The Day Of The Tempest

by Jean Rabe

  “Feril?” The kender took one last look at her fallen friends and the approaching spawn, and ran faster than she had ever run in her life.

  Chapter 2

  MIRIELLE ABRENA

  The Knight of Takhisis ran down the dusty path, his sheathed longsword slapping against his leg and threatening to tangle itself in his long black surcoat. He ran awkwardly, weaving around burning huts and the bodies of ogres who had foolishly dared to challenge his talon. They should have surrendered, he thought as he leaped over a decapitated corpse and through a cloud of insects drawn by the spreading pool of blood. The knights had offered them that opportunity. Why hadn’t they listened to reason? Other ogre clans were allied with the knights – they knew that to submit to the Order was the only prudent course.

  The knight paused a moment to catch his breath and to stare at the tiny body of an ogre girl. Twisted and broken, fixed eyes bulging, she looked like a discarded toy. She was one of the many children who had been killed during the attack. Couldn’t be helped, he knew. The knights typically avoided fighting those who couldn’t defend themselves. It wasn’t honorable, but sometimes children got in the way.

  He dashed toward a clearing at the far end of the village, where part of his unit was gathered. When he spied his commander, he slowed his pace to a walk, squaring his shoulders, taking long, measured steps – as if he were marching – just as he’d been taught since he joined the knighthood nearly three years ago. He brushed the dirt off his surcoat, and straightened his helmet. Coming to a halt in front of his commander, he sucked in his stomach, and snapped to attention. “Sir!” he said as he saluted. “The governor-general is coming, sir!”

  “Here, Arvel?”

  “Yes, sir! Knight-Officer Deron spotted the governor-general’s entourage heading through the gap, sir! He told me to inform you immediately, sir.”

  “Very good, Arvel. Fall in!”

  Arvel was quick to join the front-rank line. It would afford him the best chance to see the governor-general. Arvel was the smallest in the unit, gangly and all of thirteen years old, and he was also the youngest – though not by many months. The Knighthood of Takhisis inducted squires at an early age. It was practically unheard of to accept new recruits over the age of fifteen.

  His heart beat in anticipation as his commander quickly, but painstakingly, inspected each man. The governor-general – here – in an ogre village on the border of Neraka and Blöde! He stood at attention, excitedly waiting and trying to stand perfectly straight. His black mail weighed as much as he did, and he prayed to the departed Dark Queen to give him the reserve not to slouch. A trickle of nervous sweat ran down his brow, and he successfully fought the temptation to wipe it away.

  “Dress right!” the commander snapped.

  The young squire swung his head until his chin was even with his shoulder. He saw her then, riding slowly down the path toward them – Governor-General Mirielle Abrena.

  She was astride a massive black stallion that was as black as night and as black as the armor and tabard she wore. Her hair was blonde, though there were streaks of silver here and there on the curls that hung below her helmet and grazed her neck. She had sharp facial features and taut, unblemished, ruddy skin. Her dark blue eyes were narrow and perched above a small nose that looked slightly hawkish. Not an attractive woman, the young squire decided, though not at the same time unattractive. Powerful would best describe her, he thought, one whose bearing and manner drew and held stares.

  She was the only officer who had been able to reforge the scattered Knights of Takhisis into a proud Order again. She subjugated the draconians, hobgoblins, and ogres of Neraka, becoming governor-general of the land and head of the entire knighthood. And she was here – only a few yards away! Arvel drew in a deep breath and continued to stare. She must be at least fifty, he guessed, though she looked at least a decade younger. She was muscular, rigid, and showed no sign of fatigue under armor much heavier than his own.

  Behind her rode more than a dozen men, all on black horses. Most were Knights of the Lily like himself, the warriors of the Order. But Arvel spotted two men with embroidered crowns of thorns on their surcoats – proclaiming them to be members of the Order of the Thorns. Sorcerers.

  Mirielle Abrena effortlessly dismounted a few paces away, and nodded a greeting to the commander.

  “Governor-General Abrena!” he stated, saluting her and waving his hand to indicate his unit. “We are most honored by your unexpected visit.”

  “You took the village quickly,” she said, as she eyed the rows of men.

