the world, commencing a nearly triumphant campaign for the mastery of Ansalon. Soon her descendants would be ready to do the same, but the Dark Queen had learned a lesson from Crematia’s arrogance and knew that her dragons would not be able to achieve a swift and easy victory.
Instead, Deathfyre’s campaign would employ a new tactic, characterized by patience far beyond any Takhisis had displayed in the past. The plan itself filtered into the red dragon’s mind over centuries, instilled by long and repetitive dreams. These visions gave to him memories of blood and killing, of plunder and wealth, and they warmed him within as the fundamental fire of the Khalkists radiated against him from without.
Inside his cavernous vault, with its scorching heat and eternal fire, Deathfyre’s awareness was gradually restored. The Dark Queen’s message was clear, her scheme clever and complicated. Through the timeless centuries, he absorbed her wishes, heard her commands, until, with a shiver of memory, he awakened to the recollection of the sweet taste of fresh blood. Raising his head, feeling the hunger gnaw at his gut, the crimson serpent reflected upon his mistress’s desires.
A timeless interval later, after he clearly understood the wishes of Takhisis, Deathfyre took wing within the fiery chamber, circling many times over the lake of fire. He recalled the dreams, knew the path that had been laid out for him, and heard the reminders in the bubbling fury of the lava and the rising tumult of the flaming subterranean storm.
Finally his flight took him soaring from the mighty caldera, crimson wings once again spreading wide, claiming their rightful place in the skies of Krynn. Deathfyre exulted in his freedom and his flight, banking and soaring, slicing through the clouds that roiled and churned around the three volcanic summits. The red dragon longed to fly south, to wreak vengeance on the ancient homes of the elves, but he had heard his queen’s commands and he knew that this was not his task.
Instead, he would be patient and-for the first time in his long and destructive life-discreet. He limited his flight to the impenetrable murk surrounding the trio of summits, insuring that he was not observed from the ground. When at last he grew tired, ready to come to rest upon the firmament, he used his magic to change his body to that of a great vulture. The black-winged bird settled through the clouds, soaring unnoticed into a valley that had become home to a teeming populace of humans and ogres.
This place was called Sanction, Deathfyre remembered, for it had been founded before the brother mages had cast the wild magic and entrapped him. It was a city and a valley that figured greatly in his destiny. Rivers of fire scoured the streets, and buildings teetered at the brink of destruction as lava churned past, steadily eroding the landscape of the city. Yet new constructions were rising from the rugged slopes, and Deathfyre observed one swath of blackened ground-clearly a slum that had been swept by ruinous fire-where new shacks were already beginning to appear. Furthermore, temples to a host of gods, real and imagined, had sprouted like weeds amid the tangled alleys and byways. The peripheries of the city had become a chaotic nest of arsenals and smithies, while great stockpiles of coal were gathered in huge piles on the city’s eastern, mountain-guarded flank.
The tangled alleys leading through the teeming city’s darkened heart were lined with hovels and shacks of incredible wretchedness, many of these sprawling in the very shadows of splendid manor houses and palatial residences of prominent merchants and nobles. Within the slums, the population grew and swelled, expanding within its limited confines, building pressure that must inevitably be released in an explosion of consuming violence.
This was a perfect city for his purposes, Deathfyre saw, a place of murder and mayhem, of worshipers who hailed dark gods and practiced rites of grim decadence. It was a city that had a prominent place in his plans, and he would return here.
Yet for now, the wishes of his immortal mistress required him to journey to higher valleys, mountainous reaches much farther to the east. The condor veered with a shriek of arrogant disdain, a cry to subjects who did not know they had just heard the voice of their future master. His black wings trailed long feathers, like the fingers of a bony hand, as they cut through the smoke and murk with easy grace. Steadily he flew, up the valley leading into the mountain range, leaving the city of fire until a future time.
