Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (46 page)

But the atmosphere snapped like the air before a storm. Gunthar talked. The Speaker answered. The Speaker talked. Gunthar answered. The dark-skinned mariner lost his temper and made a few cutting remarks about elves. The lord of the Silvanesti reduced him to quivering anger with his sarcastic rejoinders. Several of the knights left, only to return armed to the teeth. They came to stand near Gunthar, their hands on their weapons. The elves, led by Porthios, rose to surround their own leaders.

Gnosh, his report held fast in his hand, began to realize he wasn’t going to be asked to give it.

Tasslehoff looked around despairingly for Elistan. He kept hoping desperately the cleric would come. Elistan could calm these people down. Or maybe Laurana. Where was she? There’d been no word of his friends, the elves had told the kender coldly. She and her brother had apparently vanished in the wilderness. I shouldn’t have left them, Tas thought. I shouldn’t be here. Why, why did this crazy old mage bring me? I’m useless! Maybe Fizban could do something? Tas looked at the mage hopefully, but Fizban was sound asleep!

“Please, wake up!” Tas begged, shaking him. “Somebody’s got to do something!”

At that moment, he heard Lord Gunthar yell, “The dragon orb is
not
yours by right! Lady Laurana and the others were bringing it to
us
when they were shipwrecked! You tried to keep it on Ergoth by force, and your own daughter—”

“Mention not my daughter!” the Speaker said in a deep, harsh voice. “I do not have a daughter.”

Something broke within Tasslehoff. Confused memories of Laurana fighting desperately against the evil wizard who guarded the orb, Laurana battling draconians, Laurana firing her bow at the white dragon, Laurana ministering to him so tenderly when he’d been near death. To be cast off by her own people when she was working so desperately to save them, when she had sacrificed so much.…

“Stop this!” Tasslehoff heard himself yelling at the top of his voice. “Stop this right now and listen to me!”

Suddenly he saw, to his astonishment, that everyone
had
stopped talking and was staring at him.

Now that he had his audience, Tas realized he didn’t have any idea what to say to all of these important people. But he knew he had to say something. After all, he thought, this is my fault—I read about these damn orbs. Gulping, he slid off his bench and walked toward the Whitestone and the two hostile groups clustered around it. He thought he saw—out of the corner of his eye—Fizban grinning from under his hat.

“I—I …” The kender stammered, wondering what to say. He was saved by a sudden inspiration.

“I demand the right to represent my people,” Tasslehoff said proudly, “and take my place on the advisory council.”

Flipping his tassle of brown hair over his shoulder, the kender came to stand right in front of the dragon orb. Looking up, he could see the Whitestone towering over it and over him. Tas stared at the stone, shivering, then quickly turned his gaze from the rock to Gunthar and the Speaker of the Suns.

And then Tasslehoff knew what he had to do. He began to shake with fear. He—Tasslehoff Burrfoot—who’d never been afraid of anything in his life! He’d faced dragons without trembling, but the knowledge of what he was going to do now appalled him. His hands felt as if he’d been making snowballs without gloves on. His tongue seemed to belong in some larger person’s mouth. But Tas was resolute. He just had to keep them talking, keep them from guessing what he planned.

“You’ve never taken us kenders very seriously, you know,” Tas began, his voice sounding too loud and shrill in his own ears, “and I can’t say I blame you much. We don’t have a strong sense of responsibility, I guess, and we are probably too curious for own good—but, I ask you, how are you going to find out anything if you’re not curious?”

Tas could see the Speaker’s face turn to steel, even Lord Gunthar was scowling. The kender edged nearer the dragon orb.

“We cause lots of trouble, I suppose, without meaning to, and occasionally some of us do happen to acquire certain things which aren’t ours. But one thing the kender know is—”

Tasslehoff broke into a run. Quick and lithe as a mouse, he slipped easily through the hands that tried to catch him, reaching the dragon orb within a matter of seconds. Faces blurred around him, mouths opened, shrieking and yelling at him. But they were too late.

