Dragonlance - Anthologies 1 - The Dragons Of Krynn.pdf
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Anthologies Volume 1
THE DRAGONS OF KRYNN
Edited by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1. Seven Hymns of the DragonMichael Williams2. The Final TouchMichael and Teri Williams3. Night of Falling StarsNancy Varian Berberick4. Honor Is AllMickey Zucker Reichert5. Easy PickingsDouglas Niles6. A Dragon to the CoreRoger E. Moore7. Dragon BreathNick O'Donohoe8. Fool's GoldJeff Grubb9. Scourge of the Wicked KendragonJanet Pack10. And Baby Makes ThreeAmy Stout 11. The First Dragonarmy Bridging CompanyDon Perrin12. The Middle of NowhereDan Harnden13. Kaz and the Dragon's ChildrenRichard A. Knaak14. Into the LightLinda P. Baker15. The BestMargaret Weis16. The HuntKevin Stein
SEVEN HYMNS OF THE DRAGONMichael WilliamsI. Approaches
In the burning housein a scattered countryyou will see us risingthe shadow of wingscrossing your sunlightobscuring the moonas the red sky blossomsin fire and confusion.
Do not say you awaitedthe flight and the shadowthe first incandescenceof your villages:O do not say you expectedthis fire, this turning,the breath of the coming yearas it passesabove you and through you,bearing no promiseno memory of grief and effacement.
Do not tell your childrenthat you understoodthe explosion of air and light,the last implausible burningafter the wingshad passed above you,the red wind explodinglike fire in dry thistle.They must not remember us,so that when we returnour price is exactedfrom copper to diamond,and above your countrythe thorn trees spreadover collapsing timeas the past and the futureclose into single flame.
In the heart of the lairlies the fortunate substance:lost in the incandescence of sapphire,drowned in an attar of violets.In the heart of the lairin forgotten cloisters of granite
down where a second darknesscovers the light carnelian,there in our midst, we imagine,lie the stones of redemptionwhere we have relinquished themto a light so brilliantthat after the days of sunand the stars' corona,the memory marks the eyein its changed interiorwhere the color of light invertsyellow remembered as violetgreen as the red of the blood unveiledas the blood we have spilledover hearts and stonesas the last of the light assembleshard upon what we imaginehere in the marshes,on wing in the earlyand the blackening swampwhere the heart of the lairis fixed and holyspeaking forever of miraclesbecause we remember it so.
III. The Language of Dragons
The language of dragonsis the sleep of magic.Hard as agateslick as quicksilvercold barometerof the brazen heartand the destined wing.Out of the countrytwinned and murderousin a spring of starslet the word bind the bodyto the wind of the sensesbind the invisiblenerve of the airbind and loosejess and unfetterthe blank and awaiting countryhere in a season of hawksand O may the wordupon word engenderpast fear and sleep may it ridelimning the imaginedlife of the planetsGilean and Sirrionbook and flame
here at the Alchemist's Gatewhere the sound of our singingassembles, dissembles,weaving a veil over nothing.
IV. Hymn of the Lair
The lair is the plan of the body,the yearning of bloodin expectant country,as over the desertthe lightning stalksin the promise of promises.The lair is a whisper of stars,is the way we rememberthe lapsed constellations,forgetting the passage of yearsas inclement timeshrinks to arrangementsof pearls in the darkof our summoned caverns.
Let it never be saidthat the country of dragonsis barren, is settled with specters,now when the tangibleglitters around us,the eggs hard as pearls,the smell of acanthus,the watery shiftof blue upon blue,the arrangement of stars before us.
Now our heritagerests in old vintageswine of the darkwine of the maplewine of the caneat the edge of the prospects,and all of our childrenharbored in stone,in a pure and invulnerable light.O let them rise from that lighton a blue and immaculate wing,let the violent sunbe their rising and falling,and let them rememberpast desert, past darkpast all definitionsof star and lightning,let them rememberthis place where the mind
bows down to the heart,where the blood gives overinto the veinsof forgotten metals,where the seed of the fathercarries the pattern of stars,where the last of the words is remember.
He is the one we rememberthe word for the childrenthe light of the bloodin its native seasonthe hard incandescence of rubies.
Alive in the heartof the wheeling planetshe is sun and nebulathe tipped and generous cupof the trining moons.
