The Lake of Death

by Jean Rabe

  “Look, there is the formation we seek,” Ragh said. He peered toward the east. “I can barely make out the top of it. That means we’re not far away—two hours, I’d guess, maybe three. Mere heartbeats if Dhamon flew us there. Those dwarves are probably mining nearby, coming up for some sun and for something to eat.”

  “The coolness of the water feels good against my arms, Obelia,” Feril said, ignoring Ragh. She cupped some water in her hands and drank greedily. “It tastes quite good, sweet, and it refreshes me. I can feel it sliding down my throat.”

  “Tell me more,” the ghost urged. “Tell me everything you feel, my elf-fish.”

  “Odd, the stone beneath my knees is trembling slightly,” Feril continued. “It is not an unpleasant sensation, but still…”

  Suddenly, Ragh felt the ground shaking, too. The draconian leaped aside as bits of rock broke loose from the walls and rained down, some pieces landing on the trail and others splashing in the stream.

  Feril snatched up the flask. Obelia had already jumped safely inside, just as larger chunks started falling. The Kagonesti turned to run, only to fall to her knees again when a more powerful tremor struck. Feril thrust the flask into her pack.

  “Should’ve talked Dhamon into flying,” Ragh grumbled as he staggered down the pass, holding his arms over his head to fend off any stray shards. “Earthquakes aren’t dangerous if you’re up in the air. Elf, stay with me!”

  Feril, back on her feet and with the satchel on her back, was rushing past, struggling to keep her balance.

  The quake grew in intensity, and large rocks broke free ahead of them, falling and cluttering the trail ahead. The draconian slipped when a chunk careened down and struck him squarely on the back. More pieces followed.

  “Elf!” he yelled, struggling to get up from under the onslaught. “Give me some help!”

  Feril whirled in time to see more falling rocks pile on Ragh. Before she could take a step to help him, a whole section of the pass broke free, tumbled down, and buried the sivak.

  16

  Sable relished the darkness and the cramped confines of the tunnel. The odor of the earth and stone was rich and strong here, laced with the scent of burrowing creatures that had died here long ago. The tunnel lacked the beloved pungency of both thriving and decaying plants, but she would smell that again soon enough. Her sight stifled by the utter blackness, the overlord was forced to rely on her other senses, and these she was stretching magically outward.

  It had been a long time since she left her wonderful swamp, years she guessed, though time was an abstract concept to her. Dragons lived for centuries, and the passing of a few years—especially to an overlord—meant nothing. She remembered that the last occasion she had left the swamp had been at Overlord Malys’s insistence. At the time, the great red considered herself the most powerful of the massive dragons and ordered around all the others as if they were her servants. Sable raged against Malys’s commands, but like the other overlords and all the lesser dragons the Red deigned to speak with, the Black followed most of Malys’s orders. The few who spurned her died to her furnace-breath.

  Sable recalled that the last significant journey away from her glorious swamp had been to the Window to the Stars portal, where Malys thought she would use all her magical power to ascend to godhood. She was thwarted, in the presence of the other overlords, and Sable inwardly cheered the unexpected turn of events. When Malys was finally slain a few years later, she rejoiced.

  As Sable continued to tunnel, she inhaled deeply and thought of the time when she first came to Ansalon and claimed her territory. It was years and years ago in human terms—she was reminded of that just by looking at some of her pitiful subjects in the city of Shrentak. Children they were when she first arrived, old, frail, and beaten down by life now. Human time was a mere heartbeat to her.

  Sable had followed Malys here, finding the land ripe for conquest, as the dragons native to Ansalon were not so large or powerful, nor for the most part as devious and brutal. Malys thought the land she took was prime, the best in all of Ansalon. Frost took the island of Southern Ergoth, Beryl the land of the Qualinesti. The only native overlord, the Storm Over Krynn, took the desert to the far north.

  Sable had been relegated to a stretch of plains between the ogre country and the Kharolis Mountains.

