Awakenings
The dwarfs eyelids snapped open. He could feel the chains on his wrists, recognized the pangs of malnutrition in his belly, and knew each scar the lash had scored into his back. These were echoes of suffering, insignificant details from a wasted, vanished time in his life. His empty sockets-his eyes had been torn out by the torturer's tongs twenty years ago-gaped vacantly, but a word of magic brought him a new eye, floating beside him, studying the surroundings, noting every detail of the filthy, wretched dungeon.
Now, tonight, for the first time in more than forty years, he remembered where he was-more important, who he was. That identity was a picture in clear, sharp focus, a stark contrast to the confused and tortured ramblings that had teased and tormented him for so many sunless years. That interval was over, banished into the past with the rest of his suffering.
Another simple spell snapped the manacles; the shattered metal brackets fell to the floor with a clang. He strode to the door of the cell, ready for more magic, yet the ancient door yielded to a simple push-it had not even been locked! He sneered at this proof that his captors had grown complacent. They would pay for their folly.
His arcane eye guided him down the dungeon hall and around the corner to the chamber where the two turnkeys gambled and were sharing a bottle of dwarf spirits. The magic of the spell showed him the room a split second before he came into view. One of the turnkeys, a grizzled Theiwar dwarf with a wildly bristling beard, looked up in surprise.
"Hey!" he barked. "Mad Willi's loose-did you forget to lock his chains?"
"Me?" snapped his counterpart. "I ain't been down there fer days!"
"Well, lock him up-I'll watch the cards."
"Like the Abyss, you will! Let the blind old fart find his own way back!"
"I am not Mad Willi," the former prisoner said calmly. Both dwarves gaped at him-they had been on the job for decades, and had never heard a rational statement out of the old wretch. The Theiwar reacted first, lunging for a short sword hanging from the wall. He died before he touched the hilt, his heart stopped by a terrible word of power.
"Hey, Willi!" pleaded the other dwarf, a Daergar. His milky white skin was slick with perspiration. "Take it easy!"
"I am not Mad Willi," he repeated, a moment before the other turnkey started to die-much more slowly than his fellow, as the newly freed prisoner cast a spell of strangulation, a noose that tightened gradually over the thrashing victim's throat.
"I am Willim the Black," he declared, feeling the sensation again: the song of the black moon coursing through his veins. Nuitari had returned, and the black moon's faithful servant had awakened to him in his cell. "I have business in the forest." He was speaking to a pair of corpses, now, but that didn't matter.
"Let all the dwarves of Theibardin know-when I am finished with that, I shall return, and they will pay."
The dungeon door exploded outward, the result of an exultant lightning bolt. Willim the Black strode through the streets of the dwarven city, toward the surface of Krynn, and toward Wayreth Forest beyond.
"Rasilyss-get back in bed! Where are you?"
The old man's voice was trembling, in a mixture of age and concern. He held a small lantern up, yellow beams of light playing around the yard behind the small cottage. It didn't take him long to find his wife near the chicken coop, her skinny calves visible below the hem of her tattered nightgown.
"Come, dear," he said gently, hobbling forward on his own age-weary legs. " 'Twon't be dawn fer hours, yet. You need yer sleep, ya know."
"It is the Night of the Eye," said the old woman, a remark that drew her husband up sharply.
"What did you say?" he demanded.
"Look," said Rasilyss, pointing toward the western sky.
"Eh? You know I can't see beans on my plate without my specs!" the old man snapped. But, in truth, he didn't need his eyeglasses to see the two moons, red and white and both full, slowly sinking from the zenith. "Yer imagining things again. Now, come on, woman! You need yer rest."
"I have been resting for too many years," said his wife, in a voice that the man hardly recognized. Her voice was calm and reasoned, with an underlying hint of elation that brought a pang to his heart. There was no trace of confusion there, no sign of the age-malady that, as often as not, made her unable to recognize him, even unable to remember her own name.