And O we rememberthat somewhere in rumor, beyondthe cramped articulate countrywhere the visions of starsopen to breath and belief,
where faith is the evidenceand all constellationsconverge on a stilland joyous center,there in the reconciled bays,
in the last home of watersthe millennium of firewhere the earth perpetualblossoms the trust of the airin the sunlight of memory,there where the visionand heart reconcilewith the high mathematicsof judgment and logic,he is there and beyond there
free of arrangementof reason and passionwhere the scent of rosemaryharbors his presenceand the light glints over the sun.
VI. The Journey
Blood of the sunand the lone hawk turningspiraling under megold upon goldblood of the sunthrough nine generationsof fire and clouduntil the mined veinof heaven opensand gold upon goldis the country beneath megold upon gold its story.
I turn above cloudsabove the tipped cupsof the moons' penurywhere only the sunis behind me, only the lightrefracted through gold upon goldas I dive through the eonsand the sunlight fracturesin the blood of my wings.
From immutable distancethe story of menis a cry in the sunthe faint wing's rustle,the song of the skyis bright, indecipherable,imagined in prayer,in the breath of the mortals,the long, effacing sighof the elf,encoded in timeand the first of the seasonalways returningunder my wing.
The blood of the sunin a steady lightglitters abovelamentations of earthand the vein of heavenopens in song,the first of the hymns,the hymn you will alwaysand always remember,the first of the breath of the light.
VII. The Dreams of Dragons
House of the whirlpoolmonth of the drowned roseWe in the absenceof light rememberthe turn of winterthe chromatic dazzle of wingshere in the prisonof sleep and forgetfulnessamber of winterrefracted countrythe lady rememberedin the altered veins of the throat
Month of the rainsmonth of the secret waterUnder the lightthe lapse of memoryrises to soundto the lost blood callingto the loud gate of knivesand the world's entryparabola of the hawkas the sun descends.O let the lady rise in fireas the last sky burns to nothing.
The Final TouchMichael and Teri Williams
Mort the gardener's broad hand rested lightly on the cottage door.The old board warmed pleasantly under his creased palm, and Mort looked into the faded heart ofthe ancient tree that the door had once been. The green world held few secrets that Mort could notsee through his fingers- this tree had fallen in the Cataclysm, and its memories had slowly fadedfrom every growth ring but the last.Mort closed his eyes and removed his hand. He recovered his smile by remembering why he'dcome-it was L'Indasha's birthday. And just in time, for Robert caught sight of him through thewindow and swung open the heavy door."Mort! Welcome! Come in from the cold. Have something to drink. It's been too long again!"Robert boomed.It was true.He had not seen his friends since the middle of last year-neither the druidess nor her husband. Nowthe early snows had fallen in Taman Busuk, and the seasonal birds had deserted the high country asthe first autumn of peace returned to the Khalkist Mountains.A little snow had descended on L'Indasha as well, Mort thought, smiling wider. He looked pastRobert to see her framed in firelight, frowning as she inspected a small, decorated bucket, the firstslight frosting of silver in her auburn hair.As the seasons and years passed, she was settling gradually into age. Someone else had taken overher long secret watch in the Khalkists, and L'Indasha's immortality had been transferred to hersuccessor.L'Indasha rose and hugged Mort as he spoke his birthday blessing. She smelled of sunlight andfresh herbs and falling water."Oh, Mort! It's good to see you!" she exclaimed. "I was just trying to figure out why my augury
bucket formed no ice last night. It happens every so often, and somehow always on the coldest nightof the year. Why, the water was still warm when I brought... "Suddenly, fiercely, she hugged Mort again."But this is no night for complaint!" she said with a laugh. "My friend is here, and we've things tocelebrate. "Robert brought Mort a cup of brandied coffee and said, "You're just in time for a tale. L'Indasha isabout to tell me the story of the dragons.... ""When the wars began and Nidus burned?" Mort asked, setting a small parcel safely at the far edgeof the hearth."Much earlier. When the Dark Queen's minions first returned to the continent and pillaged the nestsof their noble cousins, " L'Indasha explained. "We know too well the story of the War of the Lance.But this is different, a smaller tale. A story to tell on a birthday. "She grinned, relishing her first birthday in thirty centuries.The druidess began the story, and the gardener settled into the chair beside her, sipping his drink.He reached for the small decorative bucket and ran his hands over its burnished slats, his fingersfinding places that seemed to have been chewed or gnawed at.Mort's eyes widened slowly as he felt the magical grain of the wood. This was still a powerfulaugury vessel; its wood-hallowed memories were clear and breathtakingly alive. Touching it, hesaw the very pictures of the words the drui