Dragonlance - Chronicles 3 - Dragons of Spring Dawning by Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman & Julius M Gopez

Author:Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman & Julius M Gopez
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781932796957
Publisher: Devil's Due Publishing
Published: 2008-03-26T00:00:00+00:00

BOOK 2

1

An old man and a golden dragon.

He was an ancient gold dragon, the oldest of his kind. In his day, he had been a fierce warrior.

The scars of his victories were visible on his wrinkled golden skin. His name had once been as

shining as his glories, but he had forgotten it long ago. A few of the younger, irreverent gold

dragons referred to him affectionately as Pyrite-Fool's Gold-due to his not infrequent habit of

mentally fading out of the present and reliving his past.

Most of his teeth were gone. It had been eons since he had munched up a nice bit of deer meat

or torn apart a goblin. He was able to gum a rabbit now and then, but mostly he lived on oatmeal.

When Pyrite lived in the present, he was an intelligent, if irascible, companion. His vision was

dimming, though he refused to admit it, and he was as deaf as a doorknob. His mind was quick.

His conversation was still sharp as a tooth-so the saying went among dragons. It was just that he

rarely discussed the same topic as anyone else in his company.

But when he was back in his past, the other golds took to their caves. For when he remembered

them, he could still throw spells remarkably well, and his breath weapons were as effective as

ever.

On this day, however, Pyrite was neither in past nor in present. He lay on the Plains of Estwilde,

napping in the warm spring sunshine. Next to him sat an old man doing the same thing, his head

pillowed on the dragon's flank.

A battered and shapeless pointed hat rested over the old man's face to shield his eyes from the

sun. A long white beard flowed out from under the hat. Booted feet stuck out from beneath long,

mouse-colored robes.

Both slept soundly. The gold dragon's flanks heaved and thrummed with his wheezing breath.

The old man's mouth was wide open, and he sometimes woke himself with a prodigious snore.

When this happened, he would sit bolt upright-sending his hat rolling onto the ground (which did

not help its appearance) and look around in alarm. Seeing nothing, he would grunt to himself in

annoyance, replace his hat (after he found it), poke the dragon irritably in the ribs, then go back to his nap.

A casual passerby might have wondered what in the name of the Abyss these two were doing

calmly sleeping on the Plains of Estwilde, even though it was a fine, warm spring day. The

passerby might have supposed the two were waiting for someone, for the old man would

occasionally awaken, remove his hat, and peer solemnly up into the empty sky.

A passerby might have wondered-had there been any passers by. There were not. At least no

friendly ones. The Plains of Estwilde were crawling with draconian and goblin troops. If the two

knew they were napping in a dangerous place, they did not seem to mind.

Awakening from a particularly violent snore, the old man was just about to scold his companion

sternly for making such terrible noises when a shadow fell across them.

"Ha!" the old man said angrily, staring up.

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