He just had to find the way to get around that luck of hers.
Feal-Thas entered the white dragon’s lair. A magical snow, created by the dragon, drifted down around her. The snow kept her cool, kept her food—two dead thanoi and a human—from spoiling until she was at leisure to eat it. Sleet was dozing, but she woke up fast enough when she smelled elf. Her nostrils twitched. One eye was a red glittering slit. Her claws dug into the ice floor and her white lips curled back over her yellow fangs. She did not like Feal-Thas, and the feeling was mutual.
The whites are the smallest of the Dark Queen’s dragons and the least intelligent. They are good at killing and not much else. They obey instructions, but only if they are kept simple.
“What do you want?” Sleet muttered.
Her white scales glittered blue in the wizard-light. Her wings were folded over her back, her long tail curled around her massive, snow-covered body. Though small compared to a red dragon, she nearly filled the vast cavern she had inherited from some other white who had built it long, long ago, perhaps around Huma’s time. Pallid sunlight gleamed through the lair’s entrance at the far end, sparkling on walls coated with snow and hoarfrost from the dragon’s breath.
“I am here to ascertain that you are comfortable and have all you require,” said Feal-Thas smoothly.
The dragon snorted, blasting frost from her nose. “You came to check on your precious dragon orb because you don’t trust me. It’s safe. See for yourself. Then go bury your head in a glacier.”
The white dragon rested her head in the snow. Her red eyes watched Feal-Thas.
The orb stood upon an icy pedestal. Its colors static, suspended, the orb looked dead. As Feal-Thas approached the orb and his thoughts focused on it, it came to life. The colors began to swirl around the globe’s interior, making it look like a rainbow-glistening soap bubble—blue, green, black, red, white—changing and shifting, merging and separating.
Feal-Thas drew near. As always, his hands itched to touch it. He longed to try to exert his power over it, take command of it, become the orb’s master. He knew he could. It would be easy. He was powerful, the most powerful elf archmage who had ever lived. Once he had the orb, he would wrest the crown from Ariakas, challenge Queen Takhisis herself…
“Ha, ha.” Feal-Thas laughed gently. He came to stand before the dragon orb, his hands clasped tightly in his sleeves. “Nice try. You might as well give up,” he advised the orb. “I will not relinquish you. I know the danger you pose. You must try your blandishments on someone else, such as this Solamnic knight who has come to free you.”
The colors flashed briefly, swirled furiously, then settled back into a slow, drifting, seemingly-aimless motion.
“I thought that might interest you. I am certain if you apply yourself, you can snag him. You are the object of his desire. You should find it easy to seize hold of him, lure him to you, as your sister orb did Lorac.” Feal-Thas paused, then said quietly, grimly, “As you did me.”
The orb darkened, its colors blending, black with hatred.
“With me you failed,” Feal-Thas continued, shrugging. “You might well succeed with the knight. You could summon him here, then send the dragon away on some trumped-up errand. But you don’t need me to tell you that.” Feal-Thas wagged a finger at the orb. “You are toying with me, hoping to ensnare me.”
He again clasped his hands and said scornfully, “Spare yourself the trouble. Your tempting promises haven’t worked in three hundred years; they won’t work now.”
The colors swirled again, and this time green was uppermost.
“You are suspicious of my motives, as you should be. Of course it’s a trap. You bring the knight; I will slay him.” Feal-Thas gave another shrug. “Still, you might succeed. I might fail. Take the gamble.” He paused, then said quietly, “What choice do you have?”
Feal-Thas turned and walked away. He could see the light of the orb reflected on the ice walls flashing red, then purple, then going sullen, greenish black. He did not see, as he left, all the colors merging together in a riotous display of triumph.
Derek woke again from a dream of dragons. He gasped, breathing hard, not from fear, but with exultation. He lay awake, staring into the darkness, reliving the dream, which had been vividly real.
Usually his dreams were gray and black and nonsensical. He dismissed dreams, considering them wild forays of the slumbering, undisciplined mind. Derek never thought about his dreams or bothered to remember them, and he viewed with impatience those who yammered on about them.
But these dreams were different. These dreams were splashed with color: reds and blues, greens, blacks and shades of white. These dreams were filled with dragons, enemy dragons, clouding the skies. The sun shining on their scales made a hideous rainbow. People fled from them in open-mouthed, screaming terror. Blood, smoke, and fire spilled and billowed and crackled around him. He did not run. He stood firm, gazing up at the beating wings, the open mouths, the dripping fangs. He should have been holding his sword, but in its place he held a crystal orb. He raised up the orb to the heavens and he cried out a stern command and the dragons, shrieking in rage, fell from the skies, dying like shooting stars, trailing flame.
Derek was bathed in sweat and he threw off the fur blankets. The bitter cold felt good to him, slapped him out of the dream, brought him to conscious awareness.
“The orb,” he said softly, exultantly.
13
The assault on Ice Wall Castle
“Wake up, you two,” Derek ordered sharply.
“Huh? What?” Aran sat up, still half-asleep, muddled and alarmed. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
Brian reached for his sword, feeling about for it, since he couldn’t see in the darkness. Then he remembered—he’d given his weapon to Sturm. Brian groaned inwardly. A knight without his sword. Derek would view that as a most serious transgression.
“Be quiet,” said Derek in a low voice. “I’ve been thinking things over. We’re going to go along with this insane plan of the elf woman to attack the castle—”
“Derek, it’s the middle of the night,” Aran protested, “and cold as a goblin’s backside! Tell me in the morning.” He flung himself down and pulled the furs over his head.
“It is morning, or near enough,” said Derek. “Now pay attention.”
Brian sat up, shivering in the chill. Aran peered at him over the edge of the blanket.
“So we go along with the plan to attack the castle,” Aran said, scratching his stubble-covered chin. “Why do we need to talk about it?”
“Because I know where to find the dragon orb,” said Derek. “I know where it is.”
“How do you know?” Brian asked astonished.
“Since you appear to be so enamored of these newfound gods, let us say they told me,” Derek returned. “How I know is not important. This is my plan. When the attack starts, we will leave the main body, sneak into the castle, recover the orb, and—” He halted, half-turned to stare outside. “Did you hear that?”
“No,” said Brian.
Derek, muttering something about spies, ducked out of the tent.
“The gods told him about the orb!” Aran shook his head in disbelief and reached for his flask.
“I think he was being sarcastic. This isn’t like Derek,” Brian added, troubled.
“You’re right. Derek may be a stiff-necked, sword-up-the-butt, arrogant lunkhead, but at least he’s been an honorable, stiff-necked, sword-up-the-butt, arrogant lunkhead. Now he’s lost even that endearing quality.”