  It was actually the very best land for her purposes, Sable knew instinctively. Relatively flat, it was easier to magically sculpt. It wasn’t as populated, so there were fewer humans to challenge her and her minions. What humans there were tended to be clustered in the sparse cities and villages, and they were easy to dominate with her dragonfear and spells. She used them to tend sections of her land and to patrol it; they were useful as puppets, little more than disposable custodians. Few of the humans had the wits to realize they were fortunate to be serving her and to be living in such a sublime paradise.

  In the early days she’d spent only a little time patrolling her territory and feasting on the creatures she caught unawares. She spent most of her time shaping the land to fit her foul mood and causing creatures to grow to unnatural size and to mutate bizarrely. She channeled the magic inside of her into the earth and created the greatest of swamps. The ground became marshy beneath her claws. The grass became thicker, the trees—even the smallest ones—stretching high to become giants with dense, woven canopies. Other trees sprouted from nothingness, cypress and black walnuts that wouldn’t have otherwise flourished on this soil. The dragon fancied herself an artist, painting trees and ferns, vines, bushes, everything green and dark and tightly coiled together across her land.

  She fed some of her magic into a large river, making it wider and swifter and giving it many branches and tributaries. She enhanced three lakes and made sure the waters were populated with bowfin and alligators, the latter of which she mutated into the size of hatchling dragons.

  Sable sent her moist breath across the ground, and where it settled swaths of quicksand sprang up. Lizard-men and bakali flocked to the marsh, as did talons of Knights of Neraka, who swore their loyalty to her in exchange for some measure of power and safety. At the same time, she carved out tunnels and fashioned caverns beneath the swamp, though not so far underground that the odors of the marsh couldn’t seep down and give her pleasure. She chose some of the tunnels as lairs and began to fill them with treasure collected from the coastal towns and from adventurous souls who foolishly trespassed on her property.

  Pleased but discontented with her domain, she began spreading the swamp outward. To the east, the swamp started eating away at ogre lands and eroding the mountains. This was excellent sport for her, watching ogre forces slaughtered by small black dragons and forces of spawn and draconians. She scryed on Blöten and listened to the ogre king and his thickheaded advisors worry over their shrinking land. She sent her spies into the ogre strongholds, while continuing to grow the swamp to the west and the south—and until it could extend no farther north, as it already reached the shores of the New Sea and she had no means to turn the water into land.

  The great black never cared much for cities, so until this point in her life she had made a habit of staying away from them. Shrentak intrigued her, especially because the walled city nestled deep in her realm had fallen into such beautiful decay since her arrival, so she defied her nature and settled there, coaxing moisture into every stone and structure, furthering the city’s deterioration, but careful not to cause it all to collapse. She enthralled the citizens and wore down their spirits, meagerly rewarding those who became turncoats and spies, betraying their fellows and embracing any ignominious task she assigned.

  There were dungeons beneath the foul city, and these she ordered filled with anyone who opposed her. She particularly enjoyed capturing Solamnic Knights and Legion of Steel Knights, as their shining armor and chivalrous natures gave her endless amusement. She let the shiny pieces rust in her dungeons in front of them and ordered the knights fed from time to time on their own tarnished shields so the
y would not die too quickly. Their anguish washed like a palpable wave down the corridors and reliably fed her appetite for suffering.

  Beneath the dungeons she dug another labyrinth of twisting tunnels, some of them completely filled with brackish water—since she could breathe the foul water as easily as she could breathe air. At the end of the maze was her favorite lair, where the air was heavy and damp, and save for a smooth stretch of rock she enjoyed sleeping on, filled with gold, gems, and choice magical trinkets.

  She ought to be there now, coiled in her favorite place, listening to the screams of prisoners being tortured in her dungeon and watching the light from a delicate silver candelabrum make her collection of perfect rubies glimmer. She would be there now, hearing news of trappers who came to Shrentak with fantastic beasts in tow for her nefarious menagerie and watching more paintings, jewelry, and coins being added to her trove, but a courier had arrived to interrupt her routine. It was his news that lured her from the blessed swamp.

  “Mistress Sable, ruler of all of grand Shrentak and this glorious swamp…”

  She remembered the courier’s bowing and sniveling.

