by Jean Rabe
“The first blockade, Majere. The Red wanted them to. Don’t you see? The Red wants the Crown of Tides, just as you want it. She wants the ancient magic. She wanted your friends to fetch it. Brine had been unable to obtain it for her. But your friends. Ah, they were successful. Malystryx will be most pleased. You see, there are Dark Knights stationed all along the coast now, waiting for their return. More Knights of Takhisis than there were in the Ak-Khurman harbor. If they return at all. The Red intended to alert the sea dragon of tasty morsels headed away from Dimernesti. She can magically communicate with all the overlords, you know. Dead, your friends. All of them. And the Crown of Tides and the Fist of E’li in the Red’s clutches.” The Shadow Sorcerer’s hands glowed red as hot coals and his voice rose to a scream. “And now you will die, too, Majere.”
Light raced from the mage’s fingertips, streaks of red and white so bright and intense they shattered the rock above Palin’s head. Bits of rock rained down on Palin’s aching flesh, just as he finished his own incantation. A bright red shield formed in his hand. Made of flame and birthed by Dalamar’s ring, it reflected like a mirror.
Palin raised the shield and felt the impact as the beams of light and the shattered rock struck it. The sound of crackling flames filled his senses. He roared as loud as he imagined a dragon might roar. The heat generated by both spells made the air difficult to breathe. “Return,” Palin whispered, focusing on his fiery shield, on the ring, on the Shadow Sorcerer. “Return.”
A scream echoed shrilly in the chamber. A woman’s voice. The Shadow Sorcerer was a woman! Palin craned his aching neck around his shield, saw the gray-cloaked mage engulfed in the streaks of light that had been reflected by his shield spell.
The Shadow Sorcerer squirmed and twisted, her garments shredding, the silver mask falling away. Her face was struck by shattered bits of stone and intense light. Then she fell below the beams of light, striking dully against the cavern floor. A cloud of dirt flew up through the blazing air.
Palin released the shield, stumbling away from the wall and dropping to his knees a few feet from his former ally. The woman’s chest rose and fell slightly. Her face blistered and scarred.
“Why?” Palin whispered as he crawled toward her.
“To side with the dragons is to live,” the Shadow Sorcerer gasped. “I must serve the great Red. She will be... she will be...” Blood trickled over the woman’s cracked lips.
“No,” Palin said. He got to his feet and stumbled to the cavern wall, grabbed a rock and returned to the Shadow Sorcerer. Her eyes glowed red, and her twitching fingers clasping a medallion that hung about her neck. He raised the rock above her head and brought it down...
... on nothing.
The Shadow Sorcerer had been in the midst of a spell, had spirited herself away. Palin fell to his knees and doubled over – from the pain that still wracked his body, and from the betrayal at the hands of someone he had for years considered a trusted friend. His sobs echoed softly in the chamber, and he prayed for Usha.
One by one the torches went out. Palin closed his eyes. The vision of Dalamar’s ring swam before him, gleaming dimly. Then, beneath his back he felt cool stone paving. He had returned to the Tower of Wayreth.
Chapter 19
AN EVIL CONGREGATION
The final rays of the day’s sun touched the Window to the Stars, a great plateau in Khur, making the ground appear as if it were molten bronze, warm and rich. It reflected the visages of the seven great dragons who ringed it, framed by great weathered stones, bleached white as giants’ teeth, that stretched toward the sky behind them.
The dragons’ massive bodies looked like colorful mountains, each contrasting sharply with the one beside it.
Malystryx sat at the north compass point, before the most angular of the Window’s stones. Behind her rose a megalith: the Window to the Stars. The air between the twin upright monoliths churned with enchanted smoke. Occasionally a spot of light, like a distant star, was visible, but then the roiling smoke covered it.
A new lieutenant, a large female called Hollintress, lay to Malys’s right. To Malys’s left sat Khellendros, her consort, his scales shining violet and regal in the twilight, his head only slightly below hers. Gale lay in The Storm’s shadow, a position that branded him as subservient and respectful to the blue overlord. Malystryx had made it clear that a great honor had been bestowed upon Gale in allowing him to participate in the ceremony – and an even greater honor lay in store when he would inherit, this night, the Northern Wastes and Palanthas.
