Dragons of the Highlord Skies

1 The Oracle of Takhisis. Kit Gives an Ultimatum

The winter deepened on Ansalon. Yule came and went. The hunt for Kitiara continued, though it was half-hearted. Ariakas did not send his troops out after her. He did send assassins and bounty hunters, but they were ordered to conduct their search circumspectly. After a time, it seemed they forgot about her. No longer were bounty hunters handing steel coins about, asking if anyone had seen a warrior woman with black curly hair and a crooked smile.

Kitiara did not know it, but Ariakas had called off the hounds. He was starting to regret the entire incident. He realized he’d made a mistake with regard to Kit. He began to believe in her claimed innocence. He tried to place the blame for his belief that Kit had betrayed him on Iolanthe. She cleverly shifted it to the elf wizard, Feal-Thas. The elf had proven to be a vast disappointment to Ariakas, who had never expected much from Feal-Thas in the first place, for word came that the blasted elf had gotten himself killed and Ice Wall Castle had fallen.

At least the knight, Derek Crownguard, had fallen victim to Ariakas’s scheming. He had taken the dragon orb back to Solamnia, and Ariakas’s spies reported that contention over the orb had caused a rift between elves and humans and was further demoralizing the knighthood.

Ariakas wanted Kit back. He was finally ready to launch the war in Solamnia and he needed her expertise, her leadership skills, her courage. But she was nowhere to be found.

Queen Takhisis could have informed Ariakas of Kit’s whereabouts, for Her Dark Majesty was keeping a close watch on the Blue Lady. But Takhisis chose to keep Ariakas in ignorance. Ariakas might have welcomed Lord Soth’s entry into the war, but he would not be pleased to see a Soth/Kitiara alliance. Kit already had an army behind her, an army loyal to her. She commanded a wing of blue dragons, also extremely loyal to her. Add to this a powerful death knight and his forces, and Ariakas would start to feel the Crown of Power resting uneasily on his head. He might try to stop Kitiara from going to Dargaard Keep, and Takhisis could not allow this.

The bounty hunters were a nuisance to Kit, though never a danger. None recognized her in her guise as a high-ranking spiritor, and no one bothered her. She even had an enjoyable conversation with a bounty hunter, giving him a description of herself and sending him on a long and fruitless search. When she took the road leading to Nightlund, pursuit ended. None would follow her into that accursed land.

Her journey was long and wearisome, giving Kitiara plenty of time to think about her confrontation with Lord Soth. She required a plan of attack. Kit never went into any battle unprepared. She needed information about exactly what sort of enemy she faced—solid information, not legend, myth, granny stories, kender tales, or bard’s songs. Unfortunately, such information was difficult to come by. Of those who had encountered Lord Soth, none had come back to tell of it.

All she had was the information Iolanthe had provided following their brief and eventful encounter in the Temple in Neraka. Kit wished she’d taken more time to listen to the witch, asked her more questions. But then, she’d been fleeing for her life. Not the right moment for chit-chat. Kit went over everything Iolanthe had said, mulled over it all, hoping to devise a strategy. All the stories agreed on certain points: an army of undead warriors, three heart-stopping banshees, and a death knight who could kill her with a single word. So far as Kit could see, developing a strategy for this encounter was rather like developing a strategy for committing suicide. The only question was how to die as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Kit had the bracelet Iolanthe had given her. Iolanthe had instructed her in its use, but Kit wanted to know all there was to know about this bracelet. Not that she didn’t trust Iolanthe. The witch had saved her life.

It was just that Kit did not trust Iolanthe. She took the bracelet to a mageware shop.

The owner—a Red Robe wizard, as most tended to be, since they had to deal in black, red, and white magic—latched onto the bracelet and was loathe to let it go. His eyes lit up at the sight of it; his mouth watered. He stroked and caressed it. His voice grew husky as he spoke of it. The bracelet was very rare, he told her, and very valuable. He knew of such bracelets only by reputation. He’d never seen one before. He mumbled magic over it, and the bracelet did prove to be magical. Though he wouldn’t swear by his god the bracelet would do what Iolanthe had promised—protect Kit from magic-induced fear and magical attacks—he thought it likely the bracelet would perform as required. Finally, holding the bracelet lovingly in his hand, he offered her the pick of any object in his shop in exchange. When she refused, he offered her his shop.

Kit eventually pried her bracelet from the man’s hands and left. The Red Robe followed her down the street, begging and pleading. She had to spur her horse into a gallop to get away from him. Kit had been rather careless with the bracelet, stuffing it into a sack and not thinking much about it. From then on, she treated it with more care, checking frequently to make certain she still had it in her possession. The bracelet did not make Kit feel easier in her mind about her upcoming encounter with the death knight, however. Quite the opposite. Iolanthe would not have given Kit a gift this precious unless certain Kit would need it.

That was very disheartening.

Kitiara decided she would do something she’d never done in her life—seek the help of a god. Queen Takhisis was the one responsible for sending her on this mission. Hearing of an oracle not far from the border of Nightlund, Kitiara made a detour to visit the old crone to request Her Dark Majesty’s aid.

