KINDRED

a Tale of the Fifth Age of Krynn

by Jean Rabe

"SC 2:
     In the second year after the Second Cataclysm, we began to rebuild Ansalon. Pilgrims and priests continued to seek after their gods in vain. Magic was like a dim memory. The Misty Islewas laid waste, and a new terror appeared in our midst…"
     
     From the Chronicles of Nathal, compiled in SC 31.
     
     “It has been quiet.”
     The creature stood on a peak overlooking Palanthas. “Much too quiet.”
     It looked vaguely like a man, tall and thin, but it was solid black as if it were an upright shadow. Its red eyes peered down at the city, staring at the battered buildings and the people who shuffled between them. 
     “But the quiet will not last,” it hissed. “I will not let it.”
     The creature shifted its shape with those words, taking on a pale, practically colorless tint, swirling wisps of fog coalesced into a manlike form. “I will give them another war. A terrible, frightening, devastating war. They will not recover from this one.”
     The War of the Lance ended three decades ago and was now a legend gathering songs and dust. It was a battle that made heroes and brought the races of Ansalon together.
     The Chaos War that birthed the creature was but two years ago. In the heat of the struggle, deep in the Abyss, the Chaos god shattered a sun. From the flaming fragments of rock that resulted he formed the creature and its evil brethren — agents of Chaos, daemon warriors held together by peoples’ worst nightmares.
     Most of the daemon warriors had died in the battle — the battle in which the people of Ansalon were eventually triumphant. Still, it had been devastating to all the inhabitants of Krynn.
     Had been, the daemon warrior emphasized as it grew foggy claws and a snakelike tail that whipped about its now-transparent ankles. It hadn’t taken the  people long to lick their wounds and begin their recovery. They mourned the many heroes who died in the Chaos War, and they honored the pitiful Knights of Solamnia and the Knights of Takhisis who fought side by side against the giant form Chaos had assumed.
     No one mourned for Chaos and his shape-shifting children. Indeed, the people of Ansalon rejoiced at their passing. No one mourned — except the creature who glowered at Palanthas and plotted revenge.
     When everything settled after the war and the wounded were separated from the dead, the humans, elves, dwarves, kender, and gnomes came to realize that all the gods had abandoned  Krynn — abandoned them. Still, they would not give in; still they went on pilgrimage, seeking to find and contact their gods. And it was futile.
     They grudgingly conceded that magic was gone from their world, that even the simplest of spells could no longer be cast.
     Despite it all, they were healing.
     They were getting on with their lives in what they were beginning to call “the Age of Mortals.”
     “They are all so…” the warrior searched for a word, then inhaled sharply. “Complacent. Unprepared for the slaughter to come.”
     The daemon warrior’s hollow eyes turned toward the expansive Palanthas harbor. A soft breeze sent ripples across the bay. The sun was beginning to set and was coating the water with a fiery orange glow that reminded the creature of smouldering embers — like the bits of the broken sun that birthed it.
     “The fire is coming,” the creature whispered.
     Down on the docks the fishermen were unloading the day’s catch — crates and nets filled with quipper and sea bass. The men were joking, discussing how they’d spend their wages and what they would do this evening. Normal lives. Somewhere behind them the delicate sounds of a flute spilled from the open window of an inn. A woman’s soft laughter and a child’s squeals of delight competed with the melody. Venison stew was cooking nearby. The scent hung tantalizing in the air. Healing. 
     “Yes, the fire is coming. And the feast is about to begin.”
     
     *              *              *
     
     Slick black nostrils quivered and sniffed as they poked out from beneath the leafy curtain of a massive weeping willow.
     Deer.
     The early evening breeze was blowing toward the hunter, cloaking his own scent but revealing the presence of his succulent quarry. A small herd was nearby, and he licked his glossy black lips in anticipation. His scaly midnight head edged past the willow curtain, and his large round eyes peered through the foliage beyond. Just above the top of the tall marsh grass, the dragon spied the tips of antlers. They were softly illuminated by the rays of a dying sun that hung in the sky so low before the ever-present clouds.
     Several bucks, the black dragon noted.
     He fervently hoped there were young with them.