The other lieutenants, as well as a few reds she chose to honor, waited at the base of the plateau with troops of barbarians, hobgoblins, goblins, ogres, draconians, and talons of the Knights of Takhisis.
Gellidus the White suffered the heat wordlessly, directly across from Malystryx. His icy blue eyes were fixed on hers, watching her every move and studying her expressions.
Onysablet regarded the Red carefully, though the great black’s eyes also took in the other overlords and gauged their moods.
Beryllinthranox avoided Malystryx’s gaze.
In front of each dragon was a mound of treasure, glittering pieces of jewelry that once lined the coffers of Ansalon’s richest families, magical items that pulsed with energy, and artifacts that had been won at the price of valued pawns.
Gellidus’s prize sat atop his pile: a half-moon-shaped shield of platinum said to have been crafted by Lunitari for a favored priest. Its edge glimmered like twinkling stars, was said to be hammered bits of the goddess’s moon captured and held in die metal.
Beryl’s gift was a true sacrifice. It included a platter-sized mortar and pestle carved of amethyst and enchanted, it was said, by Chislev. The tale said the goddess many ages past gave the worked gem to a selfless Irda. When properly used it could create a cure for any malady, including age. The mortar and pestle sat atop a gleaming shield; the Shield of Dwarven Kings, it was called.
Onysablet had been able to gain only one piece of ancient magic, a finely crafted long sword called the Sword of Elven Glory. To this, the great Black had added a considerable number of lesser magical items. In fact, she had offered everything magical she possessed, along with enchanted items taken from smaller dragons in her dark realm. She knew that under a new dragon goddess’s banner, she could collect more magic.
Khellendros’s offering, however, was the most auspicious, one he said was meant to honor the Queen of his Heart. Two Medallions of Faith topped the pile, once worn by the famed healer, Goldmoon. Crystal keys, able to negotiate any lock, glimmered orange in the sunset. The greatest prize, Huma’s lance, sat closest to the great blue dragon. It had pained the Storm Over Krynn to carry it here, further wounding a claw that was still red and scarred.
“When the sky is dark and the moon is full and high, haloed by storm clouds, I will ascend to godhood,” Malystryx began. “The night will herald a new goddess born to Krynn, the only goddess the land will know. I will lead you to a greatness you only dreamed of. And no one will stop us from claiming all of Krynn.”
“Malystryx,” Gellidus said, staring at Malys. The White bowed.
“The Dark Queen,” the others repeated.
“The stars will witness my rebirth,” she continued. “The stars will witness a new age. The Age of Dragons! The death of men!”
*
In the foothills beyond the plateau, Gilthanas held out the glaive. “I believe you can wield this weapon, Dhamon, much better than I.”
Rig’s brow furrowed. The mariner opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he saw Dhamon shake his head.
“I’d rather have no part of that particular weapon,” Dhamon replied. He patted a long sword that hung from his hip. “I’ll settle for this one.”
“I much prefer a sword myself, too,” Gilthanas added. “Rig?”
The mariner was quick to accept the glaive. A cutlass already hung from his left side, and at least a dozen daggers were visible sticking out of the leather sheath
s that crisscrossed his chest. A few more pommels poked above his black boots. “I’d rather be using Sturm’s dragonlance,” he said, looking at Dhamon. “Unfortunately, it’s resting with the Anvil.” Under his breath, he added, “And I intend to retrieve that lance, if we manage to live through this experience.”
“Slings don’t work against dragons,” Blister observed, as she took a couple of Rig’s daggers. “But I don’t think these will do much either.”
Fiona, Groller, Veylona, and Usha carried swords and shields. All of the weapons had been provided by Palin, who had borrowed them from the magical treasure trove of the Tower of Wayreth. There was residual magic in all the blades, though not as much as that radiating from the glaive. Nonetheless, they might pierce a dragon’s tough hide.