The oracle lived in a cave, and if the stench counted for anything, she was extremely powerful. The smell of body waste, incense, and boiled cabbage was enough to gag a troll. Kit walked into the cave entrance and was ready to turn around and walk right back out when a beggarly youngster, so filthy it was impossible to say if it was a he or a she, seized hold of her and dragged her inside.

The crone had lank, ragged, yellow-white hair that straggled about her face. Her flesh hung flaccid off her bones. Her breasts beneath her worn garments sagged to her knees. Her eyes were blurred and unfocused. She sat cross-legged in front of a fire and appeared to be in some sort of stupor, for she mumbled, drooled, and rolled her head. The youngster held out a hand, demanding a donation of a steel piece if Kitiara wanted to ask a question of the Dark Queen’s oracle.

Kit was dubious, but also desperate. She handed over the steel piece. The youngster inspected it to make certain it was not counterfeit, then muttered, “It’s good, Marm,” and remained to watch the spectacle.

The crone roused herself long enough to toss a handful of powder onto the fire. The powder crackled and hissed; the flames changed color, burning green, blue, red, and white. Tendrils of black smoke coiled around the crone, who began to moan, rocking back and forth.

The smoke was noxious and made Kit’s eyes water. She could not catch her breath and she tried again to leave, but the youngster grabbed hold of her hand and ordered her to wait; the oracle was about to speak.

The crone sat up straight. She opened her eyes and they were suddenly focused and lucid. The mumbling voice was clear and strong, deep and cold and empty as death.

“‘I will pledge my loyalty and my army only to the Highlord who has the courage to spend the night with me alone in Dargaard Keep’.”

The crone collapsed back into herself, mumbling and mewling. Kitiara was annoyed. She’d spent good steel for this?

“I know about the death knight’s promise,” said Kit. “That’s why I’m going. What I need is for Her Dark Majesty to look out for me. I won’t be of any use to her if Soth slays me before I even have a chance to open my mouth. If Her Majesty would just promise me—”

The crone raised her head. She looked directly at Kitiara and said snappishly, in a querulous tone, “Don’t you know a test when you see one, you stupid chit?”

The crone sank back into her stupor, and Kitiara left as fast as she could.

A test, the oracle said. Lord Soth would be testing Kit. This might be comforting. It could mean the death knight would refrain from killing her the moment she set her foot in the door. On the other hand, it could also mean he would keep her alive just for her entertainment value. Perhaps he only killed people when he grew bored of watching them suffer.

Kit continued her journey north.

She knew she had crossed the border into Nightlund when she started seeing abandoned villages and the road on which she traveled could scarcely be termed a road anymore. Solamnia had always been known for its system of highways. Armies marched faster on roads that were in good condition. Merchants traveled farther and reached more cities. Good roads meant a strong economy. Even after the Cataclysm, when there was so much turmoil and upheaval, those in charge of the cities made highway upkeep a priority—everywhere but in Nightlund.

Many of the roads had been destroyed during the Cataclysm, sunk under water when the river flooded or shaken apart in the earthquakes. Those roads that had survived fell into disrepair, and in some parts they disappeared altogether as nature reclaimed the land. The roads Kit traveled now were overgrown with weeds, dusted with snow, and devoid of travelers. Kit went for days without seeing another living soul.

She had made good time up to this point. Now her progress was slowed. She had to ride miles out of her way to find a place to ford a river because the bridge had washed out. She had to fight her way through tall grass that came up to her horse’s flanks and was as tough as wire. Once, the road dumped her in a ravine, and another time led her straight into the side of a cliff. She would sometimes cover only a few miles in a single day, leaving herself and her horse exhausted. She also had to spend time hunting for food, for the only inns and farm houses she came across were long-since abandoned.

Kit had not used a bow and arrow since she was young, and she was a clumsy shot at best. Hunger sharpened her skills, however, and she managed to bring down the occasional deer. But then she had to butcher it and dress it, and that took more valuable time.

At this rate, she would be as old as the crone by the time she reached Dargaard Keep—if she reached it at all.

Not only did she have to deal with broken roads and impassable forests and near starvation, she had to keep constant vigilance against the outlaws who now made this part of Ansalon home. She had discarded the garb of a wealthy cleric, foreseeing that would make her a valuable target. She replaced it with the clothes she had been wearing when she escaped Neraka: her gambeson and some leather armor she had picked up along the way. She resembled a down-on-her-luck sellsword again, but even that wouldn’t save her. There were those in Nightlund who would kill her for her boots.

During the day, she rode with her hand constantly on the hilt of her sword. Once, an arrow struck her in the back. The arrow hit the armor and bounced off. She was ready to fight, but the coward who fired the arrow did not have nerve enough to confront her.

