The Puppet King Read online

  The draconians started to hoot, hiss, and jeer. Their batlike wings, insufficient for true flight but able to hasten their speed in a charge, flexed and fanned, giving the moonlit horde a shifting, unreal quality, as if the monsters were not individual creatures, but parts of a blanket that was being fluttered horizontally in a light breeze. All the noises increased, until it seemed as though the forest itself was screeching and stomping at the elves. Finally the warlike sounds reached a crescendo, holding at this frenetic pitch for several taut heartbeats.

  And then, is if a dam had burst, the entire mob spewed forward from the fringe of the trees.…

  CHAOS WAR SERIES

  The Doom Brigade

  Margaret Weis and Don Perrin

  The Last Thane

  Douglas Niles

  Tears of the Night Sky

  Linda P. Baker and Nancy Varian Berberick

  The Puppet King

  Douglas Niles

  Reavers of the Blood Sea

  Richard A. Knaak

  The Siege of Mt. Nevermind

  Fergus Ryan

  THE PUPPET KING

  ©1999 Wizards of the Coast LLC

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  DRAGONLANCE, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: David Martin

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6292-1

  640-A1137000-001-EN

  For customer service, contact:

  U.S., Canada, Asia Pacific, & Latin America: Wizards of the Coast LLC, P.O. Box 707, Renton, WA 98057-0707, +1-800-324-6496, www.wizards.com/customerservice

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  Visit our websites at www.wizards.com

  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  To Benedict Niles Weber.

  Welcome to a great life.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part I - Elf War Chapter One - Meeting in the Marsh

  Chapter Two - A Marshal of Elvenkind

  Chapter Three - A Council in Silvanost

  Chapter Four - Battle in the Delta

  Chapter Five - The Second Division

  Chapter Six - Trial in the Sinthal-Elish

  Chapter Seven - A Gilded Cage

  Chapter Eight - Slight Into Exile

  Part II- Qualinesti Prologue

  Chapter Nine - Speaker of the Sun

  Chapter Ten - Horizons of Conquest

  Chapter Eleven - The Siege of Qualinost

  Chapter Twelve - A Night of Glory and Blood

  Chapter Thirteen - A Day of Shame and Tears

  Chapter Fourteen - Rage

  Chapter Fifteen - Qualinost Enchained

  Chapter Sixteen - Speakers of Past and Present

  Part III - Chaos Prologue

  Chapter Seventeen - The Truth About Treachery

  Chapter Eighteen - Storms of Chaos

  Chapter Nineteen - Fall of the Thalas-Enthia

  Chapter Twenty - Nightmare Woods

  Chapter Twenty-One - Dragon War

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Flames Across the Forest

  Chapter Twenty-Three - King of the Elves

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Year 25, after the Second Cataclysm

  The elf made his way carefully down the steep, narrow trail. He ignored the massive waves crashing into the rocks so far below, concentrating instead on the placement of each foot, taking care to avoid patches of slick moss or crumbling gravel. A single misstep could send him plunging to certain death, yet his face was calm, unconcerned by thoughts of danger.

  In his hand, he carried a long, slender lance, using the haft of the weapon like a walking staff to aid his balance as he moved along the treacherous trail. His clothes were rough, sturdy, and practical, showing the wear of long exposure to weather and time. He moved with speed and grace, skipping over a slippery patch of smooth stone, making steady progress until he came to rest on a rough promontory halfway down the precipitous bluff. There he remained frozen in place for a long time, as still as one of the crags jutting from the slope all around him. Intent on the base of the cliff, he stared, sniffing the air, searching with darting eyes for any sign of movement, of danger. He studied the empty gray sea, the line of waves rolling inexorably from the west to crash onto this continental shore. The lance he balanced upright, the pole rising a good three times his own height, capped by a barbed, lethal-looking head of shimmering silver.

  Only after dozens of waves had crashed against the rocks did he move again, raising a hand and gesturing curtly toward the underbrush that draped the edge of the bluff over his head. Carefully, hesitantly, another elf came forward. This one’s face blanched at the sight of the steep descent, and for a moment he turned a yearning glance back to the shelter of the woods. But then the first elf gestured again urgently, and the newcomer forced himself to follow in the footsteps of the other. His slender hands clutched at rocks and weeds, and his steps were short, tentative. Still, he came down the steep trail, staring wildly at his companion, at the raging surf, at the expanse of sea rolling unhindered to the west.

  By the time he reached the ledge, he had regained some of his composure, disdaining the balancing hand offered by his companion. The second elf wore finer clothes and held his head high, looking over the seascape with an expression of wonder. Fastidiously he kept his boots out of the mud, though he, like the other, was dirty and unkempt, with the look of one who had lived, bathed, and eaten in the forest for a long time.

