molting, wings frayed by storms and sea winds, the leathery hide of the neck hanging in loose folds over depleted flesh. In response to the strange compulsion of dragonflight, the great creatures had flown far without rest or food.
But the elves did not take too much heart from this evidence of the dragons' weariness. By now, the creatures were desperate, and in their imperative need to reach Evermeet, they would certainly throw all their remaining strength against the defenders.
Even as the elves struggled to absorb the horrendous mental image of the dragonflight, a new wonder edged its way into their vast magical canvas. Amlaruil caught her breath in awe at her first glimpse of the Starwing fleet.
There were ten of them, all man-o-wars, and they swept toward the invading dragons like a flock of titanic butterflies. Their slender crystal hulls cut through the air as swiftly as did the dragons' sleek forms, and their glistening, brightly colored pairs of double sails seized every breath of wind.
As Amlaruil watched, the blood-red ship in the lead position fired her ballista. An enormous, iron-tipped bolt streaked toward the nearest black dragon.
To the elf's astonishment, the black wyrm deftly snatched the weapon from the air with one forepaw. Immediately it bought the spear up against its body, so that the force of the stopped bolt was not borne by that one limb. Then the dragon twirled the ballista bolt around, nimbly as an elven fighter might spin his staff. Its massive black tongue lolled out and licked at the wicked tip.
A corrosive hiss and the stench of burning metal filled the air as the black dragon's acid began to melt through the iron tip. Holding the weapon like a javelin, the creature reared back in the air and hurled the ballista bolt back toward the lead ship.
The man-o-war pulled hard to one side, but the tainted weapon tore through the starboard wing. The tattered hole it left behind began to grow as the acid spread, eating its way through the crimson wing and sending melting drops falling like blood to the deck below. The cries of wounded elves echoed horribly. The ship began to falter, sinking down toward the waiting sea.
Swiftly the remaining ships fanned out to form a defensive line between the island and the approaching dragons. Thump after thump filled the air as their catapults loosed a steady barrage of scattershot at the approaching dragons.
The deadly fire had effect. Four of the creatures spiraled down to the waters, their wings torn and useless. But the others, even those who had been wounded, came steadily on. In their lead was a young red dragon, a large male. The bands of armor encircling the dragon's mighty chest swelled as the creature fueled itself for the killing blast.
Fire shields, now!
Jannalor Nierde's voice, imperative and desperate, sounded in the minds of each elf in the Circle. As one, the High Magi chanted the words that would fashion the protective spell.
Fire burst from the creature's mouth, pouring out in a stream of flame that went on and on in a seemingly endless gout of heat and destruction. The immense, curved shield of magic that warded the ships turned back the flame, but within moments the once-invisible barrier was red-hot, the surface blistered and bubbling like melting glass.
Most of the onrushing dragons ducked under the reflected waves of fire. They glided under the ships, letting the searing heat and flame waft upward harmlessly. Only two of the dragons were caught in the updraft and tossed high into the sky.
Well enough, thought Amlaruil in relief. The ships had survived the dragons' worst weapon, and they were above most of the wyrms, and thus in a far more defensible position.
Immediately the man-o-wars began to maneuver into a new formation. The ships on the outer edges of the line swept around to the west, the others following until all nine had formed a circle. The dragons, however, knew no such organization. They swarmed toward the ships from all sides in sudden, terrible, relentless attack.
Gone, too, was all hope of an organized defense. Wizards aboard all the ships loosed countering weapons. Massive fireballs tore toward the red dragons, meeting answering fire in bursts of multicolored light and shattering explosions of sound. Enchanted arrows flew from bows passed down by ancient heroes as the fighters sought the vulnerable eyes and wide-flung mouths of the attacking wyrms.
The Circle did what they could, following Jannalor's lead and lending their combined strength to one elven attack after another. But the dragons were simply too many. They battered the elven vessels with magic, swooped down and caught up elven fighters in their talons, slashed at the sails with their rending teeth and talons, and slammed the crystal hulls with their own enormous bodies. They fought in near-frenzy, driven by their own desperate hunger and the compelling, mysterious urging of the dragonflight.
Nor did the Starwings' defensive stance aid the magi, for there was no one attack to which to lend their strength. One after another, the ships were shattered by dragonfire, or melted by the terrible clouds of acid breath, or left so damaged or bereft of crew that they were forced to limp down toward the sea.
A sudden surge of magic, like sunlight breaking through winter clouds, flooded the joined minds of the Circle's elves. As one, they soared upward in thought to seek its source.
Winging toward the battle in precise formation were thirty gold and silver dragons, each bearing an elven warrior.
Amlaruil's lips curved in a triumphant smile. She recognized the formidable Lady Mylaerla Durothil. The matron sat astride a venerable silver and looked as if she'd been born to battle. The grim, Gray elf woman who rode at her right wing tip could only be the legendary Ahskahala. With such heroes as these fighting for Evermeet, surely victory would not be long in coming!
Yet even as she watched, lending her magic to the Circle as Jannalor wove a net of power that supported the dragonriders like a favorable wind, Amlaruil realized that the battle would not be easily won.
The dragonriders came in from above, attacking the invaders with great, swooping dives and pulses of magical power. But the evil dragons countered with their own fearful weapons. Amid the terrible confusion of blood and steel and flame and smoke and magic, pairs of the gigantic creatures grappled in the sky. Here and there the entwined dragons plummeted from the fiery clouds, only to be swallowed by the waiting sea.
Above the roar of the embattled dragons and the answering shouts of elven fighters, a shrill, distant voice took up the elven battle cries. Giant eagles, nearly as large as some of the dragons, hurtled down from the sky. Leading them was a wondrous golden female, and on her back rode Zaor Moonflower. His wild dark blue hair streaked behind him like a storm cloud, and the moonblade he brandished blazed with arcane fire.
Amlaruil instinctively reached out to him. Her magic strengthened his arm as he slashed out to meet the snapping jaws of a red dragon. The sword slapped the dragon's head to one side, and the hooked beak of Zaor's eagle partner sank deep into the vulnerable neck.
The young mage felt the swell of gathering magic nearby, and she flashed her attention to the small black dragon who drew breath for an attack upon the deadly eagle-rider. Amlaruil sensed the moonblade's protective shield, and she lent her magic to calling it forth. The dragon spat acid in a fetid stream. It hit the moonblade- created shield and dissolved into a foul smelling cloud, as easily as a cup of water might be dispersed if tossed upon a dwarven forge.
Deep into the magic of Zaor's sword Amlaruil went, finding its secrets and lending her magic to his strength. Unknowing, she slipped free of her place in the Circle and bound herself instead to ties still deeper and more mystical. Yet in a distant corner of her mind, she could still hear Jannalor's voice, still feel the wondering thoughts of the magi as they focused their efforts upon bolstering the new and powerful Center who had unexpectedly taken over the course of the battle.
Zaor seemed to be everywhere, his sword flashing and diving as he battled the invading dragons. He and his magnificent eagle worked together as if one creature. Dimly, Amlaruil could hear the elf's voice as he shouted encouragement and instruction to the aptly named WindShriek. But more than that, she felt the distinctive magic of the elven isle itself pulsing through Zaor's moonblade, and binding the defenders together. It was a magic she knew, for it coursed through her body and sang in her veins.
Nor was she the only one to sense the power of Zaor and his sword. The other eagles, even the dragonriders, rallied to the Moon elf warrior as the magic of the king sword subtly reached out to touch and inspire each child of Evermeet.
The eagles attacked relentlessly, gouging the invading dragons with their hooked beaks and shredding at