  “With only a few injuries to report, Governor-General. None of our knights were killed.” She paced in front of the first rank. “The ogres, commander. Did you take any prisoners?”

  She stopped only a few yards away from Arvel, and the squire’s heart pounded wildly. To be so close to her! This would be a day to remember for the rest of his life.

  “Only three, Governor-General. They fought like mad dogs, all of them. And they wouldn’t quit even when they knew they were beaten.”

  “Foolish” she said. “But admirable. Bring the three here.”

  She stood directly in front of Arvel now, her cold eyes boring into his. “Was this your first battle?” she asked.

  “No, Governor-General,” Arvel quickly replied. His throat was instantly dry, and his words cracked like dead twigs as they came out. “My third battle, Governor-General.”

  She pivoted on the balls of her feet and strode to a point several feet in front of the knights. The two sorcerers flanked her, standing silently as the prisoners were brought to her. The three ogres were young, little more than children. Their hands were bound behind their backs, and lengths of rope around their ankles hobbled them. They glared defiantly at her, and the largest muttered curses in the ogre tongue as they were forced to their knees.

  “You are undone,” she stated evenly. “We have your lands. Your fellows lie dead. You are all who remain of your clan.” Her voice was flat and emotionless. “This ground is pivotal to our planned expansion. From here, it will be easier to launch an assault into Sanction. It is crucial that we have access to the New Sea, and Sanction’s coast will allow us to expand our base of power.”

  “Much ground between here and Sanction,” the largest growled. “You’ll not get your port.”

  “No?” Her hand shot out, grabbing the young ogres throat. “Your village was merely the first step, and it fell easily.”

  “Many other villages “he rasped. “Much larger than this. you’ll be... undone.”

  “Tell me, how many ogres are in these neighboring clans?”

  His reply was to spit at her. Her retort was to snap his neck. The ogre dropped to the ground, and Mirielle swung toward the other two. “How many ogres in the neighboring villages?” she repeated. The closest glowered and shook his head. “Tell you nothing.”

  “Loyal to your fellows “she said in the same even tone. “I respect that.” Mirielle flicked her wrist and one of the sorcerers behind her stepped forward. His hand glowed red for an instant, and the insolent young ogre screamed. His skin bubbled and popped, as if he were being doused with boiling oil. His chest bulged outward, and the sorcerer raised his fist, squeezing and chanting. The young ogre pitched forward into the dirt, where he squirmed for a moment more before dying.

  She turned to the sole survivor, the youngest of the three. “Perhaps your tongue will be more accommodating?”

  The young ogre talked haltingly at first, stumbling over the words of the common tongue and filling in the governor-general on the position – to the best of his knowledge – of the nearest villages and the number of ogres there. Then the words came easier to him as he betrayed the dans’ defenses, the names of those chiefs he could recall, the times when ogre fighters were usually away to hunt.

  “Much better,” she said. The ogre looked at her hopefully, but she avoided his gaze, instead glancing at Arvel. She crooked her finger to motion him forward.


  The young squire of Takhisis swelled with pride, took a deep breath and marched toward her. “Yes, Governor-General?”

  “This one is of no more use to us,” she stated, gesturing at the ogre. “Kill him.”

  Arvel glanced at the ogre, likely only several years older than the dead child he’d spotted earlier. There was hatred in the ogre’s eyes, and fear. The young squire of Takhisis drew his blade, pushed the ogre to his stomach, and in one strong blow cut through the back of the ogre’s neck. Arvel inwardly beamed. He’d been given a direct order by the governor-general. He, of all the gathered knights, had been asked to perform this task. He wiped the blade on the ogre’s tunic, sheathed it, and snapped to attention.

  “See that the bodies are burned,” Mirielle said, continuing to address Arvel. “All of them. The huts, too – though not before they are searched. Turn all valuables over to these men, who will see to it that any choice treasures are taken to Neraka.” She indicated the sorcerers, then strode toward her horse. “Commander, a word with you.”

  Arvel watched his commander hurry to keep up with the governor-general, and heard some mention of dragons. Then he fell to the task of dealing with the corpses. What tales he would have to tell of this day!