  Ensuring that the youngster had a solid perch, a place that was dry and flat and offered secure footing, the first elf murmured some soft words, passing his hands in an intricate pattern around the other. When he had finished gesturing, he released a pinch of down, and the tuft drifted away on the breeze, dancing through the air, gradually settling toward the pounding surf. Only when the feather had vanished in the froth and foam did the elder return his attention to the descent.

  Now he had to move carefully, turning to face the cliff, grasping for holds with his free hand while his toes sought resting places, then gingerly adjusting his grip slightly lower. He wedged the fingers of his left hand into cracks in the face of the cliff, and balanced his toes on narrow ledges or tiny shoulders of jutting rocks while he clung tightly to the lance with his other hand.

  Though his progress was slow, his face betrayed no hint of strain or fear. If the great lance was an encumbrance, he did not allow it to slow him down. Instead, the expression of concentration remained fixed. He squinted slightly when it took him a long time to find the next toehold, but even so, his progress remained steady.

  Finally the elder elf stood upon a seaside boulder, and here he leaned around a crag, looking into the larg
e cave mouth that yawned darkly just a few feet above the reach of the waves at high tide. He balanced the lance in both hands now, head forward as he hesitantly advanced into the darkness, sniffing quietly, seeking to penetrate the darkness with his keen, almond-shaped eyes. The shadowy cavern dwarfed the warrior with its vast domed ceiling, but it did not seem to awe or intimidate him. Instead, an aura of soft light originated from the lance head, and an aura of confidence came from the elf himself.

  The second elf, still waiting on the narrow shelf, looked down with unmistakable apprehension. It was a very young face, this elf’s. Indeed, he was more a boy than a man. He tried hard to look unconcerned, to be brave, but there alone on the shelf, he seemed to shrink within himself. He leaned against the slope to grab any handholds he could find. When the elder reappeared at the base of the cliff and waved, the youth’s face grew pale and his eyes widened in momentary fear. Firmly the elf below waved again, gesturing him down.

  Taking a deep breath, the young elf stepped off the bluff, into the empty space yawning below. He floated gently, easily downward, no faster than the tuft of down that the elder elf had loosed into the wind a short time before. In half a minute, he came to rest beside his companion.

  “Here. Put this on.” The elder elf extended a thin fabric of green weave and assisted his companion in strapping the thing across his face. The mask covered the young elf’s nose and mouth in a material that seemed to be woven from supple grasses.

  “Don’t you have one for yourself?” asked the youth, his voice naturally soft but unmuffled by the light screen. The elder merely shook his head and once more hefted the great lance.

  Without further speaking, he led his young companion into the dark cave. The pair crept along soundlessly, moving gradually around a curving passage until they were cloaked in shadow. Here they paused, allowing their elven eyes to attune to the darkness. After a minute, they moved forward again. There was a strong smell, like bleach, that permeated the air. The floor of the cave was clean, except for small patches of moss and a channel where seawater rolled in during high tides.

  Momentarily the young elf hesitated, but when his companion continued forward, he rushed after him, apparently preferring the dangers of the cave’s interior to solitude close to the entrance. They moved farther into the darkness, the warrior holding the great lance at the ready. His eyes flashed back and forth, seeking to penetrate the shadows, alert to any movement, any sign of danger. Above the mesh mask, the youngster’s eyes were wide, staring with barely concealed fear at his companion’s back. Still cautious, the two crept around one more corner, and here again they froze as rigid as statues.

  A massive shape coiled in this deep alcove, and the elder elf held his finger to his lips, an unnecessary gesture of caution as the youngster froze, horrified and silent, eyes widening while the visible skin of his face drained of all color. The scaled flanks of the huge shape rose and fell gradually. Huge wings of green membrane were folded along the back, while moss and lichen crusted along the great legs, even growing across several massive talons, an effect that appeared to merge the foot right into the cavern floor.

  The lance-wielder approached the reptilian shape, holding the weapon pointed straight toward the snakelike head. The soft breathing, an exhalation from massive lungs, rasped around him with a stinging odor that brought tears to his eyes. The warrior winced, though his companion breathed through the mask without any appearance of discomfort. Still, the youngster’s eyes widened over the green fabric, and he quickly moved back.

  The lancer brought the weapon forward hard, stabbing the point into the sensitive skin within one of the massive nostrils. Leather lids rolled back, and golden eyes, the size of melons, came into focus with a growing sense of shock and rage. A cloud of green gas boiled from the gaping nostrils, but the elder elf stood to the side of the misty vapor. The younger elf, protected by his mask, blinked and coughed slightly but didn’t recoil.

  The warrior poked the snout again, and with a growl of anger and pain the dragon jerked backward, neck twisting, head rearing high above the two elves. With its massive jaws spread wide, the wyrm blasted a roar of fury.

  Boldly the elder elf stepped forward and pressed the tip of his lance against the dragon’s breast at the place where the sinuous neck merged into the emerald body. He pushed, and a green scale cracked. The dragon tried to recoil, but it was blocked by the side of the cavern.