Deathfyre marked a course over a trackless tangle of mountains, soaring by memory to the lofty cave, a place Crematia had created in her prime. In her later years, she had shown it to her mighty son, and he had marked the place well. Now he approached the apparently featureless cliff, his keen eyes seeking the subtle shimmer of magic. The ledge was concealed by illusion, but the red dragon’s power was sufficient to part that disguise, and then to melt away the wall of stone that blocked the passage beyond.
Within the secret cavern, Deathfyre found the great treasure room that he remembered, a cavernous chamber with a floor carpeted by coins of steel and gold and gemstones of every color and size. He rolled amid the mass of treasure, allowing the metal disks to run through his talons, burying himself in a mound of precious jewels and gleaming coins. He searched for and found one particular item that he had remembered only vaguely, but here again he was guided by the images sent to him in the Dark Queen’s dreams. This was a fine leather satchel with a pair of latching handles, an item Crematia had tossed aside with almost contemptuous indifference.
Slowly and patiently the red dragon began to gather the coins and gemstones, scooping them into his massive claws and pouring them into the magical sack. Though it took him a day and a night, he was able to conceal the entire vast hoard in the single satchel, doing as he had been commanded in the dream sent by Takhisis.
Carrying this great wealth, he departed the secret chamber and came to rest on the valley floor. Deathfyre used further magic to take the form of a dwarf, and from there he embarked on foot into the realms of the great miners of the Khalkists. He traveled as a rich merchant, gradually acquiring a small caravan of fine horses, several stout wagons, and a retinue of loyal, well-paid servants.
He was welcomed among these dwarves as one of their own-more to the point, one of their very wealthy own. In the central cavern of their great underground city, the dwarvenking himself hosted a great feast in his honor. The visiting merchant was introduced to the dwarven lords with high ceremony. Many of these worthies brought blushing daughters of marriageable age to meet the exotic visitor, though each of these overtures was met with polite disinterest. Instead, the dwarven visitor announced plans to embark upon an ambitious business venture.
With great expenditures, he bought the services of many a doughty miner, forming a large expedition of experienced delvers. He led this courageous band over rugged trails into the heart of the Khalkists, realms that a thousand years before had been the domains of chromatic dragons. Paying handsomely, as always, the dwarven entrepreneur divided his hundreds of workers into mining parties and set them to work in a series of lofty valleys, commencing a search for precious gems.
And there was added incentive, for the master dwarf was interested only peripherally in such baubles as diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. These finds were to be kept by the workers themselves, and many a dwarven laborer grew rich in the service of this mysterious stranger. Unfortunately, some of the workers also lost their lives, as is ever the way with mines, but the families of these victims invariably received generous compensation from the dwarven overseer.
As to his purpose, the master delver’s instructions were specific: He desired for himself only those rare stones that were perfect spheres, pure and unblemished in color. They were discovered in five varieties: black, red, blue, green, and white, and the rich dwarf paid handsomely for every sample brought to him.
When he had collected many dozens of each variety, the dwarven businessman organized another great expedition and made ready to march down from the Khalkists. He prepared to travel with a great caravan of wagons, announcing his intention to seek and purchase trade goods of all kinds. Of course, the party would also carry a generous selection of the rare, spherical baubles of color.
The dwarves who worked for him were hired for a new task now, informed that the caravan would spend years in making a great circuit about Ansalon, and they were promised that the party would return bearing fabulous profit for all. The master delver had proven to be a beneficent and generous employer, so once again he was greeted by many willing offers of assistance.
Eventually more than a hundred dwarven laborers signed on for the duration of the expedition, with the understanding that they might be gone for a score of years, or even longer. The caravan departed with a creaking of sturdy wagon wheels and lowing of oxen under the skillfully wielded whips of dwarven teamsters, with the fond farewells of a great populace still ringing from the mountain heights.
Trekking through rugged terrain, the dwarves carved a road where they had to, hoisting the wagons over mountain ridges, guiding them along precarious ledges above deep, rock-lined gorges. They progressed eastward
