The Day Of The Tempest

by Jean Rabe

  The heat didn’t bother Fissure. A faerie, and a master of the element of earth, he took the weather in stride, willing his body to allow the waves of warmth to pass through it like the wind blew through an open window. But he detested the light that came with heat. The huldrefolk coveted the shadows where they could hide and slip among the inhabitants of Krynn unnoticed. But being here – at this hour – was a necessity if he was to keep the Blue happy and cooperative.

  A scorpion skittered across his path, pausing for an instant. It looked up at the odd little man, then skittered away, apparently uninterested in him.

  “Now there’s an idea.” The huldrefolk thrust his thin fingers into the sand and brought up two handfuls. He held his palms out to his sides, like plates on a scale, and let a little bit of sand slip through the fingers of his right hand until the small piles seemed identical in weight.

  “Life springs from the earth,” he said matter-of-factly. “Let life spring from this sand.” His large black eyes grew wide in concentration, and wrinkles formed across his otherwise featureless gray brow. He pictured the scorpion in his mind, and his senses focused on the sand. He felt the pleasing coarseness of the grains of sand agitating in his palms. He directed the magical energy that flowed through his veins to agitate the grains faster, then to meld them together into two liquid blobs. For each of the two shapes, he envisioned eight legs, lobsterlike claws, and a flat, narrow body the color of obsidian. Then he imagined for each a tail that curved up and over the body and ended in a needlelike stinger.

  The vibrations stopped and Fissure glanced at his hands. A scorpion sat in each palm – each lifelike, though unmoving, and each roughly eight inches long. Smiling at his constructs, he gingerly placed them on the sand in front of him, a few yards apart, then scooted a safe distance away.

  “You’ll do. I think you’ll do nicely,” he said to himself. He pushed his palms against the desert floor and rocked back and forth. “Now, let’s make you suitable for the Storm.” His fingers glowed blue and the light raced to the tiny statues and engulfed them, surrounding them like halos. “That’s it,” he encouraged, “more now.” The glow brightened and spread outward in a sphere shape, and the scorpions began to move slightly within their prisons of blue light. Their tails twitched, their lobsterlike pincers opened and closed, and their heads turned so they could better see their creator. Then the twin glowing spheres folded in on themselves, and the scorpions absorbed the arcane energy and began to grow.

  Fissure watched with satisfaction as they doubled in size, then doubled again and kept growing. “A little larger,” he commanded, and the scorpions seemed to comply. Their mandibles rose above his diminutive form, and they kept growing until he could see the underside of their glossy, segmented abdomens. “There. That should do it.” He stood and scrutinized his creations. Each was four feet tall from the ground to its chitinous back, and each was a little more than twice that long. Their tails curved upward and writhed like snakes, and the huldrefolk smugly noted a trace of venom on each point.

  “Almost perfect,” he judged. “Now, unfortunately, for the finishing touch.” He shuffled forward, stepping between the two. He tugged on his right hand until it came loose from his wrist, and then worked the hand like clay, forming a ball that he thrust into one of the creature’s mouths. Fissure repeated the process with his left hand and the other scorpion, then looked down at his marred stumps. Already the hands were growing back. He could shape his body like a sculptor shaped clay, although now there would be a little less clay to work with next time.

  “Can you understand me?” The huldrefolk stroked the underside of one of the scorpions.

  The construct clacked its mandibles and its black eyes fixed on the huldrefolk. “I underssstand,” it hissed.

  “You are of my flesh,” Fissure stated. “You share my memories, and I will share yours. You will know my thoughts when I desire it, and I will know yours.”

  “Your flesh,” it repeated.

  “Your flesh,” the other echoed. “Your thoughtsss.”

  “You will do exactly as I say. And you will unerringly serve the Storm Over Krynn – for as long as I command it.”

  “We ssserve the Ssstorm,” they hissed hi unison.

  The huldrefolk had used a similar process to create the wyvern sentries. They weren’t very bright, but still he shared their memories. He knew exactly what happened when Palin and his associates came upon Khellendros’s lair, knew that the secret of the Storm’s desert stronghold had been unwittingly revealed. Fissure had elected not to pass that information onto the Blue.