     The black dragon craved the taste of deer. He loved it more than the flesh of men and more than the cattle the men bred and caged and that were so easy to catch. Too easy. Perhaps deer tasted better because they were harder to snare. The chase made the meal more palatable.
     The black dragon loved young deer most of all. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to fill his considerable belly with a few small savory does and delectable fawns. The dragon was relatively young himself, as far as dragons go. He wasn’t yet so large that he needed to feast on the entire herd. Besides, he knew if he ate all of them now there would be none for tomorrow.
     Tucking his wings close to his body, he slunk forward like a cat, his claws pulling him almost soundlessly across the damp ground. Rain splashed lightly over his scales. It was always raining here.
     Only the dragon’s horns stuck above the rangy grass as he crept forward. He didn’t need to see where he was going. The dragon knew the damp forests of Misty Isle intimately, every rise and fall of the land, every wonderfully fetid fen, and every moss-draped giant tree. He knew where the rocky cliffs dropped off practically straight to the sea below, and where the veil of mist that surrounded most of the island was the thickest.
     He moved closer, then he blinked. It was suddenly darker, as if the sun had vanished from the sky several minutes prematurely. But then the darkness lifted — almost as quickly as it had come — and the sun’s faint orange glow returned. The sun had edged behind a cloud, the black dragon decided.
     But the clouds were high above the sun. The sky was empty along the horizon.
     Or was it?
     He snapped his black head above the marsh grass to glance up, and in that instant the herd of deer saw him and bolted. The dragon cursed his curiosity and lunged after them. His muscular legs churned over the ground, throwing great chucks of grass and mud behind him and propelling him quickly forward.
     The dragon was nearly sixty feet long from nose to tail, and with his wings held in close to his scaly body he could move surprisingly fast. The deer scattered before the black menace, spreading wide in several directions like the fingers of a flailing, outstretched hand.
     The dragon followed a group of small does, already imagining the taste of their sweet, tender flesh. One well-aimed stream of his acid breath could fell them all, and for the briefest of moments the dragon considered belching one. But the acid would eat away at his prey, strip it of its juice and leave him less to eat. Most of all the acid would detract from the joy of the hunt, end it too soon and without much sport. He enjoyed the challenge.
     His thick legs pumped harder, carrying him closer to the panicked deer. Extending his scaly neck, his jaws jerked open and clacked closed, nearly catching one of the youngest. He could imagine the horror in the does’ tiny wide eyes, and he could smell their fear—it was so strong it was nearly palpable. He could smell something else, too, but he couldn’t quite place the scent, and he hadn’t the time to contemplate what it was. Faster, he urged himself, as his quarry cleared the marsh grass and started across a small plain. Beyond the plain stretched the oldest forest on the island. The trees there were more than a hundred feet tall and they were bigger around than the dragon. The mist hung so thick on that part of the island that it looked as if a cloud was hugging the ground. It would be easier for the deer to hide there, so the dragon knew he had to catch them before they cleared the plain and were swallowed by the mist.
     To the left and right of the plain were cliffs that dropped steeply to the sea. Sheer and rocky, they kept wingless creatures back. The deer would not run toward the cliffs, the dragon knew.
     The black’s heart pounded in his chest as he bore down on a small doe, the slowest of the lot. His jaws closed about her and swiftly ended her life. He had not intended to be merciful, he was merely hungry. The black practically swallowed her whole, allowing himself only a few bites of her soft flesh before renewing his charge after the others. 
     The rest of the fleeing does bounded farther across the plain, racing closer toward the giant trees. The dragon mused that they looked like dancing charcoal silhouettes against the little slice of sun that was left. Had the dragon not been so hungry, he might have slowed his pace and appreciated the view.
     Instead, he churned his legs ever faster, extended his neck, and scooped two does into his maw. These he savored for only a few heartbeats before dashing after a fawn that stood quivering in the open, separated from the rest.
     The dragon closed the distance to the tiny morsel that was paralyzed by fright, that had eyes wide with fear. Then he shook his big head in puzzlement and stopped running. Again the sky had grown instantly darker. Ignoring the fawn for a moment, he stared to the left, past the cliffs and toward where the sun should be. His great jaw fell open in astonishment.
