The Eve of the Maelstrom

by Jean Rabe

Groller looked at Rig, brought both hands to his mouth, fingertips touching and covering his lips, then dropped them to his sides, as if he were discarding something.

  The mariner nodded. Don’t worry, he signed by shaking his head and rotating his hands in front of his forehead. I’ll be very quiet. Rig drew his cutlass, motioned for Fiona to follow, and quickly disappeared.

  “Think it’s Dhamon?” Jasper asked so quietly that Feril had to bend over to hear him.

  “We’re not close enough to the ruin,” she answered.

  “Yeah, but...”

  “Okay, let’s all find out.” She took the trail Rig and Fiona had left.

  Jasper started after her, but Groller’s hand fell heavily on his shoulder. The half-ogre whirled his fingers, indicating himself and the dwarf, then pointing to the ground.

  “Yeah, Rig wants us to stay here,” Jasper whispered. The dwarf nodded his head in understanding. Then he held his hands in front of his chest, as if he were holding the reins of a horse, pantomiming. “Who put Rig in charge anyway?” the dwarf said. “I want to go see.”

  Groller shrugged, picked up Fiona’s sack, and followed the dwarf. The wolf growled softly, padding after them.

  Rig, Fiona, and Feril were ahead, crouched behind a thick patch of spike rushes. Beyond them, wending their way through a stand of moss-draped dahoons, were four lizard creatures leading a sorry-looking group of elves.

  “Scaly men,” Feril whispered. “Spawn? No. Something different.”

  The four creatures were green and covered with thick, raised scales. They were stoop shouldered and had thick chests covered with lighter green leathery plates. Their heads looked like alligators, perched upon short necks. Three of them carried spears festooned with orange and yellow feathers, and they chatted among themselves in a lost tongue. The fourth held a long vine attached to the band of prisoners.

  “The elves are Silvanesti,” Fiona whispered. “I count a dozen.” Feril nodded.

  The fair-haired elves were tied together with ropelike vine. Thorny vines that cut into their skin were wrapped about their wrists and ankles. They were gaunt, and the few clothes they wore were tattered and filthy.

  Without a word, Jasper reached into his sack and pulled out the Fist of E’li. The scepter felt good in his hand. Rig caught his eye, and he, too, rose from behind the rushes, brandishing his sword. They dashed toward the creatures. Fury streaked past them, a red blur.

  Fiona was quick on their heels. Groller dropped the canvas sack, reached for his belaying pin, and barreled through the rushes. Behind them, still hidden in the spike rushes, Feril had closed her eyes. Her fingers played across the rush blades as a musician might stroke harp strings. She let her mind drift to the swamp and began singing.

  The wolf barreled into the first lizard creature, knocking it down into the saw grass.

  Rig struck the one directly behind, dropping beneath the jab of the thing’s spear and thrusting forward with his cutlass. The weapon bit into the creature’s thigh, spilling black blood. The lizard thing made no sound, didn’t flinch, and Rig maneuvered a step to find a better opening.

  Fiona effortlessly parried a jab by a third lizard creature and slashed at its plated abdomen. The creature was swift, despite its size, and easily dodged her blow.

  Rig narrowly sidestepped a well-aimed jab. His sword knocked aside the next stab, while the fingers of his free hand reached into his waistband and retrieved three daggers. He hurled these at Fiona’s target. “Yes!” he shouted. The first two daggers lodged in the creature’s chest. The third missed its intended mark.

  “Thanks, but I can fight my own battles!” the young Solamnic called.

  “Just trying to help!” Rig returned as he feinted to the right, then drove his blade into his foe’s side. The creature hissed, slimy spittle flying at the mariner’s face. The butt of the lizard man’s spear slammed into Rig’s stomach. The mariner fell back, dazed, and drew three more daggers.

  Fiona’s lizard creature struggled to stay on its feet, as black blood poured from its wounds. “Surrender!” she shouted, hoping it could understand her language.

  The creature shook its head, but she began to wear it down, shifting from side to side, making repeated jabs and thrusts.

  Meanwhile, Groller wrestled with the lizard creature that had been leading the captive elves. The half-ogre was wielding his belaying pin while trying to avoid his enemy’s long, curved dagger. Jasper was busy, too, the Fist in his right hand, distracting the creature with his shouting and whirling.

