Dan Parkinson - Dragonlance Tales - The Magic of Krynn

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Tales I
volume I
The Magic of Krynn
Edited by
Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
FOREWORD
"No! No! Please don't leave!" cried Tasslehoff Burrfoot and, before
we could stop him, the kender grabbed hold of our magical device that
would have transported us out of Krynn and ran off with it down the
road!
So here we are, back again, ready for more adventures. If you are
one of our long-time fellow travelers, we welcome you along. If you
have never journeyed with us through the DRAGONLANCE worlds, we hope
this anthology will serve as an interesting and exciting introduction.
A favorite fantasy theme is magic and those who practice it. In
these pages, you will find tales of the magic of Krynn. Some were
written by us, some written by old friends, and some written by new
friends we've met along the way.
Riverwind and the Crystal Staff is a narrative poem that describes
a haunting search for a magical artifact. A Stone's Throw Away is the
story of that irrepressible kender, Tassle- hoff Burrfoot, and his
comic, perilous adventure of the tele- porting ring.
The Blood Sea Monster tells about "the one that got away." Dreams
of Darkness, Dreams of Light recounts the tale of Pig-Face William and
the magical coin.
Otik the innkeeper has unusual problems in Love and Ale. The young
mage, Raistlin, faces danger in the Tower of High Sorcery in The Test
of the Twins. Draconians stumble into a mysterious village of elves in
Wayward Children.
Finding the Faith is a high-adventure tale of the elf maid,
Laurana, and her search for the famed dragon orb in Icewall Castle. A
young Tanis and his friend, Flint the dwarf, learn about love that
redeems and love that kills in Harvests.
Finally, in the novella, The Legacy, a young mage must face the
fact that his evil uncle-the powerful wizard, Raistlin - may be trying
to escape eternal torment by stealing his nephew's soul!
Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
Riverwind and the Crystal Staff
Michael Williams
I
HERE ON THE PLAINS WHERE THE WIND EMBRACES
LIGHT AND THE ABSENCE OF LIGHT,
WHERE THE WIND IS THE VOICE
OF THE GODS COME DOWN,
THE RUMOR OF SONG BEFORE SINGING BEGINS,
HERE THE PEOPLE UNDER THE WINDS
ARE WANDERING EVER TOWARDS HOME,
FOREVER IN MOVEMENT AN OLD MAN IS SINGING
THE SONG OF AN ABSENT COUNTRY,
BEAUTIFUL, HEARTLESS AS SUNLIGHT,
COLD AS IMAGINED WINDS
BEHIND THE EYE OF THE RAIN,
AND WIDE BEFORE US, MY SONS AND FATHERS,
THE SONG OF THE COUNTRY CENTERS AND SWOOPS
LIKE A HAWK IN A SLEEPING LAND,
BORNE UPON HUNGER AND THERMALS,
SINGING FOREVER, SINGING:
It was not always
after the wars, it was
a time once when fire
did not rise on its own
out of the dead grass,
a time of waters
and of vanishing light,
when we did not imagine
new country arising
out of the long mirage
of countries remembered
from mother to daughter
in a ruinous dream
that would not have let this happen,
nor did the dance of the moons,
the opened hearts of hawks,
nor did the wind itself
foresee the fires
hot as shrew's blood
in the veins of the land
consuming our dream
while we slept in our journeys,
while these things came to pass.
The outrunners found
the child among waves
of grass and darkness,
on the night when the moon and the moon
wed one another and canceled their light
and the sky was black
except for a wedge of silver
turned like a blade
in the heart of the heavens.
And the night they found him
was his naming night,
and the years unnamed
were the years behind him,
the time among leopards
who must have raised him
in the waves of grass and darkness,
though he did not remember this,
did not recount the graves upon graves
to which he gave infancy,
where he buried the first words of childhood,
And the night they found him
was his naming night.
Riverwind the name he borrowed,
borrowed for him
out of the grass and the darkness moving,
out of their fear of the sky
and the blade of the swallowed moon.