     Blotting out the sunset was an enormous dragon, one larger than any he had seen before. With scales colored a deep crimson, like wet blood, she hovered in the sky and returned the black’s stare.
     The red dragon’s wings were stretched out to her sides, billowed like the sails of a schooner and practically filling the sky. The black had to turn his head from side to side just to take in all of her. Her wings beat only slightly to keep her aloft, yet the breeze created by them was strong, rustling the leaves on the great trees nearby and flattening the grass on the plain. The wind washed over the black’s face and made the rain rush at him in sheets.
     Her glistening ivory horns rose tall and gently curving from atop her massive ridged head. Her amber eyes were unblinking orbs that practically glowed and held him mesmerized. Steam curled upward from her cavernous nostrils and disappeared somewhere overhead.
     The creature was at once beautiful and terrifying, and — the fawn forgotten — the black dragon rose on his hind legs. He wanted to meet this immense red. Had to meet her and talk to her. The red must be centuries upon centuries old to be so huge, the black realized. She was easily more than four hundred feet long.
     She is as large as Takhisis was, he thought, perhaps even larger.
     Takhisis?
     His heart leapt.
     Perhaps the red is Takhisis — the Dark Queen of the evil dragons — returned to Krynn to lead her scaly children!
     The black knew if any of the gods were to return it would be Takhisis.
     He breathed a stream of acid into the air in tribute, and the great red glided forward. She was no longer blocking the sun, and the black could see her better, though he had to continue to crane his neck this way and that to see all of her. The dying fiery rays touched her scales and made them glimmer like flickering flames, made her look as if she were a massive bonfire brought to life. The triangular ridge of scales that ran along her back looked like a mountain range, the black mused, and her claws gleamed dully and impressively.
     To have claws so grand! he thought as he edged forward. She has to be Takhisis. Only a god could be so huge.
     He reverently bowed his head as her claws touched the plain. The ground trembled from her weight, and the black squinted as mud showered all about him, thrown everywhere by the draft from her wings.
     He wondered how to address her. Should he praise her immediately? Should he ask how he could serve her? Should he…
     The black’s thoughts were cut off as a gout of flame arced through the sky above him, fanning out to touch the forests on both sides of the plain. The searing heat of the red’s fire breath was intense and painful, and he heard the snap and crackle of the trees to his right and left that had caught fire despite the dampness of the Misty Isle and the rain. The black looked up and opened his mouth to speak, and saw a red claw stretching out toward him.
     She means to touch me! Honor me, he thought. Takhisis means to…
     The claw struck him hard, sending him flying several yards toward the old forest. The impact knocked the air from the black’s lungs. Dazed, he shook his head to clear his senses and stared at her. He was close to the fire. It was just above and behind him. The hot air and the charred wood stung his nose and made his eyes water. Steam was everywhere.
     “My queen, have I offended you?” he asked as he slunk toward her, humbled.
     The great dragon cocked her head.
     Again he bowed, and again a blood-red paw shot out.
     This time the black’s preservation instinct took over, and he tried to dodge; but the red dragon’s massive claws followed his path and raked his side. Blade sharp, they slashed through his thick dark scales and dug into the softer flesh beneath. Then a claw pinned him to the ground, and the weight of her tree-trunk leg pressed down on him and threatened to crush his ribs.
     The black dragon’s blood flowed from the wound, feeling hot and wet against his side, wetter than the rain. He cried in surprise and pain and struggled futilely beneath the weight. Through a haze of tears he looked up, his eyes locking onto hers, pleading with her, questioning.
     He tried to speak, but he could barely even breathe.
     Her immense head filled his vision, more than filled his vision as it bore down on him. And the smell of her breath was hot and sulphurous like the fire that was now raging in the old forest.
     She snarled, sounding like a hundred lions, and he watched in horror as a drop of saliva rolled over the edge of her lower lip and, hissing like steam, pooled and sizzled on the ground at his feet.
     She opened her mouth again, and her enormous tongue snaked out to touch the tip of his nose, then retreated to lick her lips.
     “No!” the black screamed. “Takhisis would not slay one of her own!” But if she is not Takhisis, he thought, who is she? Why would she attack me?
     He summoned all his strength and fought to budge the claw that held him to the ground, but he couldn’t move it, so massive was the red.
