

Malystryx woke, suddenly, glared around, angry and
uneasy. She had been dreaming, and she never dreamed.
Never before had any dream disturbed her rest. She had
heard voices in her dream, mocking, goading, and she heard
them still. The voices came from the skull totem, and they
sang a song about sleep. Forever sleep.

Malystryx lifted her enormous head and stared hard at
the skull totem, at the white skulls of blue dragons piled
on top of the skulls of silver dragons; at the skulls of red
dragons lying atop of the skulls of gold dragons.

From out the empty eye sockets of all the dead drag-
ons, eyes, living eyes, stared back at Malystryx.

Sleep. Forever sleep.

In the Tower of High Sorcery, Gaidar waited for
Mina, but she didn't return. At last, worried about her,

549

DRAQONLANCE Vie wan of Souls

not trusting this place or the wizards who inhabitated it,
he went in search of her.

He found her in the old laboratory.

Mina sat huddled on the floor beside the body of an
old, old woman. Gaidar approached, spoke to her. Mina
did not look up. Bending down, Gaidar saw that the old
woman was dead.

Gaidar lifted Mina, put his good strong right arm
around her, and led her from the chamber.

The light of the dragons faded.

The laboratory was once more shrouded in darkness.

550

"How wonderful," Tas cried. "I'll fly just like the
draconians!"

Palin shouted out in horror. He lunged, tried to grasp
hold of the Render's shirttail, and missed.

With a cry of glee, Tasslehoff spread his arms like a
bird and leaped straight off the final stair. He plunged
downward and disappeared into the smoke.