  The creature was no match for the two of them. The half-ogre hammered the belaying pin into the side of the creature’s head. Jasper grinned at the crunch of bone.

  The lizard creature sank to its knees, then pitched forward as Jasper and Groller jumped out of the way.

  In the rushes, more than a dozen yards away, Feril’s fingers continued to play on the blades of tall grass. “Let this one live, Fury,” she whispered. Her senses raced past the spike rushes and floated above the saw grass toward the wolf.

  Fury’s jaws were black with the thing’s blood; he’d been nipping at the lizard man’s stomach, biting through its tough skin plates, keeping the thing on its back. Again and again, the wolf darted beneath its claws, snapping.

  “Let this one live.” Feril’s song became louder, her senses touching the tips of the tall saw grass. The blades near the wolf and lizard creature began writhing, randomly at first, and then with a purpose. They twisted about the creature’s legs and arms, throat, pinning it to the soddened ground. Yet, the blades did not touch the wolf.

  “Fury!” she called as she distanced her senses.

  The wolf looked up, muzzle dripping, then loped toward Rig’s lizard man. The mariner had a dagger between his teeth and two more in his left hand, in his right he held his sword. Taking a few steps back, he tossed the left-hand two daggers at the creature in front of him. Only one found its mark, though, sinking into the lizard man’s stomach. “Losing my touch,” the mariner cursed, as he took the dagger from between his teeth.

  Fury leapt at the creature. His jaws clamped tight on the lizard man’s wrist, preventing him from throwing the spear. Rig took advantage of the opening and swung his sword at the creature. Spattered with black blood, the mariner retreated to watch the thing flop onto its back, twitching horribly. Fury vaulted onto the creature’s chest and tore at its throat.

  Rig whirled to see Fiona slashing at the remaining lizard man. She dropped below a feeble spear thrust, her long sword slicing into the creature’s waist. The creature emitted the first howl of pain any of them had surrendered. Fiona tugged her sword free, then thrust it up and forward, finishing the thing quickly.

  “See? I didn’t need any help,” the knight said, as she tugged her sword free and rubbed it in the grass to wipe off the blood.

  Rig touched Fiona on the shoulder, pointing at Feril and Groller. The Kagonesti and half-ogre were working quickly to untie the vines that held the prisoners together. The mariner and knight headed toward them.

  “We cannot find the words to thank you,” an emaciated elven woman said. She gazed into Rig’s eyes. “We had no hope left.”

  Rig and Fiona carefully set about the task of removing the thorny vines that had hobbledthe prisoners. Jasper replaced the Fist in his sack, padded over to study the elves’ wounds, and shook his head.

  “The thorns, this place,” he said sadly. “These people need tending. Most of their wounds are infected. This will take me quite some time, if I can do anything at all.”

  “I will help,” Feril offered. “No matter how much time it takes.”

  “Time isn’t something we have a lot of,” the mariner cut in. “We’ve got to hurry to find Brukt. And Dhamon.”

  “These people need rest and tending,” the dwarf persisted. “I’m not going to abandon them in this condition.”

  The Kagonesti’s eyes bore into the mariner’s. “None of us will leave them like this.”

  “We k
now where Brukt is,” the thin woman offered. “We could guide you there. We owe you our lives.”

  “Then lead us after we’ve healed you,” Feril said.

  “How long is this going to take?” Rig softly asked the Kagonesti. He pointed toward the east. “We’ve got a few hours of light left and —”

  Fury’s barking cut him off. The wolf was chasing the sole surviving lizard creature, the one Feril had trapped with the help of the grass. Her concentration interrupted, the plants had released their scaly prisoner.

  “We need that one alive!” Feril called to Rig, whose legs were churning over the damp ground toward the fleeing creature. “We need some questions answered.”

  The mariner closed the distance and slammed the creature hard in the back. The lizard man fell face forward, and Rig was on top of him in a heartbeat, rolling him over and straddling his chest. A blade flashed in the air.

  “Alive!” Feril hollered.

  “Then you’d better hurry with your questions!” Rig called back. “This thing might not be alive much longer.”

  The mariner held the dagger at the lizard man’s throat, staring into its black eyes. “The lady wants some information,” he spat. “You’d better hope you speak her language.”