     “Please!” he cried as he gasped for air. “Please!” he called again, surprised to hear such a human word escape his jaws, but desperate that she would listen.
     The red shifted her weight, and the black seized the opportunity and lurched forward, rolling toward her and barely squeezing out from beneath her paw. He shot under her belly and ran toward the western cliff, cringing when he heard her inhale. Reaching the edge, he dove over the side, his claws scrabbling over the sheer rocky face and his wings beating to help him glide. He landed roughly on a stretch of sand at the base, and pulling himself to his feet he rushed forward into the water — just as flames arced where the crest of his back had been a heartbeat ago.
     The cool sea closed about the black, and his side stung where the salt water lapped around the gouges her claws had made. He heard a boom of thunder and glanced over his scaly shoulder.
     It wasn’t thunder. It was the flapping of the red’s wings. She was flying over the edge of the cliff and coming toward him. He swallowed hard and struggled toward deeper water, the open Courrain Ocean.
     She was so massive. Where did she come from?
     He swam out farther, still looking behind him as he went, and he saw her glide over the squat beach and enter the sea — but just a little way. She stepped in only up to her dewclaws and looked disdainfully at the water. The black breathed a sigh of relief. He was safe. Reds did not care for the water.
     But then she began beating her wings. The sound of the scaly leather flapping was incredibly loud, and the gust of wind her wings generated made the sea froth and the black dragon rock and pitch like a ship tossed by a violent storm.
     The water rose in wild, crashing waves all about him, as she beat her wings harder still. The black struggled against the unnatural current, then he gasped as she breathed fire again. Her flames struck the water near him, and the sea boiled from the incredible heat. Great billows of steam rolled off the surface in all directions, thick as a cloud, thicker than the mist that hugged Misty Isle. The black yowled in agony. He was being cooked alive!
     She continued to beat her wings, and the sea surged in a great swell. Her wings were flapping so forcefully now she was creating her own storm. The wind was whipping madly about, and the water was rushing away from the island, driven in a great wave by her onslaught.
     Within moments, the black dragon found himself in what had become a shallow tide pool. His claws scrabbled in the sand, and he tried to drag himself out where the water was deeper, where the red’s wings couldn’t beat it all away.
     Despite the pain in his side and the fear rising in his thick throat, the black rushed farther from the shore. Deeper water was close, so very close. His legs churned over the heavy, wet sand, and he increased the distance between himself and the enormous red. The blessed water was closing around him again. The sea was up to his chest now, and his claws continued to dig into the sand, urging him faster still, propelling him farther away.
     Just a little more, his mind coaxed his tired legs. Reds don’t like the water. Just a little…
     Behind him, the red dragon edged into the sea until the water lapped about her belly. Her slavering mouth shot forward, and her jagged teeth sunk into his trailing tail. She continued to beat her wings to keep the water at bay as she slowly pulled her thrashing prize back toward the shore.
     The black’s eyes were wide with terror, were like the eyes of the fawn he spotted on the plain minutes before. His heart beat frantically, hammering thunderously in his chest, and his back legs jerked spasmodically. He tried desperately to find one last purchase in the sand, something his claws could grasp and act as an anchor to keep him from her. He swiveled his head about, and summoning all his strength breathed a stream of his acid at the red. The acid splashed against the side of her head and made a sickening popping noise. Her jaws relaxed their grip, and the black launched himself toward the sea again.
     This time he was stopped by a paw that slammed down on his tail. Another slammed down on his rump, then he felt sharp teeth close over the ridge on his back, and he felt himself being lifted.
     The red carried him toward the beach and threw him harshly down on the sand. Lying in a heap, the black had little energy left. He labored to rise, and he almost succeeded, but her lengthy tailed whipped about from behind her and struck him soundly across the snout, stunning him.
     He concentrated, hoping to summon one final stream of acid — something, anything that might drive her back so he could fly above the cliff and escape into the trees of the old forest. He was so much smaller than she, perhaps he could hide among the ancient trees. He opened his maw, breathed, but only a rivulet of acid rose from his throat. It sloshed onto the sand and sizzled and popped.
     Those were the last sounds the black heard.
