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.”
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.”
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.
26
Penalty for Betrayal
The dragon Khellendros, whose common name among the lesser creatures of Krynn was Skie, had his current lair I 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, 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 wit 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 recognized. 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.
“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, however, 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 Nightlund. 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?”