  *

  “Commander, station your compgroup nearby, within sight of this village. Keep watches in the event any ogre clans come to investigate. Slay them. I’ll send more wings here within the week to bolster your ranks. When you’ve gathered enough men, take the next several villages. Use runners to report on your progress. When we are at squadron strength here, I will return and we’ll march toward Sanction “

  “Governor-General?”

  Her steely eyes locked onto his. “Yes?”

  “We are near the territory of Malystryx, the dragon overlord. Does the dragon know we’re taking this land for ourselves?”

  A hint of a smile crept across Mirielle’s face. “Malystryx is well aware of my plans. She has no objections, and we have nothing to fear from her at this juncture. After all, commander, we work with her and for her, not at cross-purposes.”

  He swallowed hard and risked another question. “Governor-General, you’ve assigned wings to the Blue, the Storm Over Krynn. Our units run Palanthas, Elkholm, Hinterlund, virtually all of the Northern Wastes for him. And the dragon financially rewards us. We gain nothing from the Red, yet you repeatedly send her knights. I see no reason why —”

  “The Red is the most powerful of the overlords, commander” Mirielle said tersely as she settled into the saddle. She gently tugged on the reins, and the stallion wheeled about. “Malystryx gives us our lives. I’d say that’s worth some measure of allegiance.”

  Chapter 3

  BLISTER’S PLUCK

  The kender glared into the entrance of the cave and nervously wrung her aching hands. Palin, Feril, Rig – all down there at the mercy of the spawn! She had been spared, but not left unscathed. Her back stung horribly where she had been struck by one of their bolts.

  “Wonder if my tunic is ruined?” she said to herself. “Wonder if I’m Weeding? Wonder if they’re all right?”

  She cocked her head and listened, but heard only the prattling of the trapped wyverns, their grating voices echoing off of the cavern walls. There was no whoosh of wings or a crackle of lightning. And no sounds from her friends.

  “I could go get help,” she said. “Sure, I could go back to the ship, get Jasper and Groller, Fury, Dhamon’s... er, Rig’s lance and then we could all come back here and rescue them. If they’re not dead by then. If they’re not dead already.”

  She glanced up at the dark sky, then down at the sand that stretched away from her in all directions — it looked gray in the scant light from the stars. “Probably couldn’t find the Anvil anyway. Can’t tell which way’s north.” The kender sucked in her bottom lip and took a tentative step toward the cave. “Can’t see in there without Palin’s magic light. Can’t see in the dark.” She took another step and carefully touched the rock of the cave’s entrance. She couldn’t feel the stone through the heavy fabric.

  “Somebody’s gotta help them. And I’m the only somebody here.” Blister gingerly pulled her gloves from her hands, revealing crippled, scarred fingers. She took another step forward and let the darkness envelop her. Then she raised her hand to the cave wall, and painfully started to feel her way down.

  Shaon had been the only one Blister ever told about the mishap that caused the disfigurement of her hands. Years ago, curiosity had demanded that Blister open a merchant’s chest and its magical trap left her with pain in her hands and scars that she tried to hide beneath an ever-growing assortment of gloves. Maybe the fact that Buster had confided in Shaon and told her the tale was one of the things that had cursed the first mate. Blister didn’t want to lose any more friends.

  The kender cringed as her fingers ran over a sharp outcropping. Her fingertips were so incredibly sensitive. They felt the air flowing in from the cave, the recirculating air flowing back out. And they felt the air stop when she approached an object that blocked its flow, like a rocky spire or the carcass of a camel.

  As the gibbering of the wyverns grew louder, Blister took in a lungful of air, and determinedly plunged deeper into the dragon’s lair.

  *

  I should have gone with them, Jasper Fireforge thought. Not that I have any love for the desert, but if I was with them, I wouldn’t be worrying. He leaned against the Anvil’s rail, stroked his short beard, and looked up at the stars. Feril, she can take care of herself. So can Rig. And Palin’s the most powerful sorcerer on Krynn. But taking the kender along. Well, that was certainly a double helping of foolishness. I should’ve objected, taken her place. After all, I promised Goldmoon I’d help Palin and his friends.

