Fistandantilus Reborn - Douglas Niles [73]
“How can a dragon be slain?” asked the youth. He had a vague memory of his intentions when he had started up the valley from Waterton. From the vantage of a few days’ distance, his goal of killing the monstrous serpent seemed laughably unattainable, not to mention suicidal.
“The best way has always been to get a bigger, stronger dragon to do it for you,” Kelryn said with a bitter laugh. “It’s how the Dark Queen was defeated during the last war.”
“But this dragon wasn’t killed.”
“No.” The bandit lord shook his head seriously, considering his reply.
“If you live long enough, you will find that many dragons, wyrms of all the clans of metal and color, still dwell in many of the hidden corners of Ansa-lon.”
“Why don’t they rule the world, then?” Danyal couldn’t think of any way that a serpent such as Flayze could be stopped, if the monster took it into his head to claim any kind of realm for himself.
“That’s a good question. What does our historian have to say on the matter?”
Foryth scowled, tsking a few times as he pondered the subject. “The best reason seems to be that they don’t want to,” he said finally. “Gilean knows that any one of them could wreak a great deal of havoc if it decided to do so. But they fight among themselves all the time-at least, all the time when they’re not sleeping. And a big dragon sleeps a lot, sometimes for ten or twenty years at a stretch. Each dragon is more concerned with its own comfort than with other matters.”
“Don’t the Knights of Solamnia hold them in check, sort of?” Dan asked. Remembering the gleaming armor, the brawny size, and easy, capable grace of the few such armored horsemen that he had seen, the lad tried to picture a human fighter competing with the massive killing force of a red dragon. Even that picture was scary, as Danyal was forced to conclude that the would-be drag-onslayer would truly be facing a hopeless task.
Both Kelryn and Foryth were shaking their heads.
“Bah!” the bandit lord said with a curse. “The knights are old women now, weaklings who are afraid of their own shadows. There are none of the bold lancers left from the days of the war.”
“That is open to debate,” the historian disputed. “But you should know, lad, that the tales of a knight on horseback killing a dragon, no matter how courageous he is, how pure his heart and steady his hand, are merely the stuff of legend and fiction. No, a mighty dragon has very little to fear from anything except another mighty dragon.”
“But there has to be some way!” insisted Danyal, so intently that both men turned to regard him with interest. “I mean, it’s hard to believe all those stories, all the legends of dragonslayers and heroes and stuff, were just made up,” he concluded lamely.
“Remember the old saying: “Never underestimate the imagination, nor the thirst, of a bard,’ ” Foryth noted with a benign chuckle. “Most of those tales you’re recalling were invented by a traveling minstrel who needed a good tale in order to sing himself a supper and a pitcher or two of fine ale.
Such poets and artists should not be confused with the true student of history-that is, the dispassionate historian.”
“Ssst!”
The warning came from the darkness ahead. Danyal stiffened, watching the hunched figure of Zack slip off the road. The other men of the band, too, shrank into the shadows.
Then he heard whistling, melodic notes rising through the night air.
And he knew that the bandits had found another victim.
CHAPTER 26
A Heart of Blood and Fire circa 374 AC Fistandantilus heard the pulse through the ears of his host, and it was closer than it had ever been before. Blood quickened in the incorporeal stuff of his mind, and renewed hunger tingled in his tongue, tantalized his memories.
The bloodstone!
Fistandantilus lusted for the touch of that potent artifact, knew that its arcane force would allow him to master-and then destroy-this wretched kender. The wizard’s essence churned with vigor as he tried-as he had tried for so many decades-to make