they had when they fought against one another in a burning forest at the instant the spell of ice had been cast by an archmage.
But they were not fighting among themselves now. Mountain dwarves and hill dwarves stood shoulder to shoulder, spread out beneath the dark plume of choking steam. They were silent and relentless, and fell on the panicked goblins without a hesitation or a sound. The hobgoblin leader screamed, turned to run, and fell, his helm pierced by Fleece Ironhill's spiked hammer. Two jibbering goblins following him died under the sword of
Camber Meld. The cooling cloud of dark steam above was descending now, settling as a dense fog streaked with ash, slanting before a wind that came across the old battlefield, carrying the dry scent of ages. For long minutes there was only silence and the blinding mist. Then, slowly, the cloud thinned. Five humans and six hill dwarves, the last of the combined fighting force led by Camber Meld and Fleece Ironhill, stood alone at the edge of a great, blackened plain littered with bodies, dropped arms and ancient burned stumps. Most of the strewn bodies were goblins, many of them still pierced by the weapons that had killed them. And everywhere, among and around them, were little heaps of clothing and armor — all that remained of the dwarves of Waykeep, fighters released from an ancient spell for one last cut, one last thrust, at an enemy.
The refugees looked around in awe. Nothing moved except the wind… the wind, and a sliver of white far to the east, something that flew like a bird with still wings, riding on the air. Something going away.
On a forest-shrouded knoll in the Vale of Respite, some distance south of the encampments of the goblins, a red dragon burrowed into leaf-mold and slept the sleep of exhaustion. Even the most powerful of creatures had its limits, and this one had been in flight for nearly thirty hours and more than five hundred miles. It had flown from a lair deep in the
Khalkist Mountains to a secret place near Sanction, then had spanned the entire width of Newsea, past Pax Tharkas, and now lay in the wilderness ranges between Qualinost and Thorbardin, in the Kharolis Mountains of western Ansalon.
It had chosen the knoll, sent a mind-call northward, then burrowed in and slept. Through the remainder of that day it rested, and through the night and most of the next day. The sleep restored its strength, and the dragon dreamed the comfortable dreams of one who by birthright can be absolute lord over anyone or anything that it cares to dominate… except others like itself, and one beyond, the one the dragon called the Dark
Queen. The dragon slept for twenty-eight hours, then awoke briefly to be aware of its surroundings.
The one it had called was there, waiting. The dragon went back to sleep and dozed for another three hours. Finally, when it was rested, the red dragon stirred, shook away the forest leaves, and lifted its huge head.
Its long, sinuous body moved, and the beast stretched its wings deliciously. The dragon felt renewed, restored. Nearby, a small fire burned, and the person beside it came to her feet. 'Have you slept enough?' she asked sourly.
'I always sleep enough,' the dragon said. 'It is you who should worry about sleep. The Highlord would be displeased if you should fail in your mission.'
'I have not failed,' the woman said. 'All of the lands between Pax
Tharkas and Thorbardin are in my control…or will be by the coming of spring. My goblins are in place, and all that remains is the gathering of slaves to build some decent fortifications.'
The dragon's gaze was mocking. 'If that is all that remains, why are you aligning your troops to cross over into the Plains of Dergoth beyond the mountains?'
'A minor matter,' she snapped. 'It would not interest the Highlord.'
'It might,' the dragon purred. 'Or would you rather I just report that you didn't care to discuss it?'
'It's nothing! There is a dwarf who has learned of the invasion gate to
Thorbardin and thinks he can block it. I simply intend to eliminate him.'
'Interesting,' the dragon said. 'As I recall, you told the Highlord that no one except you and your… ah, coinhabitant… knew of the lost gate.
You assured the Highlord that Thorbardin will stand open to him when he comes, and that he can make it his base of operations.'
'So I did, and so it will be. Do you doubt me?'
'So many of the best-laid plans,' the dragon chuckled.
'Especially those of humans…'
'I will not fail!'
'I wouldn't, if I were you,' the dragon whispered. 'Is there anything you would like reported to the Highlord?'
'Report what you have seen,' Kolanda snarled. 'I'm doing my job, so I assume you can do yours.'
The woman glared at the dragon, then turned without a word and walked away. The horned mask under her arm stared back at the lizard through hollow eyes. The red dragon watched her go, then stretched luxuriously. It would be time soon to spread great wings and begin the long flight back to the region of Sanction. The Highlord would be waiting for his report. The
Highlord. One of many Highlords in the north now, amassing armies, sending out spies and patrols, plotting and securing lines of march, organizing systems… petty, mortal creatures preparing for the day the Dark Queen would unleash them across Ansalon and beyond. They would then secure for her — once and for all — the world she wanted and was fit to rule. The dragon pondered for a moment whether to report the gnome in the flying thing who had seen him and somehow escaped. He thought about it, but decided that there was nothing to be gained. It was, after all, only a gnome.
Two days' foot-travel to the east of the dragon's resting place, Chane
Feldstone led a tired and dusty little group along a winding ledge.
Mountain winds sang in towering crags above them, and mists hid the depths below.
'Do you know where we are?' Wingover asked the dwarf for the second or third time in an hour.
'Why don't you leave him alone?' Jilian Firestoke snapped. 'Can't you see he's tired?'
Wingover nodded. It was obvious the dwarf was tired.
Still weak from his shoulder wound, he sometimes stumbled and rarely spoke, though he pushed on with grim determination. Chane was following — the rest could only assume — the green line that marked the path where
Grallen had gone centuries before.
In fact, Chane's weakened state was why Wingover kept questioning him.
The dwarf was showing signs that to the wilderness man spelled sheer exhaustion — a flateyed stare that never seemed to blink; paleness that came and went; a rolling, almost drunken pace.
Wingover knew that it was time to stop and rest, and for the past day or more the man had been looking for a place to do that. The problem was, except for a pair of wide places on the trail where bitter winds had chilled them and the last of their provisions had run out, there had simply been no place to rest.
Their current trail along the mountainside was one Wingover had never explored. The human marveled at the idea that a dwarven prince had once led armies this way, heading for the final battle of his final war on what most men called the Plains of Dergoth, though dwarves more often called the region the Plains of Death. Wingover snorted as the dwarf in the lead stumbled again. He handed his horse's lead to Jilian and caught
Chane's good shoulder in a firm hand. 'Are you all right?' he asked, looking into the dwarf's exhausted eyes.
'I'm all right,' Chane growled. 'We have to keep going.'
'Do you know where we are?'
'I know where I'm going. The path is clear.'
'Yes, but do you know where we are?'
'Not exactly. Where?'
'I didn't think so,' the man said gently. 'Look off across there… across the gorge, over on the face of the next peak.'
Chane looked, his eyes blank. There was a feature over there, tiny in the distance but somehow familiar.