By night, she slept with one eye open, or tried to, though sometimes she would be so weary she’d sink into a deep slumber. Fortunately for Kit, the horse of Salah Kahn had been trained to keep its master safe from the assassination attempts that were a way of life in Khur. Kit was constantly jolted out of sleep by the horse’s whinny of alarm. Leaping to her feet, she had to grapple with a knife-wielding thug, or, drawing her sword, watch a shadowy shape slither off into the darkness.

Thus far, she had been lucky. She had been attacked by assailants acting alone. But the night or the day would come when a roving gang of thieves would fall upon her, and that would be the end.

“I can’t do it, Your Majesty,” Kit said one day as she was trudging through the snow, leading the horse by the reins, for the road was too rough for the beast to traverse without risking injury. “I am sorry to break my vow, but it will be broken anyway, for I will never live long enough to even see Dargaard Keep.”

Kit stumbled to a halt. She did not like to admit defeat, but she was too hungry, too tired, too cold and dispirited to keep going. She started to turn around, to head back down the road along which they had just come when Windracer gave a terrified shriek and reared up on its hind legs, hooves flailing. Kit had been holding tight to the reins, and the horse’s sudden, unexpected move nearly dragged her arm out of the socket.

Kitiara dropped the reins and grabbed her sword. The horse landed on its feet again and stood in the road, shivering and sweating, foam dripping from its mouth, its eyes rolling wildly. Kit looked and saw nothing, but she felt the horse’s terror. Then she heard hoofbeats behind her.

Kit whipped around, steel blade flashing in the sun.

An enormous jet-black horse with fiery red eyes stood blocking the road. A woman was mounted on the horse. She rode side-saddle, as did the noble gentry. She was clad in a dress of fine black velvet. The skirt fell in graceful, sweeping folds down the horse’s flank to the road. Her face was concealed by a long black diaphanous veil. She sat straight and tall, her black-gloved hands loosely holding the reins.

Kitiara dropped her sword. Quaking inside, more terrified than she had been at the thought of facing her executioner, she fell to her knees.

“Your Majesty!” she gasped fearfully. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” said Takhisis, and her voice was soft as the black velvet of her dress and as hard as the frozen ground on which Kit knelt. “I heard your ultimatum.”

Kit shivered. “Your Majesty, it wasn’t—”

“Of course it was. What you are saying is that if I want you to go to Dargaard Keep, I should find some means of getting you there in a timely manner.”

And alive, Kitiara thought, but she did not dare say that.

She risked sneaking a look from beneath her long lashes, but she could see nothing of the woman’s features hidden beneath the veil.

“If you command me, Your Majesty,” Kit said humbly, “I will keep going… as far as I can…”

Takhisis tapped her gloved hands in irritation. She sat straight in the saddle, turned this way and that, taking in the forest and the wretched excuse for a road.

“I give you credit,” Takhisis said. “You have done well to come this far. I knew this place was a mess, but I didn’t know how bad it was.”

She turned her veiled face to Kit. “I will help you one more time, Blue Lady, but that will be the last.”

The Dark Queen lifted a gloved hand to point skyward.

Kitiara looked up and gave a glad cry. Skie came into view, flying slowly overhead, his head down, searching this way and that. Kitiara shouted his name and leapt to her feet, waving her arms. Either the dragon heard her or he heard his Queen’s command, for he shifted his gaze, spotted her, and began spiraling downward.

Kitiara looked back to Takhisis. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I will not fail you.”

“If you do, it will not matter, will it? You will be dead,” Takhisis replied. “I suppose I will have to return Salah Kahn’s horse. I’ll never hear the end of it otherwise.”

She took graceful hold of Windracer’s reins and rode off down the road, leading the terrified steed behind her. When the goddess had disappeared into the darkness of the woods, Kitiara had a joyous reunion with Skie.

She was so glad to see the dragon, she felt strongly inclined to fling her arms around his neck and hug him, but she knew Skie would be deeply offended and likely never forgive her. She began by apologizing to the dragon, admitting that Skie had been right, her foolish search for the half-elf had landed her in trouble, nearly gotten her killed. Skie did not say “I told you so,” but instead he magnanimously apologized in turn, saying he was wrong to have deserted her.

After that, he informed her that she was back in Ariakas’s good graces. Ariakas had asked Skie—almost begged him—to go searching for her. This bit of news caused Kit to smile wryly, particularly when she learned that Feal-Thas was dead and the Solamnic knights were stirring up trouble.

Ariakas had an important assignment for Kitiara in Flotsam. The emperor also wanted her to begin planning for an attack on the High Clerist’s Tower.

“Now he decides that!” Kit fumed. “Now, after the knights are talking of sending troops to reinforce the tower. And if Solamnia is suddenly so important, why does he talk of sending me to Flotsam, to the other side of the continent on some secret mission? Bah! The man is losing his grip!”

Skie flicked his tail in agreement and dropped down on his belly so that Kitiara could climb up on his back. Skie had brought with him the blue armor and helm of a Dragon Highlord, given to him by Ariakas on the off-chance that Skie should find her. Kitiara put on her armor with relish. She felt herself vindicated. She placed the helm on her head and vowed that Ariakas would one day come to regret his treatment of her. She was not yet strong enough to challenge him. That day would come, however, maybe sooner than later if she succeeded at Dargaard Keep. Clad once more in her armor, Kitiara felt strong enough for anything, even a death knight.

