The Day Of The Tempest

by Jean Rabe

  The strange youth questioned them extensively about their quest and their desire to obtain Huma’s lance. Yet he would answer none of their questions about himself, and only a few about the tomb and the land surrounding it. “Gellidus, or Frost as most men call him, knows I am here,” was all he would say. “But the White cannot enter this sacred place, and so I am safe from him.”

  “You are a sorcerer or a faerie,” Gilthanas stated.

  “You may believe what you wish.”

  “Whatever you are, you’ll not keep us from Huma’s lance,” the elf ventured.

  “I’ll not stop you,” the youth returned. “Provided you can find it”

  The Solamnic Knight cleared her throat. “Their purpose is just,” she said, indicating Ulin and Gilthanas. “If you are just, you would help them, tell them which lance is the one they seek.”

  A faint smile crept across the young man’s unblemished face. “I would help if I could. For unlike your two companions there,” he gestured toward the Knights of Takhisis, “I sense great goodness in all of you. But I truthfully have no idea which lance Huma wielded.”

  *

  Groller stirred, but didn’t wake. The half-ogre was dreaming. In his dream he could hear, plainly, just as he had years ago before a green dragon destroyed his home, his family, and his life. He could hear the cries of the dying. The wailing of the wounded.

  Why had he and a small handful of others been spared? he continued to ask himself. Why had he been left alive to hear the screams and to pray to the departed gods for the horrifying noises to stop?

  All of the noises did stop that day for the half-ogre, and he had heard no sounds since. He had buried his wife and children and left the village, never to return.

  Groller never knew whether a malicious god listening from afar had heard his plea for silence and made him deaf, or whether the atrocities he witnessed that day were responsible for his handicap. The cause didn’t matter, only the unending, empty silence.

  But he did hear things in his dreams. At first he thought it was the wind whistling, a sound he’d almost forgotten. The whistling grew deeper, then formed words. Huma, a distinct, musical voice said. Lance. The half-ogre saw the image of a man, statuesque and thick-chested. His armor gleamed, looking golden in the light of the torches.

  These lances were used in the Chaos War, a disembodied voice said. The words didn’t come from the image of the man in golden armor. Nor did they come from the dozens of wraithlike figures that suddenly materialized. The wraiths wore the armor of Knights of Takhisis and Knights of Solamnia. A few wore no armor at all, just simple tunics, and they carried translucent shields. Each seemed to be linked to a particular lance.

  Wielded by Knights of Solamnia, these lances were, and by brave men who claimed allegiance to no knighthood but who fought for the glory of Ansalon, the voice continued. Fought alongside the gods in the war against Chaos.

  How... how did the lances get here? Groller heard himself asking. He could hear himself speaking, and was able to correct his pronunciation. The words were plain and rich, not broken and nasal.

  I called them, the voice replied. Such weapons of honor deserve a final resting place, too.

  The images of the knights wavered, then disappeared.

  Are you Huma? His spirit? Who are you?

  I am what you seek.

  Huma’s lance? A weapon speaks to me?

  I yearn to be wielded again – by one who reminds me of my former master. Come. I wait for you.

  Groller listened intently, following the sound of the disembodied voice. In his dream, he was alone in the hall. Ulin, Gilthanas, Fury, the young Knight of Solamnia and the two Knights of Takhisis were gone.

  The half-ogre eyed the lances surrounding him. Some of them whispered to him, recounting tales of the last battles they were used in, describing Chaos and the dragons, proclaiming the number of lives they claimed, mourning the loss of the men and women who once carried them. The hall stretched into the distance, and the torches burned brighter, their light casting long shadows on the floor. As he walked the hall, the floor sloped steeply downward. There were more lances along this hall – lances as far as his keen eyes could see. They were all whispering to him, but there was one talking louder than the rest, and he continued to pursue that voice.

  After what seemed like hours the hallway leveled out and a circular room hove into view. It was lit by more torches that burned but did not smoke. The walls were made of glistening white marble. The floor was black with specks of white, looking as if a piece of the night sky had been cut away and installed here. In the center was a long rectangular block of green stone decorated with the image of a golden lance. A single piece of jade decorated the lance’s handle.

