Dragon Bell 1

Dragon Bell

1

Somewhere in the highest peaks of the imperious Stoneheart Mountains, looking down over the baking Terwan Uplands of Nuria Natal, lies a steep-sided hidden vale. Within that vale, hewn into the granite bedrock of the mountains, is the great city of Cloudspire, home to the reclusive Skyseeker Dwarfs.
It is writ that once these Dwarfs lived far below the mountains, but the lurking threats and monstrous perils of the Underdark had driven them on a relentless Quest for Sky, and so they dug their way upward, ever upward until they broke into a vast, azure cavern like nothing they had ever seen.
Not recognising that their quest was complete, and being the supranatural cavers that they are, the Dwarfs continued to excavate, eventually breaking through the sky into the Elemental Plane of Air, where they were laughed at by the resident djinni, couatls, air mephitis, and sylphs.
Only one species did not laugh, so impressed they were by the Dwarfs’ skilful feat of engineering: the Cloud Dragons. They gently explained the Dwarfs’ error to them, and helped them back to their domain, and ever since the two have had a mutual respect that has formed over the centuries into an unbreakable alliance.

The Nineteenth day of Eleint, in the Year 2020 of the Nurian Era…

“Come on! This way!”
Quelenna the tabaxi druid scampers up the mountain pass that overlooks the central bowl of Cloudspire, the great Dragon Bell hanging silently over the vast edifice of the Sky Citadel. She beckons to her friend Aera, the aarakokra sorcerer, to follow.
“Come on! It’ll be worth it! You’ve never seen anything like this before!” she yells, and runs on ahead. Presently she stops and waits. “Now, stay low. And keep quiet.”
They reach the summit of the ridge, and tentatively peer over. They are looking down into a canyon whose base is a flat plateau, which steps to a sudden drop – Volund only knows how deep. Upon the plateau is a group of Dwarfs, wrapped in furs and holding golden sceptres, their long, vibrant pink and purple-dyed beards flapping wildly in the icy wind.
And, looming over them, are four gargantuan dragons with beautiful curving horns draped in gold.
“The biggest one is Cykkuris. She’s older than the mountains, so they say!” whispers Quelenna.
Aera can only gape, her hooked peregrine’s beak falling open in wonder.
They strain their ears and listen. One of the Dwarfs, who wears a jewelled eye patch, is speaking:
“Aye, the Copper Fellowship have excelled themselves with a fine piece of craftsmanship,” he says. “It’ll be on its way tonight, if all goes to plan.”
One of the dragons snakes its great head towards him, its breath steaming in the cold air.
“Very good,” it says in a resonant voice that belies its power. “The Cantons need only toll, and we shall go to their aid immediately.”
The meeting disbands, the Dwarfs processing through a rune-adorned archway in the cliff face, the dragons beating their monumental wings and taking to the sky. They circle upwards as Quelenna and Aera instinctively flatten themselves to the rock. One dragon swoops low overhead, and Aera could swear it looked her straight in the eye before it turned its massive head and flapped lazily off towards the Aeyries in the distant peaks.
“Told you it’d be worth it,” winks Quelenna, and skips away back down the escarpment towards Cloudspire.
Before long, they round a bend in the trail and come face to face with two Dragon Wardens of the Humble Fellowship.
“Now then, what do we have here?” says one. “A tabaxi and an aarakokra, spying no doubt on the Assembly of Kings! I think you two had better come with us…”
Looking at the Dwarfs’ wicked-looking halberds and shining plate armour, it would appear foolish to resist. The friends submit and are just handing over their weapons when there is a sudden cry from the ridgeline above.
“Those are the ones!” comes a high, guttural voice. “Master said to snuff ‘em out! Get ‘em, boys!”
And the air is suddenly thick with arrows as six blue-scaled Mbe’ke kobolds emerge from their hiding places and attack.
“An ambush!” shouts one of the Dwarfs, throwing Quelenna and Aera their arms. “Protect yourselves!”
The fight is swift and bloody. It seems the kobolds were not expecting such resistance, neither the white draconic sorcery of Aera’s bloodline nor the druidic magic of Quelenna’s quarterstaff. Soon the diminutive lizard-creatures are lying dead or unconscious.