  “I... understand your words... some.” The lizard man’s voice was raspy.

  “What are you anyway?” Rig demanded while he waited for the Kagonesti.

  The lizard creature’s scaly eye ridges furrowed in puzzlement.

  “You’re not spawn. What are you?”

  “Bakali,” it said after a moment.

  “Never heard of ba-kah-lee,” Rig mumbled. “What’s a ba-kah-lee?”

  “I bakali,” the creature returned.

  “That’s not what I —”

  “What was supposed to happen to these elves?” Feril interrupted.

  The mariner pressed the blade harder against the bakali’s throat, creating a line of black blood under its edge. “Loose your forked tongue, ba-kah-lee,” Rig said, stumbling a bit over the unfamiliar word. “Answer her.”

  “Spawn,” the creature returned. “Mistress Onysablet wants elves made spawn.”

  “That only works on humans,” the mariner said. “We know. So come up with another answer.”

  “Spawn,” the creature insisted. “Abominations. Humans make perfect spawn. Elves, ogres make spawn-abominations. Ugly. Corrupt.”

  “The creatures by the pond,” Fiona breathed.

  “Mistress Onysablet wants abominations. She likes things corrupt.”

  “Are there more elves being held somewhere?” Feril edged closer. “Humans? Ogres?”

  “Not know,” the creature answered. “Not care.”

  “Then where do you take them?” Rig asked.

  “Deep swamp. Mistress Onysablet find us there, take prisoners. We hunt more. Return deep swamp. Our lives a circle for the dragon.”

  It was Jasper’s turn. “How deep into the swamp?”

  The creature tried to shrug. “Don’t know. Until Mistress Onysablet comes.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” the dwarf suggested. “If the dragon shows up...”

  “Yeah,” Rig said. “If the dragon shows up, we’re dead.”

  “Or abominations,” the emaciated elven woman added, nodding toward Feril and Groller.

  With a single slash, Rig cut the creature’s throat. The mariner stood, glancing down at the black blood coating much of his clothes.

  “You didn’t have to kill him,” Jasper whispered, as Feril gathered the elves and started ministering to them. “He cooperated.”

  “If the dragon shows up, let her find only corpses. The dead don’t talk, my friend. Now see if you can help Feril, so we can get going.”

  Chapter 7

  LOFTY PLANS

  The dead lay all around them, butchered by sword, trampled by dragon claw, slain by strokes of Khellendros’s lightning breath. They were all unrecognizable: faceless husks among shattered pieces of armor.

  Their deaths spoke volumes – of the bravery of the fallen. But to the great blue dragon the carnage was one more fine trophy. The acrid smell that rose from the bloodied ground was sweet.

  The invasions of Tarsis, Kharolis, and the Plains of Ash to the south were grand. The conquests mounted, each more cherished than the one before. There were numerous victories in Hinterlund and Gaardlund, and Solamnia had been invaded. All for Kitiara, the human woman with a dragon’s heart.

  As he lay on Malys’s plateau, The Storm Over Krynn could envision Kitiara plainly. The massive red overlord sat nearby, her eyes fixed on a volcano in front of her, as she repeated softly, “Dhamon, you must never drop the glaive.” Preoccupied with something, she had left Khellendros to his own thoughts.

  Kitiara stood before Khellendros in his mind, wearing the blue armor that complemented his indigo scales. More dear than a daughter, he thought. More treasured. Soon she will be rescued and reborn. Soon they would be together, and there would be no more squandered time with Malystryx the Red.

  Malys had adopted Khellendros as a companion of sorts, treating him not quite like a servant, as she had begun to treat the other overlords, and more like a lesser partner. But The Storm Over Krynn knew others occasionally shared Malystryx’s dark affections. He was certain the white, Gellidus, had played consort to her. But he kept silent on this matter and on many others, listening with mild curiosity as the Red directed a human pawn, Dhamon – he’d heard Gale mention that name – to follow the orders of someone named Commander Jalan and not to discard a glaive.

  The blue overlord had given little thought to Malys’s schemes, or to her relationship to the other overlords and the Knights of Takhisis. His own alliance with the Red was one of convenience to keep himself above her suspicions. It was not against dragon nature to feign cooperation as he was doing.