  Wield me again, the voice beckoned.

  *

  “If you don’t know which lance was Huma’s, and you’re the keeper of this place, how will we ever find it?” Ulin asked.

  The youth shrugged his shoulders. “You’re a sorcerer, as is your companion here. Perhaps you’ve the means to —”

  “Wait a minute,” Ulin interrupted. “How could you know that?” The youth smiled.

  “My magic is limited” Ulin continued.

  “I am not a sorcerer,” the keeper said. “But I have the means to enhance your magic, great-nephew of Raistlin Majere. I have been looking for an opportunity to work with one with such skills as yourself.”

  “How? You won’t even explain yourself or —”

  Ulin was interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the staircase.

  “For a very long time no one has come here,” the youth sighed. “Tonight, it seems there is a convention.”

  Climbing the last step was a striking woman, with white-blonde hair that flowed out from a silver helmet, and startling blue eyes that sparkled in the torchlight She was dressed in the shining plate armor of the Knights of Solamnia. Behind her came a half-dozen men, also Solamnic Knights.

  “Lady Plata!” Fiona called. “See, Ulin, I told you someone would come looking for me!” The young Solamnic was quick to join her comrades and they formed a tight circle. The hall was instantly abuzz with their reports to each other, Fiona gesturing toward Ulin and pointing to the Knights of Takhisis.

  Gilthanas stared at the group of Solamnics for a moment. He placed his hand over his heart, and slowly walked up behind one of them. “Silvara?” he whispered.

  Ulin cleared his throat loudly so as to gain everyone’s attention. “What do you mean ‘enhance’ my magic?” he asked the youth.

  “There is a bit of magic in my veins.”

  “You state the obvious.”

  “You can draw on that magic. I can show you how.”

  “We can find the lance that way?” Ulin dragged his fingers through his hair, then glanced over his shoulder at the Solamnics.

  “We can try.”

  Gilthanas still stood behind the Solamnic. “By all the gods! Silvara?” The Qualinesti reached out to touch the knight’s armored shoulder, and the woman quickly turned around.

  “My name is Lady Arlena Plata now. I’m with the East-watch Solamnic Knights,” she said, not making eye contact with Gilthanas. “My life is tied to the Order. I am happy and satisfied, and there is purpose to my life. Silvara is a name 1 used in the past What we once had... is also in the past.”

  Despite the coldness of her words, she allowed him to draw her away from the other knights.

  “Forgive me, Silvara... Arlena,” Gilthanas choked out. His voice was strained, and a sob caught in his throat. “I was confused decades ago. I should have met you here. I was so very wrong and foolish. I should have —”

  “We came in search of Fiona,” Lady Plata continued. “I was... worried about her. I didn’t know... what had happened to her,” she said, her voice breaking. She looked down at the floor and swallowed hard. “We determined that the Dark Queen’s knights would bring her here. We’ll take them along with us. Justice will be served.”

  “S
ilvara “Gilthanas was insistent, “1 never thought I’d see you again. Somehow we’ve been given a second chance.”

  “Have we?” she asked, looking up. She made eye contact with him for the first time. “It was you who decided there was no chance for us. I waited for you. I waited here for months, nearly a year.”

  “I didn’t understand my own feelings.”

  “I loved you.”

  “I still love you,” Gilthanas replied, his voice cracking, “more than life. Please, Silvara... you have to feel something for me. I’ve learned that love transcends everything – race, flesh. Although you now look human, I still knew it was you. We are connected.”

  For an instant the knight’s face softened. She appeared to hesitate. “I don’t know,” she said. “Please.”

  “Gilthanas,” Ulin cut in. “I’m sorry to interrupt. But if we’re not going to get any sleep tonight – except for Groller who is blissfully unaware of all this racket – we might as well look for the lance. The keeper thinks he can help.”

  Groller was about to get a rude awakening, however. Fury nudged the half-ogre with his wet nose.

  Groller was twitching, his big hands opening and closing, his brow furrowed. The wolf barked, licked Groller’s face, and eventually resorted to pawing the half-ogre until his eyes fluttered open.

  Groller groggily got to his feet. He looked back and forth between Ulin and Gilthanas, and his face registered surprise at the addition of the small band of Knights of Solamnia.

  The sorcerer drew his lips into a thin line and brought his hand to his face, cupping it just above his eyes, as if he were shading them from the light so he could look for something. Then he pointed to the weapons and raised his index finger to signal the number one. He repeated the gestures for emphasis.

  “Uma’z lanz “Groller said. “Ino where. Foddow me.” The half-ogre walked down the hallway. Ulin, Gilthanas, and the keeper exchanged puzzled looks as they fell in step behind the half-ogre. The Knights of Solamnia were quick to join the procession. Fury walked at the half-ogre’s side.

  Groller took them to a niche made of green marble that housed a gold breastplate. He opened a panel that revealed a small room.

  The keeper was visibly surprised. “Few know of this,” he said.

  Groller stepped inside, talking about specters of men and his brief vision of Huma in gold plate. “Uma’s lanz zaid come. Wands to be uze.”

  He led them into the round chamber he’d seen in his dream and reverently circled the coffin-shaped block of green marble. He ran his hand across its surface, over the gold lance design. His index finger paused on the oval piece of jade. “Uma waz great man.” Groller pressed on the stone and a part of the circular wall behind him slid away. The lance beyond hovered in the air, suspended by magic cast long before the Chaos War. It was an elegant weapon, a lance with a satin steel tip. The handle was polished brass with gold and silver relief – the images of dragons circling and fighting.

  The keeper’s mouth fell open. “Here, and I never knew it,” he said, a hint of awe in his voice. The half-ogre stepped forward, and reverently plucked the lance from its resting place. Then he returned to the coffin and again depressed the stone. The wall slid back.

  Groller, oblivious to their words, led the way from the chamber back to the hall of lances. “And-vel now?” he asked Ulin.

  The sorcerer shook his head. He held his hands out to his side, palms facing each other, and then slowly drew them together. It was the gesture for near... soon. Then he laid his head on his shoulder, closing his eyes. “Magic is difficult when I’m this exhausted,” he said, hoping Groller would understand his message. “I won’t be able to contact my father until I’ve slept a little.”

  “Ulin tard,” the half-ogre said. “Rest. Go morrow?”

  Ulin nodded, settling on his bed of furs. “It must be late,” he said to the Solamnic knight. He was uncertain whether to call her Arlena or Silvara, so he avoided using any name. “You might as well stay with us and get some rest, too.”

  “We’ll leave in the morning.” She turned to the keeper. “Sunrise, do you mind if we pass the night here?”

  So the keeper has a name, Ulin thought to himself as he drew one of the furs over him.

  “You are always welcome here, my friend,” the youth returned. “Ulin, we will talk later.” He pivoted on his bare feet and disappeared into one of the alcoves.

  “You know the keeper?” Gilthanas asked the knight. “I know him very well.”

  “Is it possible we can learn to know each other again? Or is it truly too late? Has my past foolishness doomed us?”

  She pursed her lips, “I don’t know” she finally answered.

  “Is there someone else in your life? Something between you and... Sunrise?”

  Ulin didn’t hear the woman’s answer. Sleep claimed him.

  *

  The sorcerer suspected it was morning, judging by how rested he felt. He rose from his furs, began to descend the stairs, and immediately spotted Gilthanas and the Solamnic woman engrossed in a discussion. The men were just rising, and they were urging the Knights of Takhisis to their feet. Groller and Fury stood in the area where the windpipe had deposited them. The half-ogre was clutching Huma’s lance.

  Ulin cleared his head to concentrate on Flint’s Anvil and his father. He pictured the elder Majere’s face, reached out, and felt – nothing.

  “Your magic will not work in here.” The keeper had joined them. “The walls are so enchanted as to permit no mortal-cast spell to function within its confines. It keeps this place safe.”

  Ulin started putting on his furs. “Then we’ll go back to the tomb and go outside.”

  “I would first like to talk with you about magic,” the youth persisted.