His Blue Lady restored to him, the dragon was also in excellent humor. His blue scales rippled and he dug his claws into the ground, ready to take off.

“Where do we go?” he asked. “Solamnia or Flotsam?”

Kitiara sucked in a deep breath. This was going to be difficult.

“Her Majesty didn’t tell you?” she hedged.

“Who? Tell me what?” Skie swiveled his head around, suddenly suspicious.

“We fly north,” Kit said. “To Dargaard Keep.”

Skie stared at her, then said flatly, “You’re joking.”

“No,” said Kitiara calmly. “I’m not.”

“Then you’re crazy!” the dragon snarled. “If you think I’m going to fly you to your death—”

“I promised Queen Takhisis I would undertake this,” Kitiara said. “What did you think I was doing here in Nightlund anyway?”

“Traipsing after the half-elf maybe. How in the Abyss should I know?” Skie flared.

“Trust me, I have forgotten all about Tanis Half-elven,” Kitiara assured the dragon. “I’ve had more important things on my mind, such as trying to figure out some way to live through this encounter.”

She explained the vow she had made to Queen Takhisis.

“You know our Queen,” Kit added. “I can’t back out now. It would be as much as my life was worth.”

Skie did know Takhisis, and he had to admit facing Takhisis in her wrath was something the mightiest dragon would go out of his way to avoid. Still he didn’t like Kit’s plan and he let her know it.

“I cannot believe you were going to go without me!” Skie boomed. “As it is, with me along, you have at least a chance of surviving. I will blast the keep into rubble, bring it down on top of him. The death knight can’t be killed, but I can at least weaken him, give him something to think about, like crawling out from several tons of rock.”

Kitiara wrapped her arms around the dragon’s neck, gripped him tightly, and ordered him to take off.

His idea was good. She didn’t want to tell him it wasn’t going to work.

2 A Night at Dargaard Keep

Skie flew over the forests and swamps, rivers and hills, ruined dwellings, broken roads, predators and outlaws of Nightlund, accomplishing safely in hours what would have cost Kitiara days of hard work and danger. They came within sight of Dargaard Keep late on the afternoon of the second day.

The keep was built high upon a cliff, most of it carved from the cliff’s peak. The only way to reach the keep was by climbing up a road that wound around and around the cliff face. Kit might have considered this path, but one look at the road made her thankful she had Skie. The road was split and cracked and in some places huge chunks had fallen off, gone sliding down the mountainside. What remained was strewn with rock and boulders and rubble from the ruined keep.

The beauty of Dargaard Keep itself had once been legendary. It had been built to resemble a rose half-open, blooming, full of promise. Now the rose was shattered, the petals blackened and ugly. The gardens, once green and flourishing, were home to malignant weeds. The only rose growing inside the crumbling garden walls bore a flower of hideous black hue, its thorns deadly to the touch.

Skie slowed his flight. The dragon feared little on Ansalon, yet he did not like the look or the feel of this place. “Should I go on?”

“Yes,” said Kitiara, and she had to repeat herself, for, the first time, the word stuck in her throat.

No sun shone on Dargaard Keep, which languished always in the shadow of the gods’ anger. The moment Kit and Skie flew above the outer wall, the sunlight vanished. The sun still shone, but it was a fiery orb burning in a black sky, and it shed no light on Dargaard Keep. The undead standing on the walls would see, far off in the distance, the sunlit world, a green and growing world, a world of life and warmth, a world lost forever to those trapped within the curse of Dargaard Keep.

The sudden, terrible thought occurred to Kit that she might herself become one of those lost souls. Her undead spirit might be forced to join those warriors held in thrall to Lord Soth. Kitiara shuddered and shoved that thought hurriedly out of her mind.

She looked down over the dragon’s wings. Below, the keep was dark and deserted. No light shone from the broken windows, yet Kitiara had a sudden vision of flames blazing, bursting through the roof, ascending heavenward in a spiraling whirlwind of ash and cinders. She smelled smoke and the stench of burning flesh, and she heard a baby screaming in agony on a single, high-pitched note, screaming on and on until the scream died, horribly, away. Kitiara’s throat tightened, her stomach clenched, a muscle in her thigh spasmed. She felt a tremor shake the dragon’s body.

“An accursed house,” said Skie, his voice harsh and strained. “The living have no place here.”

Kitiara agreed whole-heartedly. She had never known fear like this; she was literally sick with terror and she had yet to put her foot inside the gate! Her stomach roiled. A horrid taste, like blood, caused her to gag. She could not take enough air into her lungs. She clung to Skie and was ready to order him to turn back, fly away as fast as he could. Facing the Dark Queen’s fury would be better than this horror. The command rattled in Kit’s throat, coming out in a croak tinged with hot and bitter bile.

“What did you say?” Skie shouted. “Should we leave?”

Kitiara drew in a shivering breath.