  The dwarf heard the deck creak behind him, and he looked over his shoulder. “Evening, Groller,” he said. Jasper immediately pursed his lips and shook his head. “Sorry,” the dwarf mouthed, waggling the fingers of his right hand in a greeting.

  The burly half-ogre grinned. “Jaz-pear not tard?”

  The dwarf held up his hands, then whirled them in front of his face. “Worried, my friend. Can’t sleep.”

  Groller nodded in understanding. “Rig strong, need dis trip. He be okay, need dis.” The half-ogre’s voice was thick and nasal, the words slurred together.

  “Needs the dead dragon’s treasure you mean. Wants it anyway.” Jasper cupped his left palm then placed the back of his right hand in it. He raised his right hand several inches, turned it over and wriggled his fingers. It was a hand sign Groller had taught him. It meant money. Jasper pantomimed scooping up steel pieces and running them through his stubby dwarven fingers.

  The half-ogre shook his head. “No. Rig need dis ‘cauz Rig loft Shaon. He hurd bad inside.”

  “He loved her a lot from what I gathered,” the dwarf said to himself. He nodded in agreement with Groller.

  “Hurd him bad inside dat Shaon’s dead,” Groller continued. “I link Rig wants dreasure ‘cauz dragons luf dreasure. Dragon took Shaon. Rig take dragon’s dreasure “

  “Sort of like a payback, even though the dragon’s dead?” Jasper sighed. “Well, I suppose that’s one way to look at it. I hope Rig finds what he’s looking for. But no amount of treasure will bring Shaon or Dhamon back. And no amount of treasure’s going to ease his loss. I know. I felt pretty empty for a long while after my Uncle Flint died.”

  Groller raised his eyebrows and cocked his head.

  “Sorry. I just don’t know enough of these gestures,” the dwarf grumbled. He made the sign for wealth again, then he pointed his index fingers at each other and circled them in front of his chest. It was the gesture for pain. Next, he shook his head furiously.

  “I duno,” Groller said. There was a sadness in the half-ogre’s eyes that Jasper hadn’t noticed before. “Dreasure heals nothing. Dreasure can’t make you ferget”

  “Hey, where’s your wolf?” the dwarf said, deciding to change the subject. He curved
the fingers of his right hand, centered them over his chest, then flung them up violently – the sign for Fury, the name of Groller’s red-furred lupine.

  Groller pointed at the deck and rested his head on his hand. “Sleep below,” he said. “Jaz-pear should too. Jaz-pear need rest. Morrow help me mend zails.”

  “I’m not handy with a needle” the dwarf said. He balled his fist, raised it level with the side of his head, and shook it. He had accepted the task. “Yes,” he said. Then he pantomimed sewing. “I’ll help you in the morning. But I’m going to stay up a while longer.”

  He returned his gaze to the shore of the Northern Wastes. “I think I’ll stand here and worry a little more. I should’ve gone with them. A double helping of foolishness, taking a kender along.”

  Chapter 4

  A GRIM FATE

  “Stuck still,” the large wyvern grumbled. It struggled against the rock floor that firmly held its taloned feet.

  “Forever us stuck?” the other asked.

  Feril awoke to the pair’s annoying banter. She was surrounded by a solid inky blackness. Her head pounded and her shoulder stung terribly where she’d been struck by the spawn’s lightning, but at least she was alive. She expected the spawn to kill her and perhaps reunite her with Dhamon wherever spirits drifted. But, for some reason, the spawn had left her alive.

  The Kagonesti’s hands were behind her back, tied with a hard, bumpy cord that cut into her wrists so tightly that her fingers were numb. Her ankles were similarly bound, and she was propped uncomfortably against the cave wall.

  She concentrated on the odors in the still air and immediately picked up the stench of the wyverns – she was within several yards of them. The Kagonesti’s keen sense of smell noticed other scents, too: sweat, blood, the faintly musky odor of the mariner, the smell of leather – most likely her companions’ sandals and belts. There was an unusual fetor that she couldn’t quite place, but it hung heavy in the air. Spawn, she decided. She listened now, trying to block out the absurd jabbering of the trapped wyverns. There – breathing, regular, human. Rig and Palin still lived. And there was a soft shuffling sound. It was coming closer.