  “Well, some other visit, perhaps,” Ulin returned. “We’re in a hurry. There’s a race for this ancient magic, and we need to take the lance to my father as quickly as possible.”

  The youth sighed. “I can help you, Ulin Majere, teach you things about magic you’ve never dreamed.”

  “And-vel now?” Groller asked Ulin, moving toward the open hole in the floor of Dragon Mountain. The sorcerer nodded. “Coming, Gilthanas?” Ulin turned and asked.

  The elf shook his head. “To the tomb? Yes. But to the Anvil? No, actually. I’m staying,” he said. “I’ll return with...” he paused. “Arlena. To Castle Eastwatch. We’re going to see if we can patch things up a bit.”

  The room grew silent. “Well, then, let’s get going,” said Ulin, ushering everyone toward the shaft.

  They each made it through the return trip in the windpipe safely and gathered by the tomb’s doors, which again swung open without the slightest touch. Immediately snow began to blow inside the small room.

  Ulin gestured, and the half-ogre plodded out through the snow, the wolf behind him, following in the trench he was creating.

  “I’ll tell the others of your decision. I doubt my father will be pleased. Rig’s lance?” Ulin held out his hands, and Gilthanas handed it over.

  “Tell Rig thanks for the loan,” the elf said. “And tell him I was glad I didn’t have to use it” Ulin headed out into the frigid landscape. Behind him, the Solamnic Knights gathered their weapons and prisoners, and followed after. The keeper sadly shook his head, and joined the procession.

  The magic came easier with his fatigue gone, and when the sorcerer again concentrated on the visage of Palin Majere, an image of his father’s face appeared almost instantly in his mind. “We’re ready, father,” Ulin stated simply.

  “Dragon!” one of the Solamnics cried, shattering Ulin’s enchantment “Frost!” The sorcerer’s gaze shot skyward as a great shadow passed over the snow. “Gellidus,” the keeper announced. “Everyone, back into the tomb!”

  The dragon swooped closer. Stark white against the pale blue morning sky, he was at once terrifying and exquisite, his scales glimmering against the snow that swirled around him. The dragon streaked toward the ground, ope
ning his maw and blasting forth an icy breath.

  “No time to get inside!” Ulin shouted to the others. He held out the lance. It was unwieldy, and he wondered how Sturm Brightblade could have ever handled it with ease.

  The keeper rushed past the Solamnics, who were drawing their weapons and spreading out. Barefoot, and seemingly mindless of the cold, he waved his spindly arms, trying to draw Frost’s attention. “Here, creature of evil!” he called in a deepening voice.

  Ulin stared at the strange youth, who had begun to change his form again. His skin sparkled, then turned golden and rough. Scales began to cover his body, and his hair melted away leaving a spiky ridge that ran across the top of his head and down his back. His face cracked and popped and extended into a snout; his arms and legs rippled and thickened and grew longer. Gold talons replaced his fingers, and small wings sprouted from his back. Gleaming gold barbels dripped from his lower jaws, and darker gold horns, like those of a ram, curled backward from atop his equine-shaped pate.

  The gold dragon stretched more than a hundred feet from nose to serpentine tail. He opened his mouth, revealing an astounding number of iridescent teeth.

  “Fight me, Gellidus!” the gold dragon bellowed. “I’m what you want – not these people!”

  “Sunrise!” the Solamnic called. “You can’t fight him alone!” She was racing through the snow toward him, her plate mail shimmering, her form shining.

  The White plummeted toward the gold, opening its maw and expelling a cone-shaped blast of ice particles. The ice struck with the power of a hail storm, pushing Sunrise back into a snowdrift and practically burying him. But the young dragon was up in a Hash, opening his own mouth and sending forth a deafening roar. The sheer force of the noise repelled Groller, who had been advancing with Huma’s lance, and even Ulin and Gilthanas felt the sound waves and struggled to keep their footing.

  The White Dragon’s eyes grew wide in anger, as he pulled his wings into his sides and dropped to the ground. Landing, he sent a great deluge of snow in all directions, and the vibrations from his impact knocked Groller over backward.