“Land,” she ordered, the word squeezed out of her.

Skie shook his head and spiraled down, searching for a place to settle. The only area large enough was the courtyard located directly in front of the keep’s main gates. He had to make tight turns in a steeply banking descent. He was forced to pull in his wings at the last moment, so as not to strike them on a tower; he came down hard, skidding on the cobblestones and nearly smashing into a wall.

Kit sat motionless for long moments after the bone-jarring landing. She felt as though she were being smothered, and she took off her helm. Her dark eyes narrowed. Her jaw set. She licked her lips and tried to speak, but no words would come out. Skie understood her.

“A good idea. You dismount, my lord, and find cover. I will do the world a favor and destroy this vile place!” Skie hissed his words, lightning crackling between his teeth.

Kit slid down off the dragon’s back. She did not leave, but kept her hand on his neck, loathe to let him go.

“Be careful,” she said at last, and stood back to give him room.

Skie gave a convulsive leap off his hind legs, pushing himself upward. He had to gain altitude enough with his jump to be able to spread his wings and not clip any of the stonework around him.

He cleared the keep. Spreading his wings, he prepared to circle around and blast the towers and battlements with his lightning breath. But a blast of wind, hot and seething, came roaring down from the sky and struck the dragon in the chest. He fought against it, wings flapping wildly, feet scrabbling at the air. The wind blew hard and he could make no headway against it. Then the wind picked up the dragon and began to tumble him about, pushing him away from the courtyard, carrying him away from the keep, away from the cliff, back into the sunlit world. There the wind suddenly died, dumping the disoriented dragon in a field.

Furious, Skie raised his head, his wings flapping defiantly. He knew quite well who had sent that wind, but he wasn’t going to give up. Kitiara needed him. Seeing him start to take off again, the wind came roaring out of the sky and slammed into him. The dragon groaned and dropped to the ground, stunned, insensible.

Kit watched in calm despair. She’d known Takhisis would not allow the dragon to interfere. Kit was on her own.

Flinging down her helm, Kit stood, shivering in the deserted courtyard, and looked around. She could see no one here, but eyes watched her. The keep was silent, and voices screamed, shrieked and moaned. No fire burned, and she could feel the heat of the flames.

All around her, the threat, the menace of the tormented dead throbbed and pulsed with horrid life. They wanted her, wanted to make her one of them. They meant to keep her here for all eternity. Corpses of the brave and the foolish who had come before her lay strewn about the courtyard. All had died of sheer terror, judging by the contortions of the limbs, the mouths gaping wide in screaming panic. None had made it as far as the front gate.

The fear grew inside her, relentless, grinding, wringing her and twisting her. Her legs wobbled and trembled. Her heart thudded painfully, erratically. She couldn’t catch her breath. Chill sweat trickled down her breast.

Fear… terror… A voice saying something… Iolanthe’s voice…

It will save you from dying from sheer terror… The magical bracelet. Kit had tried to put it on before she entered the courtyard, but the bracelet would not fit over her riding gloves. She had taken it off and thrust it beneath her breastplate, intending to put it on when she arrived at the keep. She had been so unnerved, however, that all thought of the bracelet had fled her mind. Now Kit fumbled for the bracelet with shaking hands, found it, seized hold of it, and clutched it tightly.

Warmth potent as dwarf spirits surged through her, easing her fears. Her racing heart slowed, her stomach stopped twisting, her bowels quit cramping. She could breathe again. She started to clamp the marvelous bracelet over her wrist.

A woman’s song sounded from within the keep. The woman sang a single note, beautiful and awful, piercing, wailing, keening. The note struck Kitiara like a steel bolt. She gasped and flinched. Her hand jerked. She dropped the bracelet and it fell, clattering, to the cobblestones.

The fear surged back, crashing over her, crushing her. Panic-stricken and desperate, she dropped to her hands and knees. She couldn’t find the bracelet in the darkness, and that was maddening because she could see clearly because of the roaring fire. She groped about for it with her bare hands. The cobblestones were covered with black, greasy soot and ash. Water ran in rivulets among the cracks and crevices. Kit drew back her wet hand and saw in horror that it wasn’t water. Her palm was smeared with blood.

The light of the fire grew brighter, and she saw her bracelet lying just out of reach. Kitiara made a frantic lunge for it. She was just about to grab the bracelet when two polished black boots stepped over it, standing on either side of it. A long, ragged-edged cape fell around the boots. A gloved hand reached down and picked up the bracelet.

Kit raised terror-stricken eyes.

A knight stood over her. Eyes of fire glowed behind the eyeslits of a bucket helm. The blaze of the burning keep reflected off steel armor. A rose emblazoned on the breastplate was cracked, charred black, and smeared with blood.

Lord Soth held the bracelet in his gloved hand. The fire in the eyeslits seemed to flicker in amusement. He lifted the bracelet up for her to see, then, as she watched, he slowly closed his hand over it. There was a snapping sound, rending metal. Soth opened his fist. Silver and onyx dust trickled from between his fingers, sparkled briefly in the firelight, and dissolved into mud on the blood-wet cobblestones.