  He had given the wyverns little more than a thumb’s worth of himself. His greater sacrifice had been to the scorpions; constructs that had a far greater intelligence and, he suspected, a greater malevolence. Creating them cost Fissure a little of his own magic, and some of his spirit But such a sacrifice would be worth it if he could again access The Gray and once more feel the mists wrap around him.

  “Search my memory, your memories,” he ordered the scorpions. “Picture the lair of Khellendros.”

  “The Ssstorm” one of the scorpions hissed.

  “Home,” the other added. “We know thisss place.”

  “Go there,” the huldrefolk said. “Go there and follow the Storm’s bidding.”

  Chapter 7

  STRONGHOLD

  “Palin...” The voice, soft and harmonious, gently roused the sorcerer from a sound slumber. His legs and chest ached; his neck was still sore. However, his wounds were healing, and he had to admit that he felt much better than he had last night – even though he’d only managed to get a few hours of rest.

  “Palin?” The same voice again, though not audible. At first he thought he’d dreamt a woman calling to him, his wife Usha. He remembered dreaming of her last night. But he was wide awake now, and the voice persisted. He blinked and stared at the face of the rock several feet away. The air swirled in front of it, and the grains of white sand the magical wind picked up twinkled like miniature stars in the early morning light.

  Feril slept only inches away, curled up like a dog, Blister next to her. The mariner was deep in sleep, too, oblivious to the voice in Palin’s head or to the magical breeze. Though they’d found a crevice in which to pass what was left of the night, and though it protected them from the brunt of the storm that sprang up from seemingly out of nowhere, it didn’t entirely shelter them – or keep them dry.

  But being damp was better than being swelteringly hot, Palin thought. The heat would come soon enough.

  “Palin...”

  “Goldmoon,” he whispered. The sands fell away to reveal the translucent image of a woman. Long blonde hair wreathed her slender shoulders, and the hem of her pale cloak swirled like a cloud at her feet. Her startling blue eyes bore into his. He was glad to see her, even if what he saw was only an image borne by her spell. It had been weeks since they’d last communicated.

  “I was worried about you,” the healer began. She was one of the original Heroes of the Lance, responsible for bringing clerical magic back to Krynn roughly six decades ago, and she remained a close friend to Palin’s family. Though human and more than eighty years old, she wore her age remarkably well, and remained exceptionally vital. Goldmoon had managed to hang onto her faith through the years – despite the departure of the gods, and despite the death of her beloved husband, Riverwind. She’d taken many pupils to her side along the way. Among them was Jasper Fireforge, the dwarf who waited on Flint’s Anvil. Palin greatly admired her and often sought her counsel on matters of the heart.

  “I was thinking about the dragons last night,” she said. “A vision came to me. I saw the Blue – Side – and you were in his clutches.”

  Palin quickly related how he, Rig, Blister, and Feril had escaped from Khellendros’s cave several hours ago, then spoke of spawn and how he believed they were being created. “We are heading toward one of Skie’s strongholds now,” he added. “We must try to free his prisoners, prevent mor
e people from being transformed into spawn. Then we will try to topple an overlord, the White —”

  “And Dhamon?”

  Palin lowered his head. “I’m sorry. A lesser blue dragon. One that...”

  Goldmoon’s image faltered at the news, and Palin watched as she bowed her head and offered a silent prayer. “I thought he was the one,” she said softly. “I believed Dhamon Grimwulf to be a leader of men. I contacted him at the Tomb of the Last Heroes, brought him into all of this, to you. He was to use the lance....”

  “Rig has the lance now,” Palin said. “I have faith in him.”

  Goldmoon looked at the sleeping mariner. “He is brave,” she admitted. “But he is also reckless and overconfident. Be careful, my friend. See that he doesn’t lead you into a fight you cannot hope to win. We will speak later.”

