by Jean Rabe
“An amazing spell,” Blister said. “Very effective. Wouldn’t you say so, Jasper?”
The dwarf clutched his side, nodding in agreement. A wheeze escaped his thick lips. Though the wound Dhamon had inflicted on Jasper was mending – thanks to Feril’s ministrations – the dwarf would never be the same. His lung had been punctured. Though in earlier times he might have used his own clerical magic to heal himself, such power was now beyond his reach. His faith had died with Goldmoon, and with it had died his healing abilities. He offered Blister a slight smile.
“Amazing. Yes, Jasper thinks so, too. A very impressive spell,” she clucked. “You made us all invisible?”
“Not exactly,” Palin returned.
“You spirited us away to some other place?”
“Not precisely.”
“Then what?”
“For a few brief minutes, I disguised us, made us blend into the landscape. Then I created a magical illusion of us a short distance from where we were hiding. Khellendros slew the illusion. And, fortunately, he appeared to be in a hurry and left without examining his handiwork. Had he lingered a moment longer, his keen senses would have ferreted us out.”
“Wow. So how did you create this illusion?” the kender persisted in asking.
“It’s not important,” Jasper cut in. He glanced back at Groller, his deaf half-ogre friend. Fiona Quinti, the young Solamnic knight who recently joined their number, was using rudimentary sign language to translate what was being said, so Groller could understand. The dwarf turned to face Blister and pawed at a clump of mud stuck to his red-brown hair. “It’s not important at all. What is important Blister, is that...”
“Couldn’t Palin use some of his magic to find Dhamon? I want to go after Dhamon, find out why he went all crazy, hurt Jasper, and killed Goldmoon. We could...”
The mariner set a hand on the kender’s head, leveling his gaze at Palin. “We could kill him is what we could do. It was indirectly because of Dhamon that Shaon died. Now Goldmoon – there was nothing indirect about that. He almost killed Jasper, too. And he sank my ship.”
“Flint’s Anvil,” Jasper whispered. The dwarf had purchased the carrack many months ago, and his beloved vessel had taken them from Schallsea far north to Palanthas, then back again. It had been their means of transportation and their home.
“We should kill him before he causes any more harm,” Rig finished. The mariner motioned for the rest to gather around – Feril, the Kagonesti; Groller and his wolf, Fury; Fiona; Gilthanas, the lanky elven sorcerer whom they had rescued from a Knights of Takhisis stronghold; and Ulin, Palin’s son.
Swirling high above them were two dragons, a gold and a silver – Sunrise and Silvara – who had carried Ulin and Gilthanas to Schallsea and who had been instrumental in distracting Khellendros in order for Palin to cast his spell. The dragons and their riders had just returned from the Dragon Isles, where they had informed the good dragons there of what was transpiring across the face of Ansalon.
“Rig...” Feril cleared her throat to get the mariner’s attention. A breeze whipped her wild tangle of auburn hair about her face. “We need to find Dhamon. Help him fight the scale’s influence. We must have faith....”
“Faith?” Jasper looked up at her, fixed his eyes on the oak-leaf tattoo on her tanned cheek. His ruddy face was uncharacteristically grim. “He killed Goldmoon. We haven’t even had time to grieve for her, or to bury her properly. She preached faith – breathed faith. And forgiveness. But right now I have no faith and little forgiveness. Right now I’m siding with Rig.”
Feril closed her eyes and let out a long breath. “I’m angry, too, Jasper. Maybe I won’t ever be able to forgive him. But I have to know what happened and why.”
“It’s pretty obvious what happened,” Rig cut in. “He told us he once was a Knight of Takhisis. I’m betting he still is. Fooled us, like the scholar fooled us into collecting the damned artifacts. No ship. No Goldmoon. No Huma’s lance.”
“No medallions. Goldmoon’s medallion, and the second medallion I...” Jasper forced back a sob. “The one I took from her after she was dead. Both gone and in the hands of the dragon.”
“The only artifact we have left is the scepter,” the mariner said. He held it out. It was fashioned of wood and looked more like a mace, though it was bedecked with jewels.
“The Fist of E’li,” Feril whispered softly. “The Fist of Paladine.”