“That’s cheating,” said Lord Soth.

He turned on his booted heel. His cape flowed around him like a ripple in the fabric of darkness. He flung wide his hands.

“You are my guest this night,” Soth added. The gates to Dargaard Keep opened.

3 Kitiara’s Fight. Lord Soth’s Vow

Kitiara crouched on her knees in the blood and stared into the open gates. Before her was a grand entry hall, dark, empty, and bright with candlelight flaring from a wrought-iron chandelier that hung from the ceiling and lay, broken and twisted, on the floor. If Kit did not stand up and walk into that hall, she would be just one more corpse lying in the courtyard. Skie would fly over Dargaard Keep tomorrow morning and see on the cobblestones her bones and her rotting flesh encased in the blue armor and horned helm of a Dragon Highlord. Skie would mourn her—he would be the only one to mourn her, yet he would find another rider. Ariakas would laugh when he heard and term her a fool who deserved her fate. Takhisis would despise her. Lord Soth would pick up her horned helm and add it to his trophies and that would be the end. Kitiara uth Matar would be forever a nobody. She would fade into obscurity and be forgotten.

“A little fear is healthy,” Gregor uth Matar had once told his daughter. “Too much fear makes you worthless in a fight. When you start to feel the terror beat in your throat, you’re hanging on to life too tight, daughter. Let go of what may come and live for what is—because that may be all you have…”

A soldier walked forth from the entry hall. He was clad in armor adorned with the rose, one of Soth’s men-at-arms. Flames consumed him as he walked, blackening his armor, blistering his skin. The flesh melted from his face, leaving a bloody skull. He held a sword in his smoldering hand. His eyes saw nothing but death… and her. He meant to slay her, if she did not kill him first, except that he himself was already dead.

Let go of what may come and live for what is…

Kitiara let go of her ambition, her hopes and dreams and plans. She let go of love and hate, and, when she had nothing left inside her, she realized that fear had let go of her.

Rising to her feet, Kit drew her sword and walked forth boldly to meet the undead warrior. Her dragon armor protected her against the heat of the flames. She yelled in defiance and struck the corpse’s blade a testing blow, judging his strength, his skill. The corpse’s strength was daunting; his counter strike almost shattered her arm. She broke off, fell back, and waited for him to attack her.

But death seemed to have robbed the dead man of his brains as well as his skill. He raised his sword over his head and brought it down on her as though he were chopping wood. Kitiara dodged, then leaped and spun, slamming her foot into his chest, knocking him over backward.

He lay floundering on his back. Kit put her foot on his chest and drove her blade into his throat between his armor and his helm. The flames disappeared. The warrior lay still. He wasn’t finished, though. She couldn’t kill what was already dead.

Hearing clanging and rattling behind her, she turned around, but not fast enough. A sword struck her on the left shoulder. Her armor saved her from a broken collarbone, but the blow was powerful enough to dent the armor the Dark Queen herself had blessed. While the undead warrior recovered from his swing, Kitiara swept her blade into his neck, severing his head. That second corpse was still falling when another came lunging at her, and she heard, behind her, the first attacker clambering to his feet.

Kitiara glanced behind her and saw the first attacker aim a thrust at her back. The one in front was surging forward. She dropped to the ground. The warrior behind her stabbed the warrior in front and both fell. Kitiara crawled out from beneath the bodies to find another warrior waiting for her, jabbing at her with a spear.

Kit rolled frantically from to one side to the other. He hit a glancing blow, and Kit gasped in pain as the spearhead sliced open a gash in her thigh. Seeing an opening, she smashed both feet into his legs, kicked them out from under him. She hacked the point off the spear, but she didn’t waste her energy “killing” him. It wouldn’t make any difference. He couldn’t die.

More undead troops came at her, so many she couldn’t begin to count them. They were jumping off the battlements, running down the stairs, trailing fire that glowed in the blades of their swords and blazed in their eyes that were empty of life but not of hatred.

Kit was wounded and exhausted. Her fear had been costly, draining her of strength, and she had to keep fighting. She risked another glance behind. The gates to Dargaard Keep stood wide open. The great hall, lit by candlelight, was empty. No warriors were inside the keep, not since the one had come forth to do battle. The undead soldiers were massing in front of her. If she could win her way inside the keep, make it through the gates alive…

Drawing her boot knife, she stabbed one warrior in the midriff, below his breastplate, and took a step backward. She drove her sword through the eyeslits of another’s helm and kept moving backward.

She had to keep the warriors from flanking her, crowding around behind her, coming between her and the open gate. She thrust her sword between the legs of a warrior and brought it upward, tearing into his crotch. He toppled forward, and Kitiara moved another step closer to the gate.

A blow knocked off one of her bracers. Blood oozed from a deep wound in her left forearm and more blood trailed down her thigh. Another blow struck her on the head and the flames wavered and swam in her vision. But she fought against the bursting pain and blinked her eyes until they focused and kept fighting. And she kept moving backward.