"It's the magic, is it?" he asked in a tone of resignation. "Has it come back to you?"
"Yes, Hanc, my beloved. Yes, it has," she said tenderly. "I have felt the summons of Lunitari."
"So…" His heart was breaking. "So… you'll be leaving, now."
She came to him in strong strides that belied her frail appearance, her stooped posture. His wife reached up to caress his stubbly cheek, with a hand that was steadier than it had been in many decades.
"You took good care of me, all these years," Rasilyss said. "And I'd love you for that, even if you hadn't stolen my heart when I was a young girl. If I can come back when I am finished, I will. But, you are right, I have to go."
"I understand," he said, shuffling behind her as she went into the house and pulled the red robe out of the trunk where it had been stored for so many years. She dusted it off while he found her old walking shoes, the ones she hadn't worn since her illness had confined her to the house six winters ago. "I hope your goddess watches over you," he said quietly.
"She will," said Rasilyss. "And I think she will watch over you, as well."
Hanc made no reply as she walked down the lane and turned onto the King's Road, the highway running to the west. He waited until she was out of hearing, and then he began to weep.
"Are you awake. Have you seen it?" Adramis asked, speaking so quietly that-even if there had been others present-his words would have been inaudible to all, except Aenell. His twin sat up straight, her eyes wide, and she nodded solemnly.
"Yes. I can picture it in my mind," she replied in the same almost telepathic whisper. "A wondrous thing!"
"You have to come outside to see it for real-it's beautiful. The most beautiful thing I have ever seen!"
He took her by the hand, leading her from the tent she shared with several dozen other elf women. The two elves made their way through the sprawling camp, past the low fires and the multitude of slumbering refugees, many of whom were sheltered only by the blankets wrapped around their slim, shivering bodies. The two siblings avoided looking upward, in common agreement, until they were past the last of the fires and the full vastness of the night yawned before them.
Then they stopped and craned their necks, turning their wondering eyes to the vault of the sky. The three moons beamed down at them in the full zenith of the Night of the Eye. Solinari to the left, Lunitari to the right… and between-keenly sensed by the twin elves even though they could not see it-the shadow of Nuitari in the middle.
The moons seemed to be dancing up there, pulsing and shimmering in a strangely compelling pattern. There was no sound in the night, but in the hearts of the two elves-both of whom had been apprentice wizards more than forty years earlier-the rhythm of the night rang out as a hypnotic song.
"Sister, we must go," said Adramis.
"I know," Aenell replied. "I have what I need, right here."
He looked at her and saw that her thin cotton sleeping gown now gleamed with the brightness of Solinari. It had become a full robe, warmly enfolding the elf woman's slender body. When Adramis looked down, he saw that he, too, was wearing the garb of their order; his simple sleeping tunic had likewise been transformed.
"I had thought never to feel this white cloth against my skin again," he said, reverently. "It is a blessing."
"A blessing, yes. But I know that it does not come without cost. We are needed, my brother-let us depart."
The two elves, still hand in hand, walked past the sprawling camp, the makeshift city forming a crude shelter for thousands of their Qualinesti cousins, all driven from their homeland, now come here in poverty and ruin to the Plains of Dust. As
Adramis and Aenell passed, many of those elves came forth from the tents and huts and lean-tos, and gathered at the edge of the camp, watching in silence as the twins walked past. Solinari shone bright upon them, and their white robes gleamed like a flare, the reflection casting shadows through the camp.
Before them loomed mountains, the massive barrier of the High Kharolis. They would cross those mountains, for their destination was the forest beyond.
The old woodcutter emerged from the thicket, his bow and arrows slung easily across his shoulders as he entered the yard around his little hut. The three dogs came out to greet him, tails wagging, ears flapping, all of them barking delightedly. They frolicked around him as he pushed open the unlocked front door. The man raised a hand and pointed, and the wick of his oil lamp immediately flickered into life.