And honored he was among families,
as the source of the blood
was lost in the people,
as the path of the eland,
the high call of the hawk
buried themselves in words
and the long wind died
at the back of his head
as he moved and he moved,
as the Que-Shu contained him,
becoming his country,
as the dream of the Que-Shu
wed to his dreaming
like dark to the moon,
until he remembered
the plains and the wind
and the wandering only.
II
Riverwind, borrowed from night,
grew as the eyes of the People,
reading the air, the descending wind,
the back of his mind
a prophet, a jackal,
while the cry of the leopard,
unheard by the People
except at the place
where the world falls over, choired
at the back of his head.
And his hand, with the grace
of the falconer's hand
or the falcon herself,
unjessed in the diving air,
was the hand of the People,
the left hand, the off-hand,
the hand that steadies the bow.
And so it would be, my sons and fathers,
until the night
of the dancing moons
when the sky to the east
was silver and black,
red the sky in the westland falling,
the night when we bring forth the daughters.
Robed in the friends of the people,
robed in eland, robed in the fox,
in the falcon's high feathers
ten winters counting,
came forth the daughter of chieftains,
the daughter unwed to man or to sorrow,
unwed to the things she could not be.
Grace of the fathers
dove through her veins
like a wind that the world obeyed.
Heart of the hunter she was
at the heart of the wandering,
gold of the eyes imagining
gold of the moon descended her naming night,
and Riverwind knew that the journey,
the truce with horizons, was ending
in light and the promise of light.
And holy the days he drew near her,
holy the air that carried
his songs of endearment,
the country behind him
a song like a choir of bees
at the edge of hearing, telling him
HERE IS GREAT SWEETNESS HERE IS PAIN
AND YOU WILL HAVE TO LEARN ABOUT THIS.
And seven the summers
in which she eluded him, winters
in which the cold and the country
collapsed on the words CHIEFTAIN'S DAUGHTER.
The halved heart of the eland
steamed from the spinning ground below him
and Old Man, Grandfather,
Wanderer, reader of skies,
reading the face of the boy arising
out of the face of the man,
as the binding of moons on his naming night,
repeating the words like a charm, like a warding,
CHIEFTAIN'S DAUGHTER, the old
enduring story of love and of distance,
of the borders at which
the heart bows down.
But the eyes of Wanderer
never the lone eyes watching
as these things came to pass,
in the eyes of the daughter
the leopard's eye reflected
upon reflection, until
it mirrors itself into forever
like the thoughts of a long hall
never the lone eyes watching,
and the eyes of Goldmoon
for the Chieftain looked on
at the dance of the eyes and whispers,
looked on from the place of judgment
deciding this could not be,
and he set for River-wind
three tasks unapproachable, saying
PAY COURT TO MY DAUGHTER ONLY
WHEN YOU CAN RETURN TO MY HEARTHSIDE
BEARING THE MOON IN YOUR HANDS,
THE STARS ON A DYING BLANKET,
AND WHEN YOU CAN COME FROM THE EAST,
BEARING THE CRYSTAL STAFF,
THE ARM OF THE GODS IN FORGOTTEN COUNTRY,
THE SOURCE OF THE MAGICS.
And Wanderer hearing this
heard the NO and again the NO
at the heart of the words,
and knew that the magic
was fractured light,
the light at the heart of a crystal,
bending and bending upon itself,
forever becoming nothing.
Knew that the magic was fractured light
when Riverwind spread his cloak on the dew,
when the waters gathered, spangling stars,
and the hunter cupped water
alight in the palms of his hands,
and returned to the Chieftain, bearing
the moon in his hands, the stars
trapped on a dying blanket.
And the third task then
was the terrible one,
for the others were easy, were riddles
set before children
set before huntsmen
set before those
whom the Chieftain could never remember,
and the heart and the mind
of Wanderer bent like the light
of the one true crystal, turning
to words and to whispers,
to the counsel that Riverwind heard
that night at the brink of the journey,
and traveling eastward
under the reeling moons
toward the source of the light
in the heart of the Staff,
again that night was his naming night.
