Read Dragonlance 15 - Dragons Of A Fallen Sun Online
Authors: Margaret Weis
hiding the Tower of High Sorcery of Wayreth from her. Conse-
quently, Beryl had begun ever so gradually to expand her control
over human lands. She moved slowly, not wanting to draw
Malys's attention. Malys would not care if here and there a town
was burned or a village plundered. The city of Haven was one
such, recently fallen to Beryl's might. Solace remained un-
touched, for the time being. But Beryl's eye was upon Solace. She
had ordered closed the main roads leading into Solace, letting
them feel the pressure as she bided her time.
The refugees who had managed to escape Haven and sur-
rounding lands before the roads were closed had swelled Solace's
population to three times its normal size. Arriving with their be-
longings tied up in bundles or piled on the back of carts, the
refugees were being housed in what the town fathers designated
"temporary housing." The hovels were truly meant only to be
temporary, but the flood of refugees arriving daily overwhelmed
good intentions. The temporary shelters had become, unfortu-
nately, permanent.
The first person to reach the refugee camps the morning after
the storm was Caramon Majere, driving a wagon loaded with
sacks of food, lumber for rebuilding, dry firewood, and blankets.
Caramon was over eighty-just how far over no one really
knew, for he himself had lost track of the years. He was what they
term in Solamnia a "grand old man." Age had come to him as an
honorable foe, facing him and saluting him, not creeping up to
stab him in the back or rob him of his wits. Hale and hearty, his
big frame corpulent but unbowed ("I can't grow stooped, my gut
won't let me," he was wont to say with a roaring laugh), Cara-
mon was the first of his household to rise, was out every morning
chopping wood for the kitchen fires or hauling the heavy ale bar-
rels up the stairs.
His two daughters saw to the day-to-day workings of the Inn
of the Last Home--this was the only concession Caramon made
to his age--but he still tended the bar, still told his stories. Laura
ran the Inn, while Dezra, who had a taste for adventure, traveled
to markets in Haven and elsewhere, searching out the very best
in hops for the Inn's ale, honey for the Inn's legendary mead, and
even hauling dwarf spirits back from Thorbardin. The moment
Caramon went outdoors he was swarmed over by the children of
Solace, who one and all called him "Grampy" and who vied for
rides on his broad shoulders or begged to hear him tell tales of
long-ago heroes. He was a friend to the refugees who would have
likely had no housing at all had not Caramon donated the wood
and supervised the construction. He was currently overseeing a
project to build permanent dwellings on the outskirts of Solace,
pushing, cajoling, and browbeating the recalcitrant authorities
into taking action. Caramon Majere never walked the streets of
Solace but that he heard his name spoken and blessed.
Once the refugees were assisted, Caramon traveled about the
rest of Solace, making certain that everyone was safe, raising
hearts and spirits oppressed by the terrible night. This done, he
went to his own breakfast, a breakfast he had come to share, of
late, with a Knight of Solamnia, a man who reminded Caramon
of his own two sons who had died in the Chaos War.
In the days immediately following the Chaos War, the Solam-
nic Knights had established a garrison in Solace. The garrison had
been a small one in the early days, intended only to provide
Knights to stand honor guard for the Tomb of the Last Heroes.
The garrison had been expanded to counter the threat of the great
dragons, who were now the acknowledged, if hated, rulers of
much of Ansalon.
So long as the humans of Solace and other cities and lands
under her control continued to pay Beryl tribute, she allowed the
people to continue on with their lives, allowed them to continue
to generate more wealth so that they could pay even more tribute.
Unlike the evil dragons of earlier ages, who had delighted in
burning and looting and killing, Beryl had discovered that
burned-out cities did not generate profit. Dead people did not
pay taxes.
There were many who wondered why Beryl and her cousins
with their wondrous and terrible magicks should covet wealth,
should demand tribute. Beryl and Malys were cunning creatures.
If they were rapaciously and wantonly cruel, indulging in whole-
sale slaughter of entire populations, the people of Ansalon would
rise up out of desperation and march to destroy them. As it was,
most humans found life under the dragon rule to be relatively
comfortable. They were content to let well enough alone.
Bad things happened to some people, people who no doubt
deserved their fate. If hundreds of kender were killed or driven
from their homes, if rebellious Qualinesti elves were being tor-
tured and imprisoned, what did this matter to humans? Beryl and
Malys had minions and spies in every human town and village,
placed there to foment discord and hatred and suspicion, as well
as to make certain that no one was trying to hide so much as a
cracked copper from the dragons.
Caramon Majere was one of the few outspoken in his hatred
of paying tribute to the dragons and actually refused to do so.
"Not one drop of ale will I give to those fiends," he said heat-
edly whenever anyone asked, which they rarely did, knowing
that one of Beryl's spies was probably taking down names.
He was staunch in his refusal, though much worried by it.
Solace was a wealthy town, now larger than Haven. The tribute
demanded from Solace was quite high. Caramon's wife Tika had
pointed out that their share was being made up by the other citi-
zens of Solace and that this was putting a hardship on the rest.
Caramon could see the wisdom of Tika's argument. At length he
came up with the novel idea of levying a special tax against him-
self, a tax that only the Inn paid, a tax whose monies were on no
account to be sent to the dragon but that would be used to assist
those who suffered unduly from having to pay what was come to
be known as "the dragon tax."
The people of Solace paid extra tax, the city fathers refunded
them a portion out of Caramon's contribution, and the tribute
went to the dragon as demanded.
