Raistlin screamed. His body pierced by unseen, unholy weapons, he sank to the ground in agony. Caramon gave a great, bellowing roar and sprang at Verminaard, but the cleric was prepared. He swung the mace, Nightbringer, and struck the warrior a glancing blow. "Midnight," Verminaard whispered, and Caramon's bellow changed to a shout of panic as the spellbound mace blinded him.
"I can't see! Tanis, help me!" the big warrior cried, stumbling about. Verminaard, laughing grimly, struck him a solid blow to the head. Caramon went down like a felled ox.
Out of the corner of his eye, Verminaard saw the half-elf leap for him, a two-handed sword of ancient elvish design in his hands. Verminaard whirled, blocking Tanis's sword with Nightbringer's massive, oaken handle. For a moment, the two combatants were locked together, but Verminaard's greater strength won out and he hurled Tanis to the ground.
The Solamnic knight raised his sword in salute-a costly mistake. It gave Verminaard time to remove a small iron needle from a hidden pocket. Raising it, he called once more upon the
Queen of Darkness to defend her cleric. Sturm, striding forward, suddenly felt his body grow heavier and heavier until he could walk no more.
Tanis, lying on the ground, felt an unseen hand press down on him. He couldn't move. He couldn't turn his head. His tongue was too thick to speak. He could hear Raistlin's screams choke off in pain. He could hear Verminaard laugh and shout a hymn of praise to the Dark Queen. Tanis could only watch in despair as the Dragon Highlord, mace raised, walked toward Sturm, preparing to end the knight's life.
"Baravais, Kbaras! Verminaard said in Solamnic. He lifted the mace in a gruesome mockery of the knight's salute, then aimed for the knight's head, knowing that this death would be the most torturous possible for a knight-dying at the mercy of the enemy.
Suddenly a hand caught Verminaard's wrist. In astonishment, he stared at the hand, the hand of a female. He felt a power to match his own, a holiness to match his unholiness. At her touch, Verminaard's concentration wavered, his prayers to his Dark Queen faltered.
And then it was that the Dark Queen herself looked up to find a radiant god, dressed in white and shining armor, appear on the horizon of her plans. She was not ready to fight this god, she had not expected his return, and so she fled to rethink her options and restructure her battle, seeing-for the first time- the possibility of defeat. The Queen of Darkness withdrew and left her cleric to his fate.
Sturm felt the spell leave his body, his muscles his own to command once more. He saw Venninaard turn his fury on Goldmoon, striking at her savagely. The knight lunged forward, seeing Tanis rise, the elven sword flashing in the sun-light.
Both men ran toward Goldmoon, but Riverwind was there before them. Thrusting her out of the way, the Plainsman received on his swordarm the blow of the cleric's mace that had been intended to crush Goldmoon's head. Riverwind heard the cleric shout "Midnight!" and his vision was obscured by the same unholy darkness that had overtaken Caramon.
But the Que-shu warrior, expecting this, did not panic. Riverwind could still hear his enemy. Resolutely ignoring the pain of his injury, he transferred the sword to his left hand and stabbed in the direction of his enemy's harsh breathing. The blade, turned aside by the Dragon Highlord's powerful armor, was jarred from Riverwind's hand. Riverwind fumbled for his dagger, though he knew it was hopeless, that death was certain.
At that moment, Verminaard realized he was alone, bereft of spiritual help. He felt the cold, skeletal hand of despair clutch at him and he called to his Dark Queen. But she had turned away, absorbed in her own struggle.
Verminaard began to sweat beneath the dragonmask. He cursed it as the helm seemed to stifle him; he couldn't catch his breath. Too late he realized its unsuitableness for hand-to-hand combat-the mask blocked his peripheral vision. He saw the tall Plainsman, blind and wounded, before him-he could kill him at his leisure. But there were two other fighters near. The knight and the half-elf had been freed of the unholy spell he had cast on them and they were coming closer. He could hear them.
Catching a glimpse of movement, he turned quickly and saw the half-elf running toward him, the elvish blade glistening. But where was the knight? Verminaard turned and backed up, swinging his mace to keep them at bay, while with his free hand, he struggled to rip the dragonhelm from his head.
Too late. Just as Verminaard's hand closed over the visor, the magic blade of Kith-Kanan pierced his armor and slid into his back. The Dragon Highlord screamed and whirled in rage, only to see the Solamnic knight appear in his blood-dimmed vision. The ancient blade of Sturm's fathers plunged into his bowels. Verminaard feel to his knees. Still he struggled to remove the helm-he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see. He felt another sword thrust, then darkness overtook him.
High overhead, a dying Matafleur- weakened by loss of blood and many wounds-heard the voices of her children crying to her. She was confused and disoriented: Pyros seemed to be attacking from every direction at once. Then the big red dragon was before her, against the wall of the mountain. Matafleur saw her chance. She would save her children.
Pyros breathed a great blast of flame directly into the face of the ancient red dragon. He watched in satisfaction as the head withered, the eyes melted.
But Matafleur ignored the flames that seared her eyes, forever ending her vision, and flew straight at Pyros.
The big male dragon, his mind clouded by fury and pain and thinking he had finished his enemy, was taken by surprise. Even as he breathed again his deadly fire, he realized with horror the position he was in-he had allowed Matafleur to manuever him between herself and the sheer face of the mountain. He had nowhere to go, no room to turn.
Matafleur soared into him with all the force of her once-powerful body, striking him like a spear hurled by the gods.
Both dragons slammed against the mountain. The peak trembled and split apart as the face of the mountain exploded in flames.
In later years when the Death of Flamestrike was legend, there were those who claimed to have heard a dragon's voice fade away like smoke on an autumn wind, whispering:
"My children…"
The Wedding
The last day of autumn dawned clear and bright. The air was warm-touched by the fragrant wind from the south, which had blown steadily ever since the refugees fled Pax Tharkas, taking with them only what they could scrounge from the fortress as they fled the wrath of the dragonarmies.
It had taken long days for the draconian army to scale the walls of Pax Tharkas, its gates blocked by boulders, its towers defended by gully dwarves. Led by Sestun, the gully dwarves stood on top of the walls throwing rocks, dead rats, and occasionally each other down on the frustrated draconians. This allowed the refugees time to escape into the mountains where, although they skirmished with small forces of draconians, they were not seriously threatened.
Flint volunteered to lead a party of men through the mountains, searching for a place where the people could spend the winter. These mountains were familiar to Flint since the hill dwarves' homeland was not far to the south. Flint's party discovered a valley nestled between vast, craggy peaks whose treacherous passes were choked with snow in the winter. The passes could be easily held against the might of the dragonarmies and there were caves where they could hide from the fury of the dragons.
Following a dangerous path, the refugees fled into the mountains and entered the valley. An avalanche soon blocked the route behind them and destroyed all trace of their passing. It would be months before the draconians discovered them.