The sorcerer was scarred from head to toe, hairless, and looking considerably older than his fifty-odd years. But determination sparkled in his eyes, and Dalamar’s ring gleamed on his finger. He had intended to send Usha back to the tower, knowing this was no place for someone not trained as a fighter and unable to cast spells. But after looking into her golden eyes and seeing her firmly set jaw – and after explaining what had happened at Ariakan’s Rest – he knew better than to order her away. They would live or die together this day. She had faced Chaos in the Abyss. How could she not be a part of this battle that would play as pivotal a role in determining Krynn’s fate?
Palin only wished Ulin had joined them. He’d had no contact with his son since the day Ulin left the tower with the gold dragon. However, he knew a force of good dragons was headed this way and would soon fill the sky, Knights of Solamnia on silvers for certain. Perhaps Ulin would be among them.
Feril wore the Crown of Tides, telling Palin she needed no other weapon. She had used it to sink several Knights of Takhisis ships that tried to prevent them from landing near Port Balifor, and she would continue to use it to augment her spells.
Jasper carried the Fist of E’li. No one argued with the dwarf’s right to wield it.
Silvara and Gilthanas had provided information about the gathered dragons, and about the armies that were camped around the base of the plateau. Silvara assured them that there were indeed many good dragons on their way, ones she personally knew who would offer their lives to prevent Takhisis from returning to Krynn.
“This is suicide,” Gilthanas whispered to Palin, as he pulled the sorcerer aside. “The armies here alone are too much for us to handle, let alone five dragon overlords and two lieutenants – and Takhisis is coming too. Suicide, my friend.”
Palin nodded, gesturing toward the others. He held his wife’s gaze. “They know it too,” he said. “But not to try...”
“... is to willingly hand all of Krynn over to the dragons. I know. And that would be suicide, too,” the elf said. “Silvara and I will wait until the sun is down, then take to the sky. We’ll watch for you to reach the plateau.”
“And if we don’t...”
Gilthanas ran his fingers along his sword’s pommel. “Then Silvara and I will begin the fight.” Much softer, he added, “And join Goldmoon’s spirit far earlier than we had planned.” Sorcerer and elf clasped hands. Several moments later, Silvara and Gilthanas were gone.
The small group worked its way along a trail that led between the foothills and toward the mountaintop plateau. Blister fretted as they neared the place. “The Knights of Takhisis,” she muttered. “A sea of black. It makes my fingers itch. I don’t see any goblins yet, or hobgoblins or ogres or draconians like Silvara and Gilthanas noticed when they were scouting around. And who knows what else is really there? How are we gonna get by all that? Walk?”
“Of course,” Palin returned. His thumb played against Dalamar’s ring.
Within moments, they all resembled Knights of Takhisis, all tall and human. Even Fury, although he could not help but paw at the ground and constantly sniff the air, was clad in black armor. The only clue to the others’ identities was the color of hair that spilled out from beneath their helmets.
“This gives me the creeps,” Rig said to Fiona, as he looked down at the skull emblem on his black breastplate. His fingers traced the design, and he cocked his head toward Palin. He hadn’t felt metal. Instead he felt the smooth skin of his chest and the daggers strapped there.
“It’s a mask,” the sorcerer said by way of explanation. “An elaborate one, which we should pray those armies can’t see through.”
“Wow!” Blister squealed. She was admiring her gleaming armor and gauntlets. “I look wonderful!” Then she instantly frowned. The spell certainly made her look impressive, but her voice sounded just the same.
“The mask is for appearances only,” Palin said. “Be careful not to speak. That could give us away.”
Blister nodded. The red-haired knight growled softly and stopped pawing.
Dhamon led the way through the first encampment. Several dozen knights were stationed on the outer rim, but none paid the masked group any attention. They were more interested in the feast being prepared. Several large pigs were roasting on spits, and barbarians from some of the local Khur villages were passing around bread and cheese.
It was but the first of several camps they passed through, each roughly the same size and each characterized by the same celebratory atmosphere. Yet there was no ale or mead, Dhamon noted, nothing that would dull the knights’ senses.