If they could have found a way to silence Caramon on the
volatile subject, they would have done so, for he continued to be
loud in his hatred of the dragons, continued to express his views
that "if we just all got together we could poke out Beryl's eye with
a dragonlance." Indeed, when the city of Haven was attacked by
Beryl just a few weeks earlier-ostensibly for defaulting on its
payments-the Solace town fathers actually came to Caramon and
begged him on bended knee to cease his rabble-rousing remarks.
Impressed by their obvious fear and distress, Caramon agreed
to tone down his rhetoric, and the town fathers left happy. Cara-
mon did actually comply, expressing his views in a moderate tone
of voice as opposed to the booming outrage he'd used previously.
He reiterated his unorthodox views that morning to his break-
fast companion, the young Solamnic.
" A terrible storm, sir," said the Knight, seating himself oppo-
site Caramon.
A group of his fellow Knights were breakfasting in another
part of the Inn, but Gerard uth Mondar paid them scant attention.
They, in their turn, paid him no attention at all.
"It bodes dark days to come, to my mind," Caramon agreed,
settling his bulk into the high-backed wooden booth, a booth
whose seat had been rubbed shiny by the old man's backside.
"But all in all I found it exhilarating."
"Father!" Laura was scandalized. She slapped down a plate of
beefsteak and eggs for her father, a bowl of porridge for the
Knight. "How can you say such things? With so many people
hurt. Whole houses blown, from what I hear."
"I didn't mean that," Caramon protested, contrite. "I'm sorry
for the people who were hurt, of course, but, you know, it came
to me in the night that this storm must be shaking Beryl's lair
about pretty good. Maybe even burned the evil ol.d bitch out.
That's what I was thinking." He looked worriedly at the young
Knight's bowl of porridge. "Are you certain that's enough to eat,
Gerard? I can have Laura fry you up some potatoes-"
"Thank you, sir, this is all I am accustomed to eat for break-
fast," Gerard said as he said every day in response to the same
question.
Caramon sighed. Much as he had come to like this young
man, Caramon could not understand anyone who did not enjoy
food. A person who did not relish Otik's famous spiced potatoes
was a person who did not relish life. Only one time in his own life
had Caramon ever ceased to enjoy his dinner and that was fol-
lowing the death several months earlier of his beloved wife Tika.
Caramon had refused to eat a mouthful for days after that, to the
terrible worry and consternation of the entire town, which went
on a cooking frenzy to try to come up with something that would
tempt him.
He would eat nothing, do nothing, say nothing. He either
roamed aimlessly about the town or sat staring dry-eyed out the
stained glass windows of the Inn, the Inn where he had first met
the red-haired and annoying little brat who had been his comrade
in arms, his lover, his friend, his salvation. He shed no tears for
her, he would not visit her grave beneath the vallenwoods. He
would not sleep in their bed. He would not hear the messages of
condolence that came from Laurana and Gilthas in Qualinesti,
from Goldmoon in the Citadel of Light.
Caramon lost weight, his flesh sagged, his skin took on a gray
hue.
"He will follow Tika soon," said the townsfolk.
He might have, too, had not one day a child, one of ,the refugee
children, happened across Caramon in his dismal roamings. The
child placed his small body squarely in front of the old man and
held out a hunk of bread.
"Here, sir," said the child. "My mother says that if you don't
eat you will die, and then what will become of us?"
Caramon gazed down at the child in wonder. Then he knelt
down, gathered the child into his arms, and began to sob uncon-
trollably. Caramon ate the bread, every crumb, and that night he
slept in the bed he had shared with Tika. He placed flowers on
her grave the next morning and ate a breakfast that would have
fed three men. He smiled again and laughed, but there was some-
thing in his smile and in his laughter that had not been there
before. Not sorrow, but a wistful impatience.
Sometimes, when the door to the Inn opened, he would look
out into the sunlit blue sky beyond and he would say, very softly,
"I'm coming, my dear. Don't fret. I won't be long."
Gerard uth Mondar ate his porridge with dispatch, not really
tasting it. He ate his porridge plain, refusing to flavor it with
brown sugar or cinnamon, did not even add salt. Food fueled his
body, and that was all it was good for. He ate his porridge, wash-
ing down the congealed mass with a mug of tar-bean tea, and lis-
tened to Caramon talk about the awful wonders of the storm.
The other Knights paid their bill and left, bidding Caramon a
polite good-day as they passed, but saying nothing to his com-
panion. Gerard appeared not to notice, but steadfastly spooned
porridge from bowl to mouth.
Caramon watched the Knights depart and interrupted his
story in mid-lightning bolt. "1 appreciate the fact that you share
your time with an old geezer like me, Gerard, but if you want to
have breakfast with your friends-"
"They are not my friends," said Gerard without bitterness or
rancor, simply making a statement of fact. "1 much prefer dining
with a man of wisdom and good, common sense." He raised his
mug to Caramon in salute.
"It's just that you seem. . ." Caramon paused, chewed steak
vigorously. "Lonely," he finished in a mumble, his mouth full. He
swallowed, forked another piece. "You should have a girl friend
or . . . or a wife or something."
Gerard snorted. "What woman would look twice at a man
with a face like this?" He eyed with dissatisfaction his own re-
flection in the highly polished pewter mug.
Gerard was ugly; there was no denying that fact. A childhood
illness had left his face cragged and scarred. His nose had been
broken in a fight with a neighbor when he was ten and had
healed slightly askew. He had yellow hair-not blond, not fair,
just plain, straw yellow. It was the consistency of straw, too, and
would not lie flat, but stuck up at all sorts of odd angles if al-
lowed. To avoid looking like a scarecrow, which had been his
nickname when he was young, Gerard kept his hair cut as short
as possible.
His only good feature were his eyes, which were of a startling,
one might almost say, alarming blue. Because there was rarely