“What good’ll one lousy artifact do?” Blister asked as she looked up at the sorcerer. “We can’t increase the level of magic in the world with just one artifact.”
“The scholar tricked us into gathering artifacts for the dragon,” Palin said. “The dragon must want the ancient magic for an important reason. Maybe we should concentrate on finding other ancient artifacts. At the very least, we can keep them out of the dragon’s clutches. And at the most... somehow we might be able to use their energy to block Takhisis’s return to this world.”
“Father, Gellidus – Frost – claimed Takhisis’s return was imminent,” Ulin said. The younger Majere looked as Palin had, two decades earlier. He gestured to the silver and gold dragons circling above. “Sunrise and Silvara confirm what the white overlord boasted. Takhisis is coming back.”
“So where are we gonna get enough ancient magic to stop Takhisis?” Blister’s eyes widened.
“Dalamar’s ring,” Palin said. “That’s located in the Tower of Wayreth. The Master of the Tower said he would give it to me, but only when we knew how to use it and when we were safe from Khellendros.”
Ulin sniffed. “Safe! That will take a long time! Can you persuade the Master how important is our need for the ring?
Palin considered a moment, then nodded to his son. “Yes. Yes, I think I can.”
“With the Fist of E’li,” Blister said, pointing at the weapon in Rig’s hand, “That makes two artifacts.”
“I know of a third – the Crown of Tides,” Palin finished. “It rests in the realm of the Dimernesti, the sea elves, a long way from here.”
“Then we better get going,” the kender said.
“Wait a minute.” Rig scowled and shook his head. “I want nothing more than to take a stand against the dragons – even the Dark Queen herself if it comes to that. But there’s a little matter of justice that needs to be taken care of, too. I mean Dhamon.”
“Rig, please,” Feril appealed.
“We can’t let him wander around free – not with that weird glaive. No telling who or what else he’ll destroy.” The mariner’s eyes narrowed darkly.
“Rig!” The Kagonesti glared at him.
“Enough.” Palin eased himself away from Rig’s side. “Arguing won’t do us any good. Neither will revenge. But, yes, we also need to find Dhamon.”
The mariner grinned smugly.
“We especially need to find him because we need his weapon,” the sorcerer said.
“His weapon?.” Rig scowled.
“That glaive cuts metal like cloth. It must be some kind of artifact, perhaps as powerful as Huma’s lance,” Palin returned. “Even more powerful,” he added softly.
“So how are we gonna do both at the same time? Collect artifacts and find Dhamon?” Blister asked.
“I’ll need your help, Blister,” the sorcerer told the kender. “You and I will form one team and head to the Tower of Wayreth. My wife Usha is waiting for me there. We’ll use the resources in the tower to trace Dhamon.”
“And in the meantime, we’ll go after the crown,” Feril said excitedly.
“Great. How do we get off this island without a ship? Swim?” The mariner tucked the scepter into his belt and glanced to the west. It was too dark to see the Schallsea shore.
“We’ll help there,” Gilthanas offered. He pointed to the dragons. “We’ll take you to the edge of Onysablet’s realm. From there...”
“Let me guess. We’re on our own,” Rig grumbled.
Gilthanas nodded. The elf did not need to explain that the dragons wo
uld not prefer to venture into an overlord’s realm, at least one they were unfamiliar with.
At the edge of the gathering Fiona Quinti squared her shoulders. Though Groller towered over her, she looked tall and formidable, if haggard, in the silver plate of her Solamnic knighthood. Her mailed hands painted pictures in the air, as she did her best to explain to Groller what was about to transpire.
The half-ogre’s heavy brow knotted in thought. He looked up at the dragons, nodded, and swallowed hard.
*
It was the hazy hour before dawn, when the sky lightened just a little and the world seemed at its quietest. Usha stared out a window in the Tower of Wayreth. She drew her robe tight around her thin form, shivering from worry, not cold.
Blister was sleeping. Palin, too, had fallen asleep shortly after arriving a few hours ago. She hoped he would rest long enough to regain his energy.