Her breath came in gasps. Her arms ached. Her sword was unbelievably heavy. The hand holding the dagger grew slippery with her own blood. When she lashed out with the dagger at a foe, the knife flew from her hand. She made a desperate grab for it, but booted feet trampled it and she had to let it go.

A sword thrust into her side. Her armor saved her from death, but the blow damaged her ribs and made every movement, every breath, splintered pain. She kept moving backward, kept swinging her sword, kept ducking and dodging. In front of her, the warriors jammed together, fighting without reason or skill, hitting each other as often as they hit her. What did it matter? They died, fell, and rose to fight again.

Candlelight streamed out from behind her. She had reached the gate. Wooden doors banded with iron stood open. Above her gleamed the wicked teeth of a portcullis.

Kit drew in a breath and gave a strangled shout of fury and defiance and launched a last, frenzied attack. Slashing and hacking at them with her sword, she drove back the warriors, sent them tumbling and falling over one another, then she turned tail and ran with her last remaining strength through the gate.

A thick rope attached to a mechanism held the portcullis in place. Hoping time and fire had weakened the stout rope, Kit swung her sword, tried to sever it. The rope parted, but did not break. She gritted her teeth. The sweat rolled down her face, half blinding her. She drew in a breath. Pain lacerated her. The warriors were coming after her. She could feel the heat of the flesh—consuming flames wash over her. She took another swing. The rope snapped. The portcullis came thundering down, smashing some of the warriors beneath its sharp points.

The warriors vanished. Disappeared. The fight was over for them. They returned to their bitter darkness to keep endless watch, mount eternal guard.

The clamor of battle ceased and all was, for the moment, silent; blessedly silent.

Kitiara groaned. The pain was like a red-hot knife inside her. She doubled over, pressing her hand against her side. Tears wrung from agony stung her eyes. She whimpered, then clamped her teeth on her cries. Biting her lips until the blood ran, she waited for the pain to wash over her and ease.

Someone started to sing. The voice was a whisper at first, but it raised the hair on her head and sent a shudder through her. Kitiara opened her eyes and looked wildly about.

Three elf women came floating toward her, moving as if on hot air currents rising from unseen flames. Their mouths were open, their hands outstretched, and Kitiara realized in despair that she had escaped one enemy only to be trapped by another. She had already experienced the debilitating effects of a single note of their lethal song.

That song would strengthen, grow more powerful. The hideous notes would swell around her in shattering anguish, lamentation, and grief so poignant and piercing it could literally stop the heart.

The elf women came nearer, their long hair floating around them in tendrils, their white robes burned and blackened, their bodies trembling with the wailing song.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, pale complexion, slanted eyes, pointed ears… elves… elf maidens…

Laurana…

“Elf bitch!” Kitiara cried savagely. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll kill you!”

Heedless of the pain, screaming curses, she swung her sword at the elf maid in great, huge, furious, slashing arcs, back and forth, slicing and stabbing.

Laurana disappeared. Kit sliced at nothing but air.

She lowered her sword and stood panting and sweating, hurting and bleeding in the entry hall. Raising her blood-dimmed gaze, she saw at her feet an enormous, wrought-iron chandelier. Though it had fallen down centuries ago, the candles in it still burned. A pool of blood, still fresh—always horribly fresh, fresh as memory—lay beneath the twisted metal.

Beyond the chandelier was a throne. The death knight, Lord Soth, sat there watching her. He had been watching her the entire time. The eyes in the slits of the helm burned steadily, reflecting the flames that had died three hundred years ago. He did not move. He waited to see what she would do next.

Kitiara’s left arm was drenched in blood that still oozed from the wound. The fingers of that hand had gone numb. Her breath came in wrenching, painful gasps. The slightest movement sent pain lancing through her. She had wrenched her knee; she only noticed that now. Her head ached and throbbed. Her vision was blurred. She felt sick to her stomach.

Kitiara drew herself up as best she could, considering that she limped on her left leg and could not put her full weight on her right. She blinked back her tears and shook back her black curls.

Her arms shaking with fatigue, she managed through sheer effort of will to raise her sword and move awkwardly into a fighting stance. She tried to talk, but no voice came out. She coughed, tasting blood, and tried again.

“Lord Soth,” said Kitiara, “I challenge you to battle.”

The fire in the eyes flared in astonishment, then flickered. Soth shifted upon his throne, the black cape, its hem drenched in the blood of his wife and child, stirring about him.

“I could kill you without ever leaving my seat,” he said.

“You could,” Kitiara agreed, her words coming in whispering gasps, “but you won’t. For that would be cowardly. Not worthy of a Solamnic knight.”

The eyes of fire regarded her intently; then Lord Soth rose from his throne.

“You are right,” he said. “Therefore, I accept your challenge.”

Sweeping aside his cape, he drew from a blackened scabbard an immense, two-handed great sword, and circling around the fallen chandelier, he strode forward to meet her. Limping painfully, Kitiara pivoted to keep him in clear sight, holding her sword at the ready.