In one swift, smooth movement, Tasslehoff hurled the dragon orb at the huge, gleaming Whitestone.

The round, gleaming crystal—its insides swirling in agitation—hung suspended in the air for long, long seconds. Tas wondered if the orb had the power to halt its flight. But it was just a fevered impression in the kender’s mind.

The dragon orb struck the rock and shattered, bursting into a thousand sparkling pieces. For an instant, a ball of milky white smoke hung in the air, as if trying desperately to hold itself together. Then the warm, springlike breeze of the glade caught it and swept it apart.

There was intense, awful silence.

The kender stood, looking calmly down at the shattered dragon orb.

“We know,” he said in a small voice that dropped into the dreadful silence like a tiny drop of rain, “we should be fighting dragons. Not each other.”

No one moved. No one spoke. Then there was a thump.

Gnosh had fainted.

The silence broke—almost as shattering as the breaking of the orb. Lord Gunthar and the Speaker both lunged at Tas. One caught hold of the kender’s left shoulder, one his right.

“What have you done?” Lord Gunthar’s face was livid, his eyes wild as he gripped the kender with trembling hands.

“You have brought death upon us all!” The Speaker’s fingers bit into Tas’s flesh like the claws of a predatory bird. “You have destroyed our only hope!”

“And for that, he himself will be the first to die!”

Porthios–tall, grim-faced elflord—loomed above the cowering kender, his sword glistening in his hand. The kender stood his ground between the elven king and the knight, his small face pale, his expression defiant. He had known when he committed his crime that death would be the penalty.

Tanis will be unhappy over what I’ve done, Tas thought sadly. But at least he’ll hear that I died bravely.

“Now, now, now …” said a sleepy voice. “No one’s going to die! At least not at this moment. Quit waving that sword around, Porthios! Someone’ll get hurt.”

Tas peered out from under a heaving sea of arms and shining armor to see Fizban, yawning, step over the inert body of the gnome and totter toward them. Elves and humans made way for him to pass, as if compelled to do so by an unseen force.

Porthios whirled to face Fizban, so angry that saliva bubbled on his lips and his speech was nearly incoherent.

“Beware, old man, or you will share in the punishment!”

“I said quit waving that sword around,” Fizban snapped irritably, wiggling a finger at the sword.

Porthios dropped his weapon with a wild cry. Clutching his stinging, burning hand, he stared down at the sword in astonishment—the hilt had grown thorns! Fizban came to stand next to the elflord and regarded him angrily.

“You’re a fine young man, but you should have been taught some respect for your elders. I said to put that sword
down and I meant it! Maybe you’ll believe me next time!” Fizban’s baleful gaze switched to the Speaker. “And you, Solostaran, were a good man about two hundred years ago. Managed to raise three fine children—
three
fine children, I said. Don’t give me any of this nonsense about not having a daughter. You have one, and a fine girl she is. More sense than her father. Must take after her mother’s side. Where was I? Oh, yes. You brought up Tanis Half-Elven, too. You know, Solostaran, between the four of these young people, we might save this world yet.

“Now I want everyone to take his seat. Yes, you, too, Lord Gunthar. Come along, Solostaran, I’ll help. We old men have to stick together. Too bad you’re such a damn fool.”

Muttering into his beard, Fizban led the astounded Speaker to his chair. Porthios, his face twisted in pain, stumbled back to his seat with the help of his warriors.

Slowly the assembled elves and knights sat down, murmuring among themselves—all casting dark looks at the shattered dragon orb that lay beneath the Whitestone.

Fizban settled the Speaker in his seat, glowered at Lord Quinath, who thought he had something to say but quickly decided he didn’t. Satisfied, the old mage came back to the front of the Whitestone where Tas stood, shaken and confused.

“You,” Fizban looked at the kender as if he’d never seen him before, “go and attend to that poor chap.” He waved a hand at the gnome, who was still out cold.

Feeling his knees tremble, Tasslehoff walked slowly over to Gnosh and knelt down beside him, glad to look at something other than the angry, fear-filled faces.