“You fought bravely,” utters one of the Dwarfs, clasping Quelenna’s shoulder with his thick, bloody hand. “We will speak highly of you to the King.”
“The King?”
“Aye. Where did y’think we were taking you? Only now, you shall accompany us unbound, as free citizens.”
Soon they are being led through the towering, gleaming halls of the citadel, past solemn guards and through enormous, golden double doors into the throne room of King Thabsing Bloodeye. From his seat, he signals one of the Dragon Wardens to approach.
After exchanging a few low words, he turns his solitary eye upon Aera and Quelenna, and gestures that they should come forward. Their footsteps echo and amplify through the marble, columned hall. Instinctively, they prostrate themselves before the throne.
“There is no need to fear,” he says in a soft and kindly voice, adjusting his gem-encrusted eyepatch. “My Warden tells me y’are resourceful and daring, for y’were caught spying upon the Assembly of Kings. Not only that, but y’fended well against the kobolds who ambushed you. This kind of skill I can make good use of.
“Now, news has come to my ears, via the Celestial Fellowship, that there is an awful blight come to the North, and even the Akrin Orcs of the Mithral Mountains are held in the sway of some dark sorcery.
“I fear our brothers in the Ironcrag Cantons are in grave peril. As such, I have commissioned the Copper Fellowship to forge a replica of our own Dragon Bell. The Sky Sages of Perun have imbued it with powerful rune magic, and even now it is being loaded on to a Skyskiff to be transported this very night to our Khazad brethren in the Lost Lands.
“Should our brothers encounter fell sorcery that they cannot resist, they may toll the bell, and the Cloud Dragons will teleport immediately to their aid. All it takes is one resounding strike of the bell.”
“But sire,” dares Quelenna. “Surely your own Skygalleons should undertake such an important mission, and not such lowly subjects as we?”
“That I would,” says the king, stroking his thick, magenta beard. But alas, the Corsair Wars are intensifying, and I cannot spare either men nor ships of my Skyfleet. No, this must be undertaken in stealth, by cover of darkness, upon one swift and solitary skiff. Your vessel is small but fast, if slightly dilapidated. ‘Tis dubbed the Aluminium Falcon. Are y’up to the task?”
Quelenna falters for a moment.
“It would be our honour, O King,” says Aera, and bows.
And with that they are escorted from the throne room. The Wardens tell them to rendezvous at the skydocks at dusk, and they rush home to make their preparations.
However, they do not get far, for as they pass the docks they hear an almighty commotion – yelling and shouting and the unmistakable ring of steel upon steel. They hurry in the direction of the hubbub to see several kobolds – some red-skinned, others blue-skinned like the ones that attacked them earlier – skirmishing with dockland guards. Others are busy sawing through the ropes of a small skyship that nestles like a toy between two immense, four-masted galleons.
“That’s it!” comes a deep, gravelly voice from the skyskiff. “Cut the ropes! The bell is ours now!”
And with that, the last of the anchor ropes is severed, the skystone at the back of the skiff begins to glow and thrum, and the vessel begins to float unsteadily upwards. Some kobolds scrabble desperately up the dangling ropes, whilst others fall screaming to land with sickening thuds on the dock below.
“Quickly!” cries Quelenna. “That must be the Aluminium Falcon!”
And with unnatural speed she sprints towards the slow-rising skiff, and leaps for the frayed end of the lowest rope. Her claws just close around the last foot of line and, swinging her feet up acrobatically, she shins with stealthy feline agility up to the ship’s gunwale, silently unslinging her bow as she goes.
Meanwhile, Aera takes to the air with a beat of her wings, loading her crossbow as she flies, and holding a dagger in her beak. As she soars above the deck, she spies several more kobolds, some of them winged, surrounding a hulking dragonborn, scaled black with swirling red tattoos and studded leather armour. Twined about the top of his longbow is a tiny pseudodragon, its scales pink and almost translucent.
“Looks like we’ve got company, Puddles,” the dragonborn sneers arrogantly as he glares up at Aera.
The pseudodragon peers upwards from its perch, and mimics its master’s sneer.

To be continued…