He was taller than she was, stronger than she was, to say nothing of the fact that he was deader than she was—though not by much. He felt no physical pain, though the gods alone knew the spiritual torment he suffered. He would never grow tried. He could fight for a hundred years, and she had maybe a couple of moments left in her. His reach was longer. She would never even get close to him, but this was what Kitiara had vowed to do, and by the Dark Queen, she was going to do it, though it would be the last thing she ever did.

Soth feinted left. Kit did not fall for it, for she saw the real attack coming. She blocked the blow, her sword clashing against his.

The chill of death and worse than death, the bitter cold of unending life, struck through her flesh to the bone. She shuddered in agony and gagged and sobbed for breath and held her ground, unmoving, blocking his blade with hers, holding him at bay with the last vestiges of her courage, for her strength had long since drained away.

Her sword shattered. The blade burst into slivers of steel. Splinters and shards of metal flared in the firelight. Kitiara staggered, almost falling.

Menacingly, Soth advanced on her. Kit reached into the dragon armor, snatched out the hidden dagger, and, shivering, trembling, she flung herself at him.

Soth caught hold of the hand holding the dagger and gave it a wrench. Kitiara’s flesh froze at his touch. She gave a soft, involuntary moan, then her teeth clamped down on her lips. She would not give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream. She waited, in silence, to die.

Lord Soth released her hand.

Kitiara clasped the wrist and gazed at him dully, so far gone she didn’t much care what happened, only that it should happen quickly.

He raised his sword, and Kitiara braced herself.

Lord Soth shifted the blade in his gloved hands. He held it out to her, hilt-first, and knelt down on one knee before her.

“My lady,” he said. “Accept my service.”

Kitiara stared at the sword. She stared at him. She smiled her crooked smile, then she collapsed in a heap on the floor, one hand crumpled under her, the other outstretched, fingertips touching the pool of blood beneath the chandelier.

Soth drew off the black cape and laid it over Kitiara, covering her to keep off the chill of night. In the morning, he would summon her dragon and see her safely on her way to her destiny. In the meantime, he would guard her sleep.

That night, for the first night since his downfall, Lord Soth forbade the elf women to sing to him the song of his crimes, lest they wake Kitiara.

4 Finis

“That ends our tale for today,” said Lillith Hallmark.

She had held her audience spellbound as she related the story of the momentous events that had taken place during the winter of 351 AC. She had spoken very calmly and quietly of the death of the two knights, Brian Donner and Aran Tallbow, and she had reminded her listeners that they could see the monument erected in their memories in the Hall of the Knights on Sancrist Isle. The Aesthetics who had gathered to listen to her had exchanged sorrowful glances. Lillith had never married, and all knew that her heart was buried in the tomb with Brian Donner.

The people were reluctant to leave, however, and many wanted to know what happened next. “I’ll tell just a little more,” said Lillith, smiling. “After leaving the chamber where the two knights had died, the Heroes of the Lance—Laurana, Sturm, Flint, Tasslehoff, Gilthanas, Elistan—joined with Sir Derek Crownguard and fought alongside the warriors of the Ice Folk to defeat the armies of Feal-Thas and drive them from Ice Wall Castle,” Lillith told them. “Their mission accomplished, they left Icereach, taking with them the dragon orb and another artifact they found in the castle, one that turned out to be of far greater value. They also took with them the bodies of Aran Tallbow and Brian Donner to be buried as heroes in their homeland. What happened to the Heroes there is chronicled in the book Dragons of Winter Night.

“Many years have passed since that fateful day, and the song of their adventures in Icereach is still sung on a long winter’s night by Raggart the Younger. One of the tribe’s most honored possessions is Laurana’s frostreaver, which she gave to Harald before she left, fearing it would melt if she took it with her. The frostreaver stands always in a place of honor in the chieftent.

“Following the departure of the Companions, Harald pursued the war against the dragonarmies. He brought together the other tribes of the Ice Folk, and they attacked Sleet with such ferocity they drove her from her lair. The Ice Folk occupied Ice Wall Castle and held it. Harald’s task was made somewhat easier by the fact that Ariakas could not find anyone willing to take the place of Feal-Thas. Ariakas decided he did not care much about this unprofitable region of Ansalon anyway, so after a half-hearted attempt to retake Ice Wall Castle that ended in disaster, Ariakas pulled his forces out of Icereach, leaving it to the white bears and the nomads and the wolves.

“As for Kitiara, her continuing adventures can also be found in Dragons of Winter Night. Suffice it to say here, she and Tanis would meet again. Their liaison would have unforeseen consequences for both of them, for their companions, and for final victory in the War of the Lance.”

Her story for the day finished, Lillith rose to her feet. “Thank you, friends, for coming today and learning a portion of the history of Ansalon. In our next session, we will pick up the story of Kitiara’s half-brother, Raistlin Majere, who made a momentous decision right here in the Great Library. His tale is called Dragons of the Hourglass Mage. We, the Aesthetics of Gilean, hope you will return to share this with us.”