“Gnosh,” he whispered miserably, patting the gnome on the cheek, “I’m sorry. I truly am. I mean about your Life Quest and your father’s soul and everything. But there just didn’t seem to be anything else to do.”

Fizban turned around slowly and faced the assembled group, pushing his hat back on his head. “Yes, I’m going to lecture you. You deserve it, every one of you—so don’t sit there looking self-righteous. That kender”—he pointed at Tasslehoff, who cringed—“has more brains beneath that ridiculous topknot of his than the lot of you have put together. Do you know what would have happened to you if the kender hadn’t had the guts to do what he did? Do you? Well,
I’ll tell you. Just let me find a seat here.…” Fizban peered around vaguely. “Ah, yes, there …” Nodding in satisfaction, the old mage toddled over and sat down on the ground, leaning his back against the sacred Whitestone!

The assembled knights gasped in horror. Gunthar leaped to his feet, appalled at this sacrilege.

“No mortal can touch the Whitestone!” he yelled, striding forward.

Fizban slowly turned his head to regard the furious knight. “One more word,” the old mage said solemnly, “and I’ll make your moustaches fall off. Now sit down and shut up!”

Sputtering, Gunthar was brought up short by an imperious gesture from the old man. The knight could do nothing but return to his seat.

“Where was I before I was interrupted?” Fizban scowled. Glancing around, his gaze fell on the broken pieces of the orb. “Oh, yes. I was about to tell you a story. One of you would have won the orb, of course. And you would have taken it—either to keep it ‘safe’ or to ‘save the world.’ And, yes, it is capable of saving the world, but only if you know how to use it. Who of you has this knowledge? Who has the strength? The orb was created by the greatest, most powerful mages of old.
All
the most powerful—do you understand? It was created by those of the White Robes and those of the Black Robes. It has the essence of both evil and good. The Red Robes brought both essences together and bound them with their force. Few there are now with the power and strength to understand the orb, to fathom its secrets, and to gain mastery over it. Few indeed”—Fizban’s eyes gleamed—“and none who sit here!”

Silence had fallen now, a profound silence as they listened to the old mage, whose voice was strong and carried above the rising wind that was blowing the storm clouds from the sky.

“One of you would have taken the orb and used it, and you would have found that you had hurled yourself upon disaster. You would have been broken as surely as the kender broke the orb. As for hope being shattered, I tell you that hope was lost for a time, but now it has been new born—”

A sudden gust of wind caught the old mage’s hat, blowing it off his head and tossing it playfully away from him. Snarling in irritation, Fizban crawled forward to pick it up.

Just as the mage leaned over, the sun broke through the clouds. There was a blazing flash of silver, followed by a splintering, deafening crack as though the land itself had split apart.

Half-blinded by the flaring light, people blinked and gazed in fear and awe at the terrifying sight before their eyes.

The Whitestone had been split asunder.

The old magician lay sprawled at its base, his hat clutched in his hand, his other arm flung over his head in terror. Above him, piercing the rock where he had been sitting, was a long weapon made of gleaming silver. It had been thrown by the silver arm of a black man, who walked over to stand beside it. Accompanying him were three people: an elven woman dressed in leather armor, an old, white-bearded dwarf, and Elistan.

Amid the stunned silence of the crowd, the black man reached out and lifted the weapon from the splintered remains of the rock. He held it high above his head, and the silver barbed point glittered brightly in the rays of the midday sun.

“I am Theros Ironfeld,” the man called out in a deep voice, “and for the last month I have been forging these!” He shook the weapon in his hand. “I have taken molten silver from the well hidden deep within the heart of the Monument of the Silver Dragon. With the silver arm given me by the gods, I have forged the weapon as legend foretold. And this I bring to you—to all the people of Krynn—that we may join together and defeat the great evil that threatens to engulf us in darkness forever.

“I bring you—the Dragonlance!”

With that, Theros thrust the weapon deep into the ground. It stood, straight and shining, amid the broken pieces of the dragon orb.