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By now the new star had risen high in the sky, huge and bright enough to shine through the mist. It hung over the mountains, glimmering like a single crimson eye. Malar threw up his arms and crowed with triumph. It was as he thought. The King-Killer had returned.
Perhaps some gods understood the rhythm of the stars, and marked the occasional coming of the brilliant red star. Malar was not such a god. But he remembered one thing-one very important thing. For reasons unknown, when the King-Killer shone bright above Faerun, the dragons gathered and took flight.
At last, Malar knew how best to serve vengeance to Evermeet.
The god began to dance in the dim red light of the King-Killer. Tendrils of godly magic wafted off to search for the Beast Lord's followers, and to slip into the dreams of those who listened. To all his priests and shamans Malar sent the same message:
Gather the faithful. The time has come for a Great Hunt.
The orc horde crashed through the forest, making no effort to conceal their presence or to mute the sound of their approach. There didn't seem to be much point. The path of the dragonflight had passed over this land, leaving a broad swath of charred and lifeless forest.
"Don' know why we's acomin' thisaway," muttered a young, gray-hided orc who trailed along near the end of the procession. This was his first raid, and so far it had fallen far short of his expectations. A Great Hunt, indeed! They had yet to kill a single elf. Even four-legged game was scarce.
His companion shrugged and shifted his own unbloodied spear to the other shoulder. "Vapgard sez come, we come."
"Not find nothing here," the gray grumbled. "Why dragons gotta burn forest, anyhow?"
"Hmmph! You not remember the hungry winter? Hard snow. Too many wolves come south. Hard for orcs to find game."
The gray orc grunted. Of course he remembered. He had not yet been old enough to be accounted a fighter, but he'd been old enough to hunt. His ears still rang with the memories of his mother's blows when he came back to the cave day after day with an empty bag.
"What we do back then?" his companion persisted.
"Ah!" The orc bared his fangs in a grin as he grasped the meaning. "Some orcs burn forest. Other orcs, many many, wait by river."
"I hear Vapgard's brother float boats down river. Boats carry many orcs-more than many. They wait. We come behind." The orc stopped his march and planted his spear into the thick layer of ash. He held up his taloned hands. "Them, us," he said gesturing first with one hand, then the other. With a fierce grin, he smacked his palms together.
"Smash 'em," agreed the gray happily.
So encouraged, the young orc marched without complaint through the remainder of the day. By late afternoon, the horde had left the ruined forest behind. Ancient charred trees gave way to scrub, and then to meadow.
A howl of excitement started at the front of the mob and rippled back through the horde. The orcs began to surge forward. The gray waited for the wave of movement to reach him, and grant him space to run-and to kill.
"Long past time," he grunted when at last he could level his spear. He ran out onto the meadow, noting that the grass was not only dried and brittle from dragonfire, but slick with blood. He pulled up short to keep from stumbling over what appeared to have been the haunch of a wood buffalo. Probably a morsel that fell from some dragon's mouth.
The horde had spread out by now, and the orc had a better view of the battlefield. It was not what he had hoped for.
The field was littered with bodies-some of them forest creatures that the dragons had not eaten, but most of them elves. Some had been torn by massive claws and fangs, some blasted by dragonfire, others melted to the bone by a black dragon's acid breath. The carnage was entertaining to observe, but it offered neither sport nor satiation. The young orc wanted to kill. He needed to kill.
Baring his fangs, he began to zigzag back and forth across the field, imitating the older orcs who kicked and prodded at the elven bodies. Every now and then, one of them found an elf who yet breathed. Each discovery was heralded by triumphant howls, and the sounds of thudding clubs and spears.
But the young orc's status had placed him too near the back of the horde, and he was too late to claim any of the trophies taken that day. It occurred to him, when at last the secondhand battlefield fell silent, that this was not hunting at all, not really. They were more like ravens and wolves, cleaning up after the dragons.
The gray shrugged. Ravens and wolves-these were not so bad to be. And if he could not kill elves today, then tomorrow was nearly as good. The river was but a half day's march to the south. Along the edge of the river was a large elven settlement. Though it had been fortified with walls and magic, it would fall readily enough. How could it not? The forest elves, archers and fighters who were the city's advance defenders, were all dead. Moreover, the dragonflight usually followed the course of the river, and surely dragonfire had tumbled parts of the walls, perhaps even toppled those wicked Towers. And there were many, many orcs on the move, orcs who were in near-frenzy from their first taste of slaughter.
Tomorrow, the elven city. Tomorrow, the joy of the hunt and the pride of many trophies would be his.
Chandrelle Durothil, the powerful daughter of Evermeet's high councilor, led her Circle in yet another spell of summoning. Even through the deep concentration of the spell, she could hear the unmistakable sounds of dragonflight beyond the tower windows-the thumping of giant wings, the screams and roars the massive creatures emitted as they wheeled and swooped.
She could also feel the powerful crackle of the magic that thrummed through the air. On all of Aber-toril, no creatures, not even the elves, were as inherently magical as the dragons. Only the rebirth of the dragonriders, the union of dragons and elves in an incredible joining of magic, offered the elves hope of survival against the approachng orc hordes.
The elves of Faerun were not the only people to suffer from the flight of rampaging dragons. Wars between the races of dragons had been long and costly. Now the evil dragons of the south-red dragons, mostly, with a few smaller but no less deadly blacks-gathered together in nearly unprecedented numbers for the northward migration. Along the way, they deliberately destroyed the holdings of the peace-loving wyrms. Bronze dragons found their lakes reduced to drifting steam and cracked, lifeless beds. Gouts of flame melted rock, sealing entrances to the caves of silver and gold dragons and trapping many of the creatures within.
Chandrelle had been among the first elves to travel through the new gates that in recent years had linked Evermeet to the mainland. Her husband, a newcomer and a distant relative who also bore the name Durothil, had helped establish the gate between Evermeet and the city of his birth.
Now the city lay in near ruin. Once, it had been a fair place, protected by walls and powerful magic, and situated on the banks of a broad, trout-filled river. Dragonfire had destroyed the farmlands and forests beyond, and had blasted huge gaps in the walls. An entire quarter lay in smoking ruins. Only the mithal, a powerful shield of magic, had kept the city from utter destruction.
But the Tower still stood, High magi joined with the scores of other magi sent from Evermeet to help buttress the tower. They chanted powerful spells that summoned and bound the goodly dragons. In ancient times, dragonriders trained their mounts from birth, bonding to them with deep and mystical co
Shouts of excitement from the city below alerted the magi to their success. Chandrelle skillfully tapered off the flow of power and released the magi from their collective spellcasting.