Ill
The plains are long as thought, my fathers,
as memory, where the traveler
sees at the edge of the sky
the dead children walking,
and closer, as the sky recedes,
the children accept his name,
in the terrible dust
becoming, as the sky recedes,
the skins of himself
he abandoned in wandering.
Or this is the way it always happens,
the story they tell us of blindness
in the country of leopards
when our eyes say NO MORE,
SAY WE ARE DONE WITH LOOKING,
WITH THE CHILDREN,
WITH SKINS AND WITH DUST AND WITH MEMORY.
But the time of the Staff was no time,
as Old Man told him it would be,
knowing, reading the hawk's heart,
reading the switch of the wind,
knowing the Staff was calling,
changing the country,
changing the heart and the way
the memory wanders the heart.
And the moons crossed
at impossible angle,
Solinari to rest in the source of the sun,
Lunitari to rest in the dragons.
So Riverwind knew
when the leopard approached him,
skin full of light, of dark,
of darkness boiling in light,
bone and muscle giving way
in imagined tunnels
of plains and movement.
Something behind him
sang with the leopard,
his left eye shining
straight through the leopard
to the edge of the world,
and behind him something saying
LIE DOWN, GIVE THIS AWAY AT ONCE,
GIVE THIS AWAY BEFORE IT BEGINS,
OUR SON, OUR YOUNG ONE,
FOR YOU CAN LEARN NOTHING OF THIS MYSTERY,
NOTHING FROM THIS MYSTERY
BUT DRY GRASS BUT DARK BUT YEARNING
BUT THE GRAVES OF YOUR CHILDHOOD
OPEN TO MOONLIGHT,
AND THE DEAD
THE UNSPEAKING DEAD YOU SEE
WHERE THE SKY MEETS THE PLAINS
WILL BE ALWAYS YOUR OWN, APPROACHING.
And he knows that he dreams
this story out of wandering
out of night and the long singing he kept
away from the People
from Goldmoon from the Chieftain
from Old Man himself,
the weaver of blood,
a dream that he cannot remember
where the hawk scuttles over the ground,
dragging its wing like a trophy, a kill,
surrendered wind in its eyes.
And as he approaches,
the leopard, the hawk
vanish like water,
reflections of moon over moon
at the heart of the place of the Staff.
He follows each vanishing,
awaiting the snares of the moon,
and OLD MAN, he whispers, OLD MAN,
I AM LEARNING THIS MAPLESS COUNTRY.
But the wanderer travels
through hunger's ambush,
through the thirst of the country
that drives away knowing and knowledge,
and the words of the Old Man
translate the country behind him
but the country before him
is rumors of water,
is crystal arising
distorted by moonlight,
by thought and the absence of thought,
and water arises
like blue crystal before him.
THIS TIME THE DREAMING IS OVER, he thinks,
AND THIS TIME AND THIS TIME
but the water escapes him
bearing the moons
in its depths like memories,
like the speculations of gods,
until the water is standing before him
and down in the water he sees
himself looking upwards,
the knotted moons at his shoulders,
and kneeling to drink he drinks too long,
for out of the water his arms are rising,
terrible, cold as the wind,
and drawing him downward
to moons and to darkness
to peace past remembering,
peace that whispers
JOIN ME MY BROTHER MY DOUBLE
over his vanishing face,
and the words of the Wanderer
returning, drawing him upwards,
the air in the words
sustaining him after belief
falls to the floors
of the waters that never were,
for somewhere the Old Man is saying,
is saying BELIEF IS A FACET OF CRYSTAL
THAT TURNING, CATCHES THE LIGHT
AND BENDS IT TO SHAPES AND MIRAGES,
BENDS IT TO FOXFIRE
THAT LIES AT THE HEART OF THE CRYSTAL,
WHERE NOTHING LIES BUT THE LIGHT
THAT IS DAMAGED AND BROKEN
BEYOND THOSE THINGS
YOU REMEMBER, MY SON, YOU REMEMBER,
and Riverwind, doused and redeemed
by the words, by the saving air,
is saying, OLD MAN, I HAVE PASSED THIS, TOO,
I AM LEARNING THIS MAPLESS COUNTRY.
