by Jean Rabe
The Fifth Age™
THE DAWNING OF
A NEW AGE
JEAN RABE
DRAGONLANCE® the FIFTH AGE™
The Dawning of a New Age
©1996 TSR, Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR, inc.
Random House and its affiliate companies have worldwide distribution rights in the book trade for English language products of TSR, Inc.
Distributed to the book and hobby trade in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd.
Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors.
Cover art by Jeff Easley. Interior art by Karolyn Guldan.
DRAGONLANCE and the TSR logo are registered trademarks owned by TSR, Inc. The FIFTH AGE is a trademark owned by TSR, Inc.
All TSR characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.
First Printing: September 1996
These ePub and Mobi editions by Dead^Man April, 2012
Scan by Dead^Man
Printed in the United States of America.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 95-62247
987654321
8376XXX1501
ISBN: 0-7869-0616-2
TSR, Inc.
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Acknowledgment
The Fifth Age of the DRAGONLANCE® world and the awesome dragons who populate it were shaped by many individuals at TSR, Inc. They include: Harold Johnson, game design team leader, Krynn scholar, and kender creator; William Connors, author of the FIFTH AGE™ game rules; Sue Weinlein Cook, FIFTH AGE game editor; Skip Williams, sounding board and Legion of Steel creator; and Steve Miller, Krynn on-line liaison.
Thanks also to Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman for their novel Dragons of Summer Flame, which served as the foundation for the Age of Mortals. And to Steve Glimpse, who breathed life into Blister.
Dedication
For Brian and Lorraine—
for believing in me enough to let me wander through Krynn.
And for Margaret—
for shaping such a grand world to believe in.
Prologue
PALIN'S DESCENT
Palin Majere stood near a broken altar in the midst of a fire-ravaged forest. He was tall and spindly, like the handful of scorched birch trees that clung to life around him. A staff topped by a hammered silver dragon’s claw was tucked under one arm and his white robe whipped about his legs in the strong breeze. His long, chestnut-colored hair fluttered annoyingly against his neck and face and streamed into his eyes. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t remove his fingers from the book he cradled to brush away the bothersome strands.
He glanced down at the cover. The red leather binding was cracked and faded, and it nearly matched the rosy shade of Lunitari, the moon emerging overhead—the moon named for one of Krynn’s gods of magic. There was magic in the book. Palin could sense it. He could feel a tingling in his slender fingers, feel the pulse of arcane energy that seemed at first erratic but now beat in time with his heart.
The gold lettering on the tome’s cover was faint. “Magius,” was the only word Palin could make out.
Still, that word, the name of the greatest war-wizard of Krynn, revealed the importance of what he was holding. The ancient tome was the most treasured of the collection of spellbooks in the Tower of Wayreth. Palin knew the tome had never been allowed outside that august building until now, until the enchantments penned on its flaking pages were so desperately needed. Yet would they be enough against Chaos, who had been unleashed by the Graygem and who was threatening to destroy the world? And would he, little more than an apprentice, be up to the task of invoking the enchantments against the all-powerful deity who raged in the Abyss?
Raistlin, who stood nearby, had placed the book in Palin’s hands. In so doing, he had placed an immeasurable amount of trust in his young nephew’s ability to use the spells wisely. Palin considered himself a mere fledgling next to his Uncle Raistlin and the other revered and powerful sorcerers of Krynn. He had not made the sacrifices in the name of magic that they had, though the challenge before him could make up for that. It could end his young life.
“I am ready,” he told Raistlin. I am ready to make my sacrifice, he added silently.
The black-robed sorcerer nodded and backed away. Usha, a child of the Irda who was at Raistlin’s side, opened her mouth to say something but her words were lost in the quickening, howling wind. The growing magical gust overtook Palin and swept him up above the forest floor like a weightless leaf, carrying him from the land of the Irda and from Raistlin and beautiful Usha with the golden eyes.
He floated, suspended like a marionette on invisible strings, buffeted by what was now a caterwauling gale. The whites and greens of the birch trees, the blacks of the charred firs, gyrated around him and blended into a dizzying array of swirls and splotