Dragons of Winter Noght by Weis, Margaret

Brought down and unraveled

In the reel of the hunt perfected.

Brian the next when the sword of the wolf lord

Sent him seeking the wane lands.

All stood frozen in the wheel of razors

All stood frozen except for Laurana.

Blind in a hot light flashing the crown of the mind

Where death melts in a diving sun

She takes up the Ice Reaver

And over the boil of wolves over the slaughter

Bearing a blade of ice bearing darkness

She opened the throat of the wolf lord

And the wolves fell silent as the head collapsed.

The rest is short in the telling.

Destroying the eggs the violent get of the dragons

A tunnel of scales and ordure

Followed into the terrible larder

Followed further followed to treasure.

There the orb danced blue danced white

Swelled like a heart in its endless beating (They let me hold it I brought them back).

Out from the tunnel blood on blood under the ice

Bearing their own incredible burden

The young knights silent and tattered

They came five now only

The kender last small pockets bulging.

I am Raggart I am telling you this.

I am the one who brought them back.

The flight from Ice Hall.

The old dwarf lay dying.

His limbs would no longer support him. His bowels and stomach twisted together like snakes. Waves of nausea broke over him. He could not even raise his head from his bunk. He stared above him at an oil lamp swinging slowly overhead. The lamp’s light seemed to be getting dimmer. This is it, thought the dwarf. The end. The darkness is creeping over my eyes ….

He heard a noise near him, a creaking of wooden planks as if someone were very quietly stealing up on him. Feebly, Flint managed to turn his head.

“Who is it?” he croaked.

“Tasslehoff,” whispered a solicitous voice. Flint sighed and reached out a gnarled hand. Tas’s hand closed over his own.

“Ah, lad. I’m glad you’ve come in time to say farewell.” said the dwarf weakly. “I’m dying, lad. I’m going to Reorx-‘

“What?” asked Tas, leaning closer.

“Reorx.” repeated the dwarf irritably. “I’m going to the arms of Reorx.”

“No, we’re not,” said Tas. “We’re going to Sancrist. Unless you’re mean an inn. I’ll ask Sturm. The Reorx Arms. Hmmm-”

“Reorx, the God of the Dwarves, you doorknob!” Flint roared.

“Oh.” said Tas after a moment. “That Reorx.”

“Listen, lad.” Flint said more calmly, determined to leave no hard feelings behind. “I want you to have my helm. The one you brought me in Xak Tsaroth, with the griffon’s mane.”

“Do you really?” Tas asked, impressed. “That’s awfully nice of you, Flint, but what will you do for a helm?”

“Ah, lad, I won’t need a helm where I’m going.”

“You might in Sancrist,” Tas said dubiously. “Derek thinks the Dragon Highlords are preparing to launch a full-scaled attack, and I think a helm could come in handy-”

“I’m not talking about Sancrist!” Flint snarled, struggling to sit up. “I won’t need a helm because I’m dying!”

“I nearly died once.” Tas said solemnly. Setting a steaming bowl on a table, he settled back comfortably in a chair to relate his story. “It was that time in Tarsis when the dragon knocked the building down on top of me. Elistan said I was nearly a goner. Actually those weren’t his exact words, but he said it was only through the inter . . . interces . . . oh well, intersomething-or-other of the gods that I’m here today.”

Flint gave a mighty groan and fell back limply on his bunk. “Is it too much to ask,” he said to the lamp swinging above his head, “that I be allowed to die in peace? Not surrounded by kenders!” This last was practically a shriek.

“Oh, come now. You’re not dying, you know,” Tas said. “You’re only seasick.”

“I’m dying,” the dwarf said stubbornly. “I’ve been infected with a serious disease and now I’m dying. And on your heads be it. You dragged me onto this confounded boat-”

“Ship.” interrupted Tas.

“Boat!” repeated Flint furiously. “You dragged me onto this confounded boat, then left me to perish of some terrible disease in a rat-infested bedroom-“