What a simple pleasure that spell was, and the next one was, too-he snapped his fingers and a fire blazed in the stove, heating the water for his tea as he sat down in his solitary chair, idly scratching the head of his favorite hound as he pondered. It was the Night of the Eye, he knew, the first since the gods had returned to Krynn.
He had been using his magic, quietly, privately, here in the woods ever since the gods returned, but in those months he had never viewed the renewal of magic as having any significant impact on the remaining course of his life.
It had been such a fleeting joy, for, as a teenager, he had first learned the ways of magic; then the gods had vanished from the world-taking their powers with them-just as he was beginning to master the ways of his new craft. The pain of that loss had been so great, that he might easily have perished; certainly he knew of other young wizards who had died chiefly from grief or madness. At length he had grown used to a life barren of that joy. Still, his early dalliance with magic explained why he had never taken a wife. No woman, no relationship with anyone could replace that thrill.
When the magic had gone, he had moved here, and for forty years had lived his life in the forest; he had grown used to solitude, so much so than now he craved it, disdaining the company of fellow human beings. For the greater portion of his life, he had made a simple life in the woods, with only his dogs for company. When the gods had returned, he had seen no reason to move. The few years that were left to him would be eased, slightly, by his magic. But he had had no desire, not the slightest wish, to mingle again with the rest of the world.
Until tonight.
He had heard the summons while he had been night-hunting in a glade a mile from his home. The spell had come from far away, in the east. His reaction had been instant and instinctive: He had hurried home as fast as his old legs could carry him. Now he rose from his chair and pulled open his wardrobe. There it was, tucked in. the back, where it had lain folded for more than forty years.
With loving hands he removed the red robe, dusted it off, and put it on. It still fit him. Perfectly.
"Come on, dogs," he said, throwing a few possessions into a small knapsack and pulling the door shut behind him as he left. "We've got a long walk ahead of us."
The crowd was cheering wildly, now, and Sirene could tell from the noise that the steel coins were piling up in her little dish. She danced around, taking stock of the marks, deciding which deserved an extra smile or shimmy-and which she could afford to ignore. A few draconians in the near corner fell into the latter group. They weren't tipping, and one of them had pawed her leg so aggressively he left a mark. With a bump of her hip and a sneer, she knocked their table over on her next pass around the room.
"Make way for some paying customers, you louts," she said over her shoulder as she danced past.
The reptilian warriors leaped to their feet, ready to fight, but they were quickly pushed out of the way by a number of customers eager to claim their coveted spot so close to the stage. Two ships from Ergoth had docked that very afternoon and their crews had spilled ashore, eager for an evening's entertainment. They hadn't seen a woman in months, and their pockets bulged with money.
Sirene was pleased to see a band of these sailors claim the newly righted table, elbowing aside the outnumbered draconians. Sullenly, the reptilian warriors skulked to the bar in the back of the room.
Sirene slithered back up onto the stage, undulating, dropping yet another of the silky veils that barely served to conceal her charms. She knew that the males found her exotic looks attractive. The slender half-elf wondered how they would feel if they knew that this nubile wench they were drooling over was more than a hundred years old! For decades she had been dancing here at the Barnacle Bar, and she knew that her appearance hadn't aged more than a few years-to human eyes-during that whole stint.
Dancing was all she had, now, but it hadn't always been like this. Decades ago she had studied magic, worked hard over spell books and laboratory tables, developing an art that she intended to guide her toward a great future. That dream, like so many others, had been shattered in the wake of the Chaos War, with the departure of the gods. She had heard the talk of the moons coming back, but she had paid little attention. The teeming city was her life, and she had no time for ancient games of magic.
Now the music was building, the drummer and flute player giving it all they had. Sirene dipped and swirled across the stage, dropping the last veil to a chorus of cheers A steady rain of coins poured into her cup. Another minute to let the frenzy run its course, and then she would be done for the night.