  “Knight Commander Galor Bedell has located the Dhamon-dragon.”

  She also remembered growling, then watching with disgust as the courier soiled himself in his fear. Sable had sent Commander Bedell on a minor errand intended to insult and punish him for his failure to slay the Dhamon-dragon. Though she was pleased to learn of her foe’s whereabouts, she was irritated that Bedell had neglected his assigned task.

  “Continue,” she hissed, acid spilling over her lip and sizzling against the stone.

  “Mistress Sable, ruler of grand Shrentak and this glorious swamp, the Dhamon-dragon heads east toward the Kharolis Mountains. Bedell has been tracking the insolent dragon, and through a chain of messengers he relays this news to your imperious self. He tried to kill the Dhamon-dragon, had powerful poison and…”

  Sable breathed then, acid spraying in a stream that struck the courier so forcefully that it essentially disintegrated him. She glared at his smoking remains and rumbled for her attendants to come clean up the mess. Some of the acid had also struck a mound of ancient gold coins, and though it did not dissolve the pieces entirely, it ruined some edges and faces, adding to the dragon’s ire.

  Still, if the courier’s news was accurate, the Dhamon-dragon was not terribly, terribly far away, and so might be dealt with now. Sable had considerable forces in the city above and could dispatch them, but she didn’t know precisely where her foe was, and it would take a while for her minions to travel on their tiny legs. They would be worn down from the journey, fatigued before they could confront and fight the Dhamon-dragon. The Kharolis Mountains were not very far at all… for an overlord who boasted massive wings and a network of tunnels facilitating her movements beneath the swamp. She left the bowels of Shrentak that very night, flying low over the uppermost canopy of her gloomy land and west toward the Kharolis Mountains. Pausing at the foothills, she vowed to succeed where all her lackeys had failed. She would slay the accursed Dhamon-dragon. No creature would again dare to claim even an inch of her precious swamp.

  Sable began burrowing, her enormous claws digging into the ground and quickly starting a tunnel that allowed her to slip beneath the first mountain range. If Dhamon had dwelled quietly in her swamp, she likely would have let him be. He wouldn’t have vexed her so, but the wretched dragon, who looked like no dragon she had ever seen, insisted on building his own lair and taking some of the treasure due to her and claiming more and more and more land. He had slain the forces she sent to the lowlands… forces that were at first just instructed to report about the goings-on in the area. Then he killed those she sent to war against him.

  The Dhamon-dragon had cost her land and minions, and now he was traveling through the Kharolis mountains, heading east, no doubt returning to her blessed swamp from Qualinesti lands, bent on vexing her again.

  Her thoughts returned to the present. Burrowing into the stone now, angling upward with her tunnel, she used her magic to feel the footfalls on the mountain pass above her. The footsteps were soft and nearly noiseless, and she knew the hated Dhamon-dragon could be as silent as a shadow if he tried. These must be his companions she sensed, the wingless draconian who once served her and whom she could barely remember, and the elf… the Dhamon-dragon must be with them.

  She roared her excitement, the fury and delight in her voice sending a tremor through the stone. The trembling of the stone gave the overlord an idea. The courier had reported that the Dhamon-dragon was walking, that perhaps his wings had been damaged by Commander Bedell’s goblins so he could not fly. Sable was familiar with the mountains and the pass, with its sheer, high walls that could so easily collapse and trap any creature traveling along the old dwarven trail.

  Sable roared louder and louder, flailing with her claws. In response, the quake intensified, the ground shook, and great blocks of stone began to crack. She pictured the pass breaking apart and raining down on the Dhamon-dragon and his sivak friend and the elf that was with them, according to the courier. Odd that an elf would be traveling with the Dhamon-dragon and a draconian.

  The ground trembled even more violently, and Sable felt the rocks split and tumble down. She could no longer sense the footfalls of the elf and sivak. The Dhamon-dragon was likely pinned under stone, perhaps dead—she hoped not. Sable wanted to deal the final blow herself. She clawed faster toward the surface.