  Goldmoon turned away from Palin and away from the topmost window in the Citadel of Light, severing her mystical connection with the sorcerer in the desert.

  Hundreds of miles from the Northern Wastes, on the island of Schallsea, she now paced across the marble floor. “I was so certain he was the one,” the healer said. “My visions, my divinations, they all pointed to Dhamon Grimwulf. I know so little of this Rig Mer-Krel. What’s that you say?” She tilted her head to the side, as if listening to someone, though she was alone in the room. “Trust Palin? Of course I trust Palin, you know that. I have always trusted the Majeres. Yes, I agree, Palin is a good judge of character. And if he has faith in this sea barbarian, I should too. It’s just that there is so much at stake – the fate of Krynn.” Her shoulders slumped and she walked to a narrow, high-backed chair, easing her slight frame into it.

  “It was all so much easier when you were here with me,” she said. “Together we were...” Goldmoon closed her eyes and a lone tear edged over her cheek. “When we were together, I was complete.”

  *

  “Morning already?” Feril yawned, stretched, and stood. She looked refreshed, her eyes clear and bright. “That was quite a storm last night. It woke me several times.” She smiled at Palin and ran her fingers through her curly hair in an effort to comb it. She nudged Rig with her foot. “Let’s get moving. Palin looks like he’s impatient.”

  “He’s been talking to himself,” Blister said as she climbed to her feet and gazed up at the bright morning sky. “About the Blue.”

  The mariner grumbled and pushed himself up. The cuts on his chest still looked fresh. He grimaced when he moved, then allowed Feril to smear what was left of her healing poultice across his cuts. “The stronghold,” he said, as his eyes met the Kagonesti’s. She was quick to turn away. “It shouldn’t be far from here – if the wyverns can be believed.” He drained the last of his waterskins, then refilled them by dipping into the crevices where the night’s rain had collected. “Let’s see if we can make it before noon. I don’t want to be traveling in the middle of the day again.”

  Palin silently agreed, falling in step with Blister behind the mariner and the elf. He fished about in his pocket for something to eat, retrieved a strip of dried beef, tore off a piece, and then offered the rest to the kender. Rig and Feril also ate as they walked.

  By midmorning they’d passed by the cluster of cacti and the ridge of black rocks, and the Kagonesti’s keen vision spotted part of a black, volcano-like structure between sand dunes located to the north. Even from a distance it looked ominous and unnatural.

  “A tower of Khellendros’s stronghold,” Feril said with certainty. “Relgoth can’t be far.”

  As they drew closer, more of the black sand castle could be viewed, along with the small city of which it was a part The structure looked as if it had erupted from the earth itself, and its sprawling bulk was stretched across the ruins of almost half of the town.

  Palin, Blister, Rig, and Feril settled themselves behind a dune near Relgoth that was tall enough to provide a view over the city wall. Peering over the top, they could see many buildings – most of them in ruins – and a small stone castle in the center of the town. A few people moved about the streets, but it was clear that Relgoth was not all it had once been.

  The stronghold dominated the view, its black sand sparkling in the sunlight and smothering the buildings beneath it. The castle had three towers that rose to a height of thirty feet or more, with windows in the shape of dragon scales scattered along their lengths. The tops of the towers were linked by a formidable wall, across which several Knights of Takhisis were patrolling. The stronghold also appeared to be encircled by a deep moat.

  “Wow!” Blister said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Khellendros,” Palin whispered. “The dragon must have used his magic to build this place. He must have found a way to harden the sand like stone. Impressive.” He stared at the expansive courtyard of the castle, and at a diagram etched into the center of it. The sorcerer was too far away to make out the curious markings. “If only my eyes were better” he said.

  “I can make it out.” Feril followed his gaze with a frown. “It’s like the symbol in the dragon’s cave.”

  “So the dragon turns people into spawn here?” Blister asked.

  “Convenient,” Palin said. “That way the dragon doesn’t have to transport unwilling prisoners, only obedient spawn.”