She was striking a final pose, peering enticingly at a happy drunk sitting behind her, when she felt the summons. It came through the air, from far beyond this bar, this city, this desolate realm, thrumming in her heart, awakening passions in her belly that she thought were gone forever.
And it brought tears to her eyes.
She was in such a hurry that she left her tips on the stage, drawing an amazed look from Fairie, who was due to go on next. Sirene went straight to the little cubby that served as her dressing room, glaring so fiercely at the protesting innkeeper that he had to step aside. In her tiny cubicle, she pulled out a gown of black fabric, all that was left of her ancient robe. It would have to do, she knew-she wasn't going to wait around for a tailor shop to open in the morning.
Putting on the black robe, she vanished into the night.
He smelled puke-his own vomit-but didn't have the strength to roll over. After all the whiskey he had drunk, he should have slept through till mid-morning, yet he could see a pale hint of dawn along the horizon. For a time he simply lay there, head pounding, nostrils and whiskers clogged with the stink of his own bile.
Groaning, he at last pushed himself to his hands and knees, feeling the usual trembling in his limbs. Where in the Abyss was that bottle? He groped around until his hand closed around the familiar, smooth neck. Shaking it, he felt the weight of just a small amount, a few precious sips of bitter rotgut, sloshing around in the bottom.
Carefully he shifted around to a sitting position, expecting his guts to start heaving at any time. Yet, strangely, his stomach felt all right, and even the throbbing between his temples was fading rapidly.
Finally he stood halfway upright, leaning against one of the shacks that formed this secluded alley, the place where he had been drinking too much and sleeping it off for so many years. He raised the bottle, brought the mouth to his lips-
And then he glimpsed the moon.
Solinari was setting, full and white and even larger than normal because of its proximity to the horizon. He could see that white orb clearly, as he had since its return to Krynn some months ago, but now, for the first time, he sensed that it was calling him.
There was a second's pause as he looked at the bottle, then decisively, he cast it away. Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself to his feet, ready to lean on the shack for balance. But his legs were feeling strong, his breathing grew steady-he wasn't even drunk anymore!
His eyes fell upon the dirty brown rag of his garment, and he felt a crush of shame that brought tears to his eyes. Again, he looked to that moon, and made a silent plea for forgiven
ess.
The blessing of Solinari flowed around him, a shower of cool white light encircling, washing, and warming him.
By the time he started toward the end of the alley, he was fully awake, and his robe, though still tattered, was a gleaming, ivory white.
And so the smoke from the three globes fanned out across the world, serving as beacons of the gods of magic, seeking, searching, and finding those few magic users who had survived, who had lived through the long twilit years when their gods had been absent from the world. The vaporous tendrils spanned mountains, pierced the deepest jungle, and scoured the deserts. They reached deep into the ground, through caverns and dungeons, and penetrated to the upper vaults of the loftiest castles. Mostly the plumes flowed past, but every so often one found a latent coal, an ember of magic that was kindled to life, fanned into a renewed flame.
For more than four decades the followers of the three gods had known only a painful absence, gaping holes where the cherished part of their lives had cruelly stolen away. There was nothing to reward the faith and the skills of those lost souls-no power, no hope, no future.
Many of their number had died, as often as not in wretchedness and despair. Others had turned to wild magic, seduced so fully that they would never be called back. Indeed, there were many sorcerers who cowered and cringed under the Night of the Eye. They felt in that prominence of moonlight the presence of an enemy, an intractable and revitalized foe.
As to those whose magic was kindled, be it black, red, or white, they were awakened, they knew resurgent hope on the Night of the Eye And they turned their steps toward Wayreth Forest.
Chapter 22
The Bastion
Will this cursed night never end?" demanded Kalrakin, stalking through the largest room in the Tower, the Hall of Mages. The ceiling was lost in the vast black space, obscured by shadows; the sorcerer's words echoed as he threw back his head and shouted skyward. "Those moons taunt me, vex me. If they would but come closer, I would smite them all!"
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