Learning until the red of the moon,
the silver, combine in the air
and the light was gold
as the perfumed candles
of Istar, forgotten perhaps terrible,
and Goldmoon walks like a leopard
there at the edge of hearing and faith
saying LIE DOWN, GIVE THIS AWAY AT ONCE,
GIVE THIS AWAY BEFORE IT BEGINS,
OUR DARLING, OUR YOUNG ONE,
FOR YOU CAN LEARN ALL OF THIS MYSTERY,
ALL FROM THIS MYSTERY
DRY GRASS AND DARK AND YEARNING,
THE SOURCE OF THE CHILDREN
BLOSSOMS FOR YOU IN THE WINTER.
LIE DOWN, MY LOVE, LIE DOWN.
Still he walks toward the daughter of the chieftains,
and still she recedes, the story
of days and of years
circles like diving water
and Old Man, he whispers. Old Man,
I am learning this mapless country,
but still she recedes
into the arms and the keeping
of son after chieftain's son
rising like skins of the dead
spangled in stars forever before him,
forever embracing her as she turns,
her eyes green steeples of light,
her eyes his eyes in the twisting moon,
as she smiles, as she gives him to warriors,
and Old Man, he whispers. Old Man,
I AM GIVING THIS KNOWLEDGE AWAY,
THIS TERRIBLE DREAM OF THE STAFF
IS A TERRIBLE DREAM WHEN THE STAFF SURRENDERS,
and under the moons he follows
his losses until his skin turns against him,
dappling, gold upon black upon gold,
his strong hands remember a nest of knives
and the front of the head bows down
to the hot wind to the choir of leopards
and in her golden throat
in the throat of her numberless chieftains
the blood is dancing is rising
like a mirage like a thermal,
and there are no words for this
as he dreams this dream and the throats unravel.
Forward he moves, remembering nothing,
no movement and cry of the People
no hunt at the head of the movement
no horizons no crossing moons of the naming
nights.
He has left them behind him utterly,
surrendering all to the skin full of light,
of dark, of darkness boiling in light,
bone and muscle giving way
in imagined tunnels
of plains and movement.
Something behind him
sings in his ear, his left eye shining
straight through mirages
to the edge of the world,
and the smell of the blood is fading
to the smell of rock of water
and of things below rock and water
wise and lethal and good beyond thought.
Upright, out of the leopard's salvation
he stalks into light,
his first and his last skin
recalled and surrendered,
robed once more in the long dream shining.
There in a temple of rock,
cold, insubstantial as rain
cold as the silence of stone,
lies the Staff it is singing, singing
ARISE, YOU HAVE EARNED THIS PEACE
AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD,
BEHIND YOU A VANISHING COUNTRY.
TAKE ME UP LIKE A TROPHY,
LIKE A THIRD MOON IN THE SKY FAMILIAR,
AND INSTEAD OF THE ARM OF THE CHIEFTAIN, BECOME
THE CHIEFTAIN HIMSELF,
THE LORD OF A LAND OF LEOPARDS,
and Riverwind cold
as the silence of stones,
remembering the edge of the sky,
the dead children walking,
and the staff shines sudden
in the reach of his hand refusing.
There in his grasp the world rolls,
at the back of his head the voice of the leopard
descends into words, is singing
LIE DOWN, GIVE THIS AWAY AT ONCE,
GIVE THIS AWAY BEFORE IT BEGINS,
OUR SON, OUR YOUNG ONE,
FOR YOU CAN LEAM NOTHING OF THIS MYSTERY,
NOTHING FROM THIS MYSTERY
BUT DRY GRASS BUT DARK BUT YEARNING
BUT THE GRAVES OF YOUR CHILDHOOD
OPEN TO MOONLIGHT,
AND THE DEAD
THE UNSPEAKING DEAD YOU SEE
WHERE THE SKY MEETS THE PLAINS
WILL BE ALWAYS YOUR OWN, APPROACHING.