     The red’s jaws loomed closer, sank deep into his throat, and she began to feast.
     
     *             *             *

     The dawning sun found the shore of the Misty Isle. None of the verdant forests remained — only charred sticks that once were century-old trees and which stretched upward at twisted, odd angles through the mist and the still-falling rain. The red had destroyed everything.
     Yawning, the great dragon rose from the beach, stretched, and shook off her sleep. The meal of the big black lizard satisfied her a little last night — gave her enough energy so she could hunt the rest of the small island. She had feasted on a herd of deer she found, though they had been so small. She found a few other animals, too, and they helped ease her rumbling belly.
     But she was still hungry, ravenous — and disturbed.
     Had she imagined the black lizard talking to her? Uttering “please?” Calling her… what was the word… Takhisis?
     Had she dreamed the words?
     Or had the lizard really spoken? Had she dined on a sentient reptile?
     She glanced at the tide pool where she left the lizard’s head and a few of its rib bones. The carcass looked a little different in the morning light. She studied it, able to make out more of the details, then she shuddered.
     It wasn’t the head of a large black lizard that lay at a grotesque angle against the slope. It was the head of a black dragon.
     A young one, she thought. Very young. Too bad.
     Padding to the water’s edge, the great red glanced at the surface. Her scowling visage reflected back at her, and she noted that a few of the scales near her jaw were melted and deformed from the young black’s acid breath.
     It hadn’t put up much of a fight, she thought. Its lack of a struggle, coupled with her hunger, had contributed to the deed.
     She reached a claw up and dug the blemished scales loose. They fell on the sand with a dull thud, and she grimaced. Others would grow to take their place, and again she would look perfect, but it would take a few weeks.
     At least it was a black, an inferior dragon, she told herself. Blacks aren’t as fierce as reds, or as smart. 
     If it had been smart, it wouldn’t have waited for her on the plain, it would have slithered away and hid in the forest. It should have known to run before an obviously superior force.
     What had it meant when it called her Takhisis? What did the word mean?
     By the time the sun had reached its zenith, the great red was high in the sky and the Misty Isle was far below her. The island seemed so small.
     Like the black dragon had been so small.
     The farther she flew the more she thought, and the closer she studied the land below her. She was far from home, so delightfully far. And everything here seemed new and different.
     And appetizing. She was hungry again.
     She had capsized a three-masted ship less than a fhird her size before spotting the black and landing on the island. The red had swallowed the struggling sailors without a second thought. The men looked odd with heads that were shaped like bulls’. But they were not very filling.
     Maybe she should go back home, she considered. The food seemed more plentiful there — at least it didn’t take so much of it to fill her rumbling belly. She didn’t care for the brutish company of the other reds, but perhaps she would try to put up with it again. She could force herself. One more try. She hated this sensation of hunger.
     Raising a wing, she banked toward the east. Toward home.
     “Do not leave.”
     The red’s eyes snapped open and focused on the swirling gray image of a man that hovered in the air. She drew her wings back and hung suspended like a red cloud, and she squinted so she could see the creature better. It looked like a shadow, which shouldn’t be given the brightness of the sun and that there was nothing nearby to cast such a shadow. The man’s eyes were unblinking red dots. Not a man, she decided. But what is it? She heard the creature clearly — despite its size and its apparent lack of a mouth. In fact, its voice sounded like it was coming from inside her head.
     The red hissed. Steam rose from her nostrils, the wispy tendrils curling like pipe smoke and drifting toward the clouds overhead. Her lips twisted upward and she snarled. She could eat him, but he was so small her belly wouldn’t notice his presence. It would hardly be worth the effort of swallowing.
     “What are you?” she asked, irritated.
     “I am a daemon warrior, a creation of Chaos,” the shadow man answered. “I will have my revenge, and you are my means of achieving it.”
     The dragon stared at the shadowy image and watched as it grew horns and darkened itself to a glossy black shade, like a sheet of solid, wet slate. The creature should be begging for mercy, not playing and shifting its form and chatting with her. 
     It should be pleading for its life.
     Like the black begged last night, she thought.