  The goats were nearly enough to sate him, but Dhamon wanted more. He smelled more of the animals over the next rise. He could hear them, their hooves making clicking sounds across the rocks, one of them snorting, probably another ram leading another herd, oblivious to Dhamon’s presence…

  He guessed there to be at least a dozen. Goats were not as delicious as bear, but they were preferable to most of the fare he’d dined on in the swamp, and their meat was reasonably tender. He pivoted toward them, his stomach growling.

  Then abruptly he froze, hovering over a peak. The Kharolis Mountains were rumbling below him. A quake was building. At first he thought little of it, hovering only out of curiosity, and when it stopped, he again headed toward the goats, which he could tell were nervously dashing over the rocks now.

  The mountain rumbled more violently, enough to send a chunk of rock off the peak directly beneath him. The goats were close, he knew, and would be distracted by the quake. His saliva flowed. He crested the rise and saw the herd, the ram leading them down a trail, but the mountain was still rumbling and rocks were shifting and sliding, giving even the sure-footed goats trouble.

  If the goats were having trouble, Dhamon suddenly realized, his companions might be faring worse.

  Feril! He beat his wings and turned, climbed over a peak and shot toward the pass where he’d left her and Ragh. Dhamon knew he hadn’t been gone very long and that his companions couldn’t have made much progress along the trail. The miles melted beneath his wings as the mountain continued to quake.

  Streaking over the pass, he spotted the Kagonesti just in time to watch in horror as the southern wall cracked and showered down on the trail in front of her. Feril was agile as a dancer and nimbly avoided the largest of the stones, but some rocks were pelting her nonetheless. He didn’t see Ragh at first, but as he dived toward Feril, he spotted a silvery claw reaching up from a mound of rubble.

  “Ragh!” Dhamon plummeted toward the sivak, tucking his wings in close, then turning to land lightly on his clawed feet. He grabbed at the largest rocks with his jaws, tossing them right and left while digging at the rocks and trying to free the sivak. Feril sidestepped a shower of rocks as she rushed toward him.

  In moments, Dhamon had reached Ragh and plucked him away, holding the unconscious sivak gingerly in his teeth and lowering his head to the still-rumbling earth. Feril sprinted the remaining few yards and leaped onto him, hands closing around one of Dhamon’s horns and pulling herself up onto his neck. She sat between shadowy spines and grippe
d him tightly, heels pressing into him.

  Dhamon lumbered forward with rocks falling all around him. He leaped over a pile of rubble and dodged falling chunks. At last the collapsing pass opened wider and Dhamon spread his wings and cleared the top of the crumbling rock walls. Within a heartbeat he was above the Kharolis Mountains and arcing high into the sky. The wind whipped him, a gust nearly unseating the Kagonesti.

  Striking out toward the west, he angled down toward the foothills. If he had looked behind him, he would have seen giant black claws thrust up from the earth and bat aside falling rocks. He would have seen an immense snout, wide eyes taking in the carnage but finding no trace of the sivak, the elf, and the Dhamon-dragon.

  Sable howled louder than she’d ever howled before. The mountains echoed her fury, and cracks grew wider in the granite all around her. Huge rock slabs fell, stone dust belched up everywhere, and the pass vanished as though it had never existed. Sable climbed to the top of the rubble. The black overlord looked to the sky, but Dhamon had already flown down and was out of her line of sight.

  17

  “Down there, Dhamon.” Feril held on for dear life and shouted to be heard above a gathering breeze. “Low in the foothills, to the north. See the people? Let’s go down there.”

  Dhamon continued flying—past the foothills and over a thinning forest, happy to be high in the sky on this hot summer day. He didn’t slow until she nudged him harder and shouted louder.

  “Turn back! Down there! I want to talk to those people down there, Dhamon. We shouldn’t leave the mountains. We were so close to that scale. Dhamon! We can’t give up!”

  He let out a deep breath. He circled, studying the terrain and focusing on the swathe of the foothills that had intrigued Feril. There were shapes moving down there in a single file. At first, licking his lips, he mistook them for goats, but no, they were manlike, and so not very interesting to him. Gnomes or dwarves, perhaps…