The goblin armies were another matter. Drums pounded out an odd rhythm, and the youngest goblin warriors danced around tables heavy with food. Barrels of something pungent and fermented were conspicuous. Dhamon found the least-crowded paths through these camps and hurried toward the plateau, the others following. He didn’t want to risk a drunken goblin bumping into Blister or Jasper and seeing through Palin’s mask. He also avoided the camps of the ogres and draconians they spotted.
The hobgoblins and barbarians seemed to be the most disciplined of the lot, and there were no intoxicants in these camps. However, the air was filled with scattered war cries and victory speeches, as blustery sergeants and captains boasted how their lot in life would improve when the dragon goddess returned to Ansalon.
At the base of the mountain plateau, an elite force of the Dark Queen’s knights were camped in the shadows of four red dragons, a small black, and a small green.
Dhamon recognized Jalan Telith-Moor, and quickly steered his entourage the long way around the camp to avoid her. The commander might be blind, but Dhamon doubted it. He knew she had access to a group of Skull Knights who probably had the ability to cure her malady. Out of the comer of his eye he spotted several black-robed men and women: Knights of the Thorn. He didn’t want to risk the spellcasters seeing through his disguise either.
“This way,” he said, as he picked his way past a pair of knight-officers and started up a winding path.
“There’re so many of them,” Usha whispered to Palin.
“More perhaps than there were in the Abyss.”
“It’s easier to come here than it was to the Abyss,” Palin replied.
“Stop, you!” A knight-commander faced Dhamon, where the path veered around a rocky outcropping and climbed an even steeper slope. Only Dhamon, Rig, and Fiona had turned the corner. The rest were unable to see the man who had stopped them. He spoke again. “Malystryx the Red is allowing no one to come closer! Return to your posts immediately.”
Dhamon squared his shoulders. “Malystryx’s orders were to come to the top. I was to bring these men to her.”
The knight-commander’s eyes narrowed. “I doubt that the dragon would have —”
“You doubt the dragon, sir? I have Palin Majere with me, a prisoner she wants. Perhaps she means to offer him to Takhisis.” Dhamon’s eyes didn’t blink.
“Let me see this Palin Majere.”
Palin couldn’t see the man, but heard his and Dhamon’s clipped conversation, felt Usha’s fingers nervously brush with his. “It will be all right,” he whispered. “Dhamon knows what he’s doing.” Palin squeezed around the corne
r, through Rig and Fiona, dropping the masking enchantment that covered him.
The knight-commander stared at the sorcerer, his eyes studying the burns and scars on his face, head, and hands.
“Injuring him was unavoidable. Malystryx’s orders, sir?” Dhamon said, gesturing at Palin and tapping his foot impatiently. “If you will not permit me to escort Palin Majere and these knights to the top of the plateau, then you must explain your reasoning to her. I hope the red dragon is understanding.”
The knight-commander’s eyes narrowed, but his lips trembled ever so slightly. “Go!” he barked, waving Dhamon along. “Take the sorcerer to her. No doubt he’ll make a tasty morsel for the Dark Queen.”
Dhamon nodded and started past the man.
“It worked!” came a childlike female voice. “See, Jasper, I told you that lying lesson I gave Dhamon months and months ago would pay off.”
Dhamon was at the knight-commander’s shoulder when he heard the hiss of steel being drawn and the sharp intake of the knight’s breath. Dhamon reached for his own blade, wheeled, and watched as the knight-commander was cut down. The man hit the ground, the blood pooling around him.
Rig stared at the glaive he clutched and whistled softly.
“Someone might find him!” Dhamon warned the mariner.
Palin closed his eyes, ran his thumb along the metal of Dalamar’s ring. Fiona propped the man up against the side of the mountain. She and Rig worked to balance the body so it wouldn’t fall over.
“If he was alive, we wouldn’t be breathing for long,” Rig mumbled.
“I think they’ll notice all the blood, and that his armor’s been sawed in half,” the kender observed. “It’s kinda hard not to notice it.”
Rig scowled, and then his face brightened. “Thanks Palin,” he said. In the span of a few seconds, the man looked alive and untouched, his eyes closed as if he’d fallen asleep at his post. Palin again looked like a Knight of Takhisis.