She was exhausted, too, but couldn’t sleep. Her mind was too preoccupied with the Fist of E’li that Palin had told her about. She had traveled to the Qualinesti forest with Palin, Jasper, and Feril in search of the Fist. But she hadn’t accompanied them on the most dangerous part of the mission. When they had been caught by a band of distrustful, freedom-fighting elves, Usha had volunteered to stay with the elves as a hostage, insurance that her husband and the others were there for only one thing – the scepter – and proof that they were not spies for the green dragon overlord.
Something happened during her time with the elves. Something about the scepter. Something she was trying desperately to remember. Something, perhaps, that might help against the dragons.
Chapter 2
A GATHERING OF EVIL
The Storm Over Krynn sprawled just outside the mouth of his lair, basking in the late afternoon sun and idly studying his claw. Huma’s lance had left a crimson welt deep across his thick skin. The wound throbbed, though the blessed heat somewhat eased the pain. It had been a few weeks since the battle over the artifacts, time enough for the wound to heal – if it would ever heal. He had carried the hateful lance hundreds upon hundreds of miles to the Northern Wastes. Perhaps it had marked him eternally.
Khellendros knew he could live with the pain – a small price to pay in his quest to resurrect Kitiara’s spirit, and an unremitting memento of his easy triumph over the great
Palin Majere. He smiled inwardly. It would be sweet to tell Kitiara of his victory, though even more sweet had she been there to share it with him.
“It will not be much longer. We shall be partners again,” he softly growled. “And I shall not let you die a second time.” The four artifacts were ensconced in his underground cave – along with numerous lesser magical treasures. The latter had been excavated recently as he resculpted his damaged lair. The walls in the section deepest below ground were heavily scored from lightning blasts given off by the dozens of dying spawn that were trapped when Majere and his fellows collapsed the lair. In his remodeling, the dragon had added new chambers, making room for the new spawn he was creating, and, most importantly, for Kitiara.
Kitiara would approve of this sanctuary, he decided, as he thrust his wounded claw in the sand and stared across the seemingly endless white expanse, broken only by the occasional cactus he had allowed to grow. She will approve, and together we shall...
A shadow fell across the sand, momentarily blocking the sun. Khellendros set his thoughts of Kitiara aside and glanced up to acknowledge the approach of Gale, his lieutenant. The smaller dragon glided to a landing several dozen yards from the overlord, sniffed the air to hone in on the Storm’s precise position, then slowly advanced.
“You desire my aid,” Gale hissed. The smaller blue brought his head to the ground in a show of respect.
Khellendros stared into his lieutenant’s eyes, sightless from a battle with Dhamon Grimwulf, and waited several beats to answer. “Follow me, Gale. We shall discuss things inside.”
The shadows of the overlord’s lair swallowed the massive dragons. The great chamber, barely large enough to hold the pair, was dimly lit along one wall by the light that spilled down the tunnel from the surface.
“Fissure!” Khellendros’s voice reverberated against the walls and caused the lair to vibrate. Sand filtered down through cracks in the ceiling, dusting the four artifacts laid out in the center of the chamber and covering the huldrefolk who had been gazing intently at the ancient magical items. The faerie took a few steps back.
“These treasures are not yours to trifle with,” the great dragon growled.
“I didn’t so much as touch them, O Portal Master,” the huldre answered. His form shimmered, and the sand disappeared from his features. “But I have been looking at them. Very closely. We should use them, Khellendros. Now. We shouldn’t wait and risk the chance that Malys might discover your great prizes and take them for herself. Gale is finally here, and he can watch over your realm while you and I are in The Gray. We should take them out on the sand this very night. Together we can...”
Khellendros’s rumble silenced the huldrefolk. “There remain a few things to attend to, faerie, before we dare open the portal.”
“Hmm, yes. Selecting a spawn for Kitiara.” The diminutive gray man scratched his smooth head. “Gale can do that, while you and I are visiting The Gray. You showed him how to train spawn. He can pick one out. There are more than a dozen to choose from.”
“I shall be certain a perfect spawn is ready before we leave for The Gray. I shall select the vessel.”
“Fine. And how long until you make this selection?” the huldre dared to insist.
“Gale will be training the few spawn below. He must also find more human females to serve as spawn. When the time is right, I shall select the most appropriate of them.”
The smaller blue dragon edged closer to the faerie, nostrils quivering to take in Fissure’s scent. He cocked his head and sniffed again, listening with ears that were increasingly an acute substitute for lost eyes. From farther in the cave came a skittering sound, at first no louder than the huldre’s beating heart, a definite clacking against the stone floor. Within moments the noise was loud enough to interrupt Khellendros and the huldre.
Two great scorpions, as black as night, scuttled forward out of the shadows. Their unblinking yellow eyes gleamed malevolently, and their pincers snapped open and shut.
“You wisssh sssomething,” they said in unison, their strange voices hissing like shifting sand. From their clawlike feet to the tip of their curved venomous tails, they stood a little taller than a man. Their hard, segmented bodies were long and thick, glistening like wet stone in the meager light.
“You will guard my lair while I am away,” Khellendros instructed the pair. “And you will make sure none of the spawn touch these.” He gestured at the lance, medallions, and crystal keys. “Do you understand?”
“Yesss Massster,” they replied. They skittered past the dragons, toward their post at the entrance to the lair.
“Away?” Fissure asked. “You’re going somewhere? Where?”
Khellendros narrowed his eyes. “Where I go is none of your concern, faerie.” The overlord turned toward Gale. “Malys desires my presence, and I would not like to give her cause to suspect my plans by refusing her. I shall be gone for some time. How long, I am not certain. But in that time...”
“I will train your spawn,” the lesser dragon finished.
Khellendros pivoted and glided up through the tunnel that lead to the desert above. Gale followed at a prudent distance.
“There are barbarian villages to the east,” Khellendros advised when they were back on the sand. “I raided them and captured their strongest warriors. It was from them that I fashioned the spawn in my lair. Take care, for the villages’ remaining warriors might come seeking their stolen brethren.”
“It will be my pleasure to slay any who come uninvited. They will pose no threat.”
“Take care that you do not underestimate them,” the Storm said. “Malystryx, who calls me, has no fear of hum
ans. Neither, it seems, do the other overlords. But I know better.”
“As do I.” The lesser blue closed his blind eyes. “One did this to me. One I once called partner and friend. I never underestimate humans.”
He sniffed the wind and turned toward the east. “The faerie,” Gale added. “While I am training the spawn, can he be trusted with your treasure? The artifacts?”
“No,” the Storm answered. “I do not underestimate him either. He can be more formidable than a human. But he is far, far less a threat in this instance. Besides, I took steps to protect the artifacts.”
The blue overlord took to the sky, the draft from his wings sending a shower of sand across Gale and toward the immobile scorpions who stood guard at the lair.
Deep inside, Fissure shuffled toward the artifacts. “Khellendros, The Storm Over Krynn. Khellendros, the Portal Master. Khellendros, the Procrastinator, he should call himself. He wants to wait to open the portal to The Gray. Wait... wait... wait,” the huldre muttered. “Time to a dragon is... well, the mighty Khellendros will discover how waiting has cost him. I have been absent from The Gray for far too many years. And I have no desire to wait any longer. I thought I’d need his help to open the portal, was certain I did. But Huma’s lance... There is so much power contained within it. Maybe I don’t need The Procrastinator’s help after all.”
He held his small hands a foot above the medallions, sensing the magic that pulsed in them. It was a pleasing sensation. “No. Maybe I will not need Khellendros any longer, now that I have these within my grasp.” He passed his fingers over the keys, sensed the cool smoothness of the crystal, the tingle of the enchantment. His fingers lingered a few inches above the smallest key, one crafted to open any lock, and he closed his eyes to bask in the arcane aura.
“No. I certainly will not wait. I must try to go home. I will destroy these myself and open a portal to The Gray with the released energy. If I cannot do it myself, perhaps Gellidus the White or the big green can be duped into helping me. The Storm Over Krynn will be angry, but he will not be able to follow me; he has no more artifacts to destroy, nothing to empower his plans. I will be safe, safe at home. And he will be stranded. Stranded so very far from his poor, lost Kitiara afloat in The Gray.”