In the light of the Staff he surrenders the Staff.
More brightly it bums
as it shines on the country of trials,
on the three moons balancing now,
on the night turning in on the heart of the night
creating blue light, the light of the crystal
brought forth by the hand of the warrior
out of the lineage of leopards,
the long heart of the people
remembered past memory,
but Riverwind, cold as the silence of stones,
laughs the first time
since the west has vanished,
for this is the country
he knows he has failed in winning,
for under the plains lies nothing,
and victory walks in the skins of the children
through damaging years of light.
IV
The rest of the story is known to you,
how Riverwind, bearing the staff,
returned to the People,
the darkness of stones in his eyes,
what the Chieftain ordered,
(I was there to see it
my words this time could not stop them)
what the Staff in the hand of Goldmoon accomplished.
But this you may not know:
that in the pathways of light
from the plains to the Last Home riding
she said to him, NOW ARE YOU WORTHY,
NO LONGER IN MY EYES ONLY,
BUT NOW IN THE FALCON'S EYE OF THE WORLD
FOREVER THE STORY IS WALKING FOREVER THE STORY,
But Riverwind NO, and NO again
No to the fractured light of the staff,
for caught in the light his hand was fading,
through facet and facet unto the heart of the light,
and not of this earth was the third moon rising,
and the heart of the Staff
was his naming night.
HERE ON THE PLAINS WHERE THE WIND EMBRACES
LIGHT AND THE ABSENCE OF LIGHT,
WHERE THE WIND IS THE VOICE
OF THE GODS COME DOWN,
THE RUMOR OF SONG BEFORE SINGING BEGINS,
HERE THE PEOPLE UNDER THE WINDS
ARE WANDERING EVER TOWARDS HOME,
FOREVER IN MOVEMENT AN OLD MAN IS SINGING
THE SONG OF AN ABSENT COUNTRY,
BEAUTIFUL, HEARTLESS AS SUNLIGHT,
COLD AS IMAGINED WINDS
BEHIND THE EYE OF THE RAIN,
AND WIDE BEFORE US, MY SONS AND FATHERS,
THE SONG OF THE COUNTRY CENTERS AND SWOOPS
LIKE A HAWK IN A SLEEPING LAND,
BORNE UPON HUNGER AND THERMALS,
SINGING FOREVER, SINGING.
The Blood Sea Monster
Barbara Siegel and Scott Siegel
Out of breath - and nearly out of hope - I ran across the wet sand,
looking for a place to hide. After the terrible storm earlier that day,
running along the muddy beach felt like running in a huge bowl of thick
mush. But I ran just the same because Thick-Neck Nick, the village
baker, was dead-set after me.
I had lost Thick-Neck when I made a quick dash between
two buildings and headed down toward the sea. I
knew he might realize that I had come this way, but then I
saw my salvation: along the shore was a long row of fishing
boats.
Clutching the stolen loaf of bread close to my body, I
looked back over my shoulder. Thick-Neck hadn't yet
reached the beach. I took my chance and dove into the very
first boat.
After covering myself with a heavy netting, I took in
deep drafts of air, trying to catch my breath. I knew that if
Thick-Neck Nick lumbered by, he was sure to hear me.
I don't know how much time passed. When you're scared,
breathless, lying in rainwater up to your lower lip, and have
heavy fish netting on top of you shutting out the light, nothing
moves slower than time. Absolutely nothing.
But my heart started picking up its pace when I heard fast-
approaching footsteps. I cringed down at the bottom of the boat.
The rainwater covered my mouth. I had to breathe through my
nose.
The steps came closer.
摘要：

TalesIvolumeITheMagicofKrynnEditedbyMargaretWeisandTracyHickmanFOREWORD"No!No!Pleasedon'tleave!"criedTasslehoffBurrfootand,beforewecouldstophim,thekendergrabbedholdofourmagicaldevicethatwouldhavetransportedusoutofKrynnandranoffwithitdowntheroad!Sohereweare,backagain,readyformoreadventures.Ifyouareon...

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