  In the northeast quarter of the courtyard, a military formation of a couple dozen Knights of Takhisis stood just beyond a drawbridge. They were taking orders from a black-cloaked man who paced back and forth in front of them. Nearby, a wide path led to the city gates and out into the desert. The path was guarded by knights and appeared to be the only way in or out of Relgoth.

  “What are those beasts?” the Kagonesti poked her finger over the top of the dune, indicating four gray, hairless behemoths that were being led into the courtyard. “They’re spectacular.”

  “Elephants,” Rig whispered. “Definitely not native to around here. Haven’t seen many in my travels, but I know you can find them around Kharolis, and in parts of Kern and Nordmaar. It took a lot of work to bring them here.”

  “We’re a long way from those countries,” she said. “I’ve never seen any animals like them. They’re magnificent. Let’s move closer”

  “Wait a minute,” Palin warned as he put a firm hand on her shoulder. “That stronghold’s a little too much for us to tackle – even if we did go back to the ship and enlist the others to help. Look at all of those knights, and the brutes.”

  “Brutes?” Rig followed Palin’s line of sight and perceived a quartet of tall, blue-skinned men walking behind the elephants. They were exceedingly muscular and wore little clothing – blue loincloths and primitive jewelry. The men were barefoot. “Knights and brutes. Black and blue men, like the wyverns said.”

  “That’s blue paint,” the sorcerer added. “They’re warriors, also not from around here. Barbarians, some would call them, but they’re not stupid. From everything I’ve heard, they’re pretty formidable fighters. And the blue paint is supposed to protect or heal them in some way.”

  “I wonder where they’re keeping the prisoners?” Feril mused. She was still watching the elephants. “Let’s see if we can find out.”

  The Kagonesti closed her eyes and laid her head against the sand. Warm and coarse, it was pleasing to her, and she let her senses drift into the dune, focusing on one grain and then another. As she slipped further away from Palin, Rig, and Blister, she felt herself become part of the desert, so vast, yet comprised of so many tiny grains of sand. She reached out to the next grain and the next, rapidly moving from one to another until her senses stretched past the dunes, under the city wall, and beneath the assembled Knights of Takhisis.

  “What do you hear?” she whispered to the sand, her voice sounding soft and breathy.

  “We will leave at sunset, when it is cooler to travel,” the Kagonesti heard the knight-commander say to his men. The words were as loud as if the man was standing in front of her. “We will head to Palanthas, take whatever prisoners are in the city’
s jails and return them here. Their minds are already tainted by evil, and it will not be difficult for the dragon to transform them into spawn. The Storm Over Krynn will be pleased, and we will be suitably rewarded. Your time is your own until sunset Dismissed.”

  The knights gathered in small groups in the shade of the walls of the courtyard as Feril’s thoughts wandered to the sand beneath the feet of the brutes tending the gray behemoths.

  “Share the words with me,” she continued. Two of the blue-painted warriors were conversing, their talk centering on the amazing amount of food and water the great animals consumed. But when their conversation drifted to the subject of the prisoners, the elf increased her concentration.

  “Prisoners, more the knights want,” the larger of the two fellows said. He was more than seven feet tall, with incredibly broad shoulders and a shaved head. His voice was clear and low-pitched, and his accent was unusual. “Prisoners, well more than a hundred now. Tower is almost full.”

  “Dragon, he wants an army,” the other said. “Army, grisly way to gain one. Soldiers, willing ones perform better. Not starving ones.”

  “Dragon, he be done, they be willing enough,” the first said. “Safe they be for a few days more. Me, don’t want to watch it again.”

  “Me, never seen the men change.”

  “Terrible.”

  “Dragon, you question what he does?”

  The taller one shook his head. “Me, no. Pay, it be good. Dragon, he be better to work for than to be hunted by. Me, just don’t want to watch it.”

  “Fates, worse ones I would imagine. Other overlords, heard they capture people, keep them like cattle and eat them.”

  “Death, not worse than being turned into a spawn.”

  Feril shuddered and tugged her senses back to her body. She was quick to relay what she had overheard. The quartet watched the stronghold for the several hours, the sun baking them.