  “Be silent, Aerensianic, and heed me or you will die!” barked the warrior, his tone stern and unafraid.

  “You know me?” growled the serpent, his eyes narrowing in confusion and surprise.

  “It was twenty-five years ago that we met. You may not remember me,” declared the elf calmly.

  The wyrm fixed his gaze at the weapon poised for a killing thrust. But he made no move to attack.

  “I could crush you with my jaws or in my talons!” growled the dragon called Aerensianic.

  “You could try,” the elf allowed, “but I’ll take the chance that I could drive this dragonlance into your foul heart before you could move.” He seemed utterly unconcerned.

  “I have sheltered here for a dozen winters or more, bothering no one in all that time,” the serpent replied in a tone of injured pride. “Leave me alone!”

  “Not until we get what we have come for,” replied the lancer, twisting and pushing his weapon slightly, drawing an insulted snort from his massive adversary.

  “What is it you want of me?” the dragon finally demanded, his voice a deep hiss. “My treasures? My life? Take it and begone!”

  “Not your treasures … nor do we have any wish to claim your life. Rather, the lad here has a simple request,” said the elder, indicating his companion with a hunch of his shoulder.

  Still staring, the second elf moved forward, eyes wide over the green mask as he stared at the monster rearing so high above.

  “Make your demand!” spat the serpent.

  Mustering all his courage, the young elf took another step. He glared into the dragon’s face, trying vainly to suppress the trembling in his knees. Still, his voice, when he spoke, was firm and steady.

  “I want you to tell me a story,” he said.

  PART I

  ELF WAR

  Late Summer, 382 AC

  Meeting in the Marsh

  Chapter 1

  The green wing curled gracefully, slicing the fetid air, bearing the great body through a shallow, banking turn. Aerensianic looked across the landscape of dark green, seeing the tracks of brackish streams like bright veins against a backdrop of verdant decay. Tall trees rose from the muck here and there, many draped with tendrils of stringy moss, while others loomed gaunt and skeletal, bereft of leaves and greenery. No breath of wind disturbed the air, and the landscape shimmered with a heat that was oppressive and unnatural even for this late summer day. Pale sunlight thickened the atmosphere, and vapors rising from the swamp were rich with the odors of decaying foliage, carrion, and the fishy, lizardy smell of scaly denizens.

  Truly this swampland was a place of rot and death, and now it was the last such within the borders of the elven nation of Silvanesti. Beyond the delta of the silvered river, the Thon-Thalas, past horizons to the north and east and west, thriving forests rose from soft black loam. Sculpted as orderly, elegant gardens by the Woodshaper elves, these woodlands were places of precise order, carefully tended and schemed into regimented patterns. Aeren could see the lofty treetops waving in the balmy breeze, he could smell the hateful fragrance of vast, flowered meadows, and he could hear the relentless melody of a million songbirds as the feathered minstrels warbled their joy at the land’s rebirth.

  There was no place for a dragon, not in those tamed woods.

  Only here, in the delta of the kingdom’s great river, did decay and rot still linger in Silvanesti. Bordered by swift currents on all sides, an island inhabited by draconians, ogres, and other savage denizens, this murky fen was a stronghold of evil, the one such remaining within Silvanesti. Th
irty years ago, the whole realm had been like this, but in that time, the elves had waged a relentless campaign of reclamation. Region by region, grove by grove, they had driven the monstrous denizens out, and the Woodshaper elves had then gone to work, sculpting and controlling and taming the wilds.

  Aeren knew that the elves must inevitably be gathering their strength, preparing to clean out this last outpost of their enemies. In the thickets below were numerous bands of draconians, as well as ogres and two more dragons. Together they made a teeming, powerful force of savage and bestial warriors. But despite the might of the creatures gathered in opposition, it had seemed an unchangeable fact that the elves must prevail.

  Until he had gotten the message, brought by a draconian who had once been a prisoner of the elves. The summons, too intriguing to ignore, drew Aerensianic from his moss-shrouded lair. Though he naturally suspected treachery, the green dragon had been curious in spite of his misgivings, and so he had come.

  Now he saw the hillock at the southern end of the delta and tucked his wings, arrowing toward the slight elevation. Beyond the mossy rise stretched miles of brackish salt flats, merging with an indistinct border into the Courrain Ocean far to the south. Meandering channels of water connected the low hill with the deep river waters to the west. No doubt the other party at this meeting would reach the hill by boating along one of those canals.

  Aeren could remember a time when this delta had not existed, when the Thon-Thalas had flowed deep and clear all the way to the sea. In the past decades, the river had been sorely taxed by the elven efforts to restore Silvanesti. So much of the wracked landscape had been carried seaward as silt that this vast fen had developed at the mouth of the river. Naturally, all the surviving creatures of foulness and evil had collected here, and the marsh had become a stronghold of villainy within a realm that was, in all other respects, once more pristine and healthy.