  However, in ages past Khellendros had defied dragon nature. He had been true to only one other dragon, a calculating blue named Nadir.

  Nadir died during the Third Dragon War, but not before she had laid a clutch of eggs. Several of the eggs survived the Cataclysm, growing into Khellendros’s proud brood in the wastes of western Khur. Malystryx’s plateau was in Goodlund, and he was not so terribly far from Khur now.

  One daughter distinguished herself in her zest for battle, joined Khellendros in service to the Dark Queen. Khellendros’s daughter, called Zephyr by men, was ambitious, but her father thought she lacked the military mindset needed to survive. So The Storm manipulated the pairing of partners in the Blue Dragonarmy and caused his daughter to be partnered with a young human woman rising in the ranks. Kitiara uth Matar. It went against custom, as dragons were usually paired with humans of the opposite gender, but then Khellendros had been reputed to go against tradition.

  Khellendros’s choice of Kitiara was wise. Zephyr learned much from the human. She ascended to become first lieutenant to Skie and his partner, who was a cunning she-warrior named Kartilann of Khur. Together, the foursome could not be bested, leading strike after victorious strike above the battlefields.

  Until a long time ago, during the battle on Schallsea.

  Schallsea Island, Khellendros mused, was the place of ultimate sadness and destined revenge, where he had recently bested Palin Majere and stolen the precious artifacts. Where dreams died and dreams began.

  “Do not discard the glaive,” The Storm Over Krynn heard Malys repeat. He ignored her presence; her words were not meant for him anyway. Instead he focused on his memories of the island.

  It was decades past. Khellendros and Kartilann led a sweep of the island. There was no reason to fear the inferior enemy, no reason to suspect disaster. But a sniper’s arrow slew Kartilann, and shortly thereafter Zephyr, too, was killed. In the midst of Khellendros’s sadness, another breach of tradition occurred. In the Dark Queen’s Dragonarmies whenever a partner was killed, dragon or human, the surviving partner was ordinarily dishonored. And to be dishonored in the eyes of Takhisis was something Khellendr
os could not, would not, abide. He shrewdly made a pact with Kitiara, quickly re-teaming with her – in part to honor Zephyr, in part to save face before the Dark Queen.

  Their partnership, born from dragon and human death, from two dissolutions, was a stroke of creative genius. So perfectly suited to each other were Khellendros and Kitiara that at first they appeared omnipotent. Together they carried the Blue Dragonarmy to one conquest after another – Tarsis, Kharolis, the Plains of Ash, and more.

  Blue Lady, Kitiara was called. Highlord.

  The humans called Khellendros Skie. An inadequate name, one lacking any hint of power, and one he had grown to despise – except when it rolled off Kitiara’s tongue.

  The Blue Lady stood before him now in his dream vision, her form perfectly imagined in the steamy air that rose off the baked earth of Malystryx’s peak. Like a mirage, the vision beckoned soothingly to his spirit. Soon he would bring Kitiara back to Krynn and keep his promise to her. Soon he would not need to acquiesce so completely to the red overlord’s commands. He would have Kitiara, more dear than a daughter....

  “Khellendros?” The word sounded like an earth tremor.

  He let the image of Kitiara fade and stared into the smouldering eyes of the Red. “Yes, Malystryx. Your plan has merit. Uniting the dragons under a new Takhisis will forge a new epoch.” A part of him had been listening.

  “The Age of Dragons,” Malys purred. “No more will this be called the Age of Mortals.”

  Khellendros nodded. “This ascension of yours...”

  “Will require exceptional magic,” she finished. “A grand artifact is even now making its way to us, carried by a lowly human pawn. He will be escorted by other humans to afford more protection to the item. Commander Jalan leads the Knights of Takhisis. My knights.”

  “And will other magic be necessary?”

  “Onysablet, Gellidus, even Beryllinthranox will search and provide their greatest magical treasures. As must you. Gather the magic for me: ancient artifacts filled with raw, arcane power.”

  “Of course.”

  “I will need the energies stored in all these things to aid in my transformation.” Her eyes glimmered darkly, and flames lapped the corners of her vast mouth. “We will unleash the magic when enough artifacts are gathered and when the time is right. We will unleash it in Khur.”