     “Where are you from?” the warrior asked. His voice was gravelly and at the same time hollow sounding. “You are not from Ansalon, and you are not a creature of Chaos, like me. And you have not been here long. Someone would have noticed a dragon your size before. Heroes would have been dispatched to slay you. Where, indeed, did you come from? Are there more like you?”
     The red didn’t answer — wouldn’t answer — that particular question. Instead, she narrowed her eyes to thin slits and glowered at him. A lick of flame flickered out between her pointed teeth. This creature was annoying, and it would end up sliding down her throat anyway if it persisted.
     “Where?”
     “Where I am from is none of your concern,” the dragon finally answered.
     “But where you are going is. You must go there —” it pointed back the other way “— toward Ansalon, not away from it.”
     “Enough!” A growl sounded from deep in the dragon’s chest. She opened her mouth and fire raced out of it, cutting through the crisp morning air and forming a great ball of searing flame. The fire rushed toward him, roaring and crackling, then it parted just inches before it reached him, flowing like water around his black body and joining together again behind him.
     “I am a creature of fire. Flames cannot touch me, no matter how intense.” The daemon warrior formed glowing eyes, hot like coals. “Now listen to me. Down there is the Misty Isle, the island you slept on last night and treated as so much kindling. To the north is Kothas. It is perched on the edge of the Blood Sea of Istar.”
     The dragon glared at him, a hint of curiosity creeping across her enormous visage.
     “Kothas is not as important as the rest of the place,” the daemon warrior continued. “Neither are Mithas and Karthay. But the Dairly Plains.” The glow of the creature’s eyes softened. “There are herds of cattle to satisfy your appetite, villages ripe for terrorizing, and there are smaller dragons.”
     Did he know about the black? she wondered.
     “That is where I want you to begin.”
     “Begin what?”
     “A war against the people.”
     “I go where I want, when I want. I do what I want.”
     “You will teach them they should not have defied Chaos,” the warrior replied. “They should not have forced my father to leave.”
     “No one tells me what to do.”
     “I am telling you.” The creature’s blackness lifted, and the shadowy gray returned. “I am telling you to devastate Ansalon. To slay the humans and elves. The people will no longer be the dominant force in the land. You will — with my direction.”
     “And the dragons?”
     “The dragons are scattered. With their goddess Takhisis gone they have no leader. A few of the dragons challenge the people, but not many.”
     So Takhisis is a goddess, the red thought. The black thought me a goddess.
     The daemon warrior nodded.
     “You will lead the other dragons. I will show you how.”
     I could lead the dragons, she thought. I could rule this Ansalon. This land is ripe for conquest.
     “The Dairly Plains…” The words hissed out of her mouth like steam.
     “…is where you will start. The people on the Dairly Plains are unsuspecting. Unprepared. Kindling.”
     “There is land beyond these Dairly Plains?” the red hissed.
     “Of course,” the shadow man replied. “After you strike there, I will instruct you where next to travel. Do you have a name? I would know what to call my impressive pawn.”
     The dragon furrowed its considerable brow. “Malystryx. My name is Malystryx.”
     “Malys,” the shadow man pronounced, finding the shorter word more accommodating. Again the daemon warrior gestured toward the Dairly Plains.
     The dragon’s eyes followed the creature’s foggy fingers, then she looked up and met its hollow ruby gaze. Her paw shot out, surprisingly swift, striking the warrior. Claws raked through its shadowy image.
     Malys saw the surprise on its visage, and she felt the stinging cold on her pads as her claws tore at the form.
     The daemon warrior gasped and she brought her massive head in closer, her furnace-hot breath scalding the air about its shredded body. Again she brought up her claws, and again she cut through the creature’s quavering form, feeling the cold.
     “Fire might not harm you,” Malys hushed. “But there are other ways to slay.” Opening her maw, she edged closer still, and her teeth closed about the dying daemon warrior. It was cold at first, suffusing her body, then she was suddenly warm again. She felt its heavy body slide down her throat. She folded her great wings in close to her body, dropped through the sky, and angled herself toward the coastline of the Dairly Plains.
     I shall begin there, she thought, but on my terms. And these Dairly Plains shall be just the beginning. 

     Jean Rabe is the author of several fantasy novels for TSR. She is currently hard at work on the first novel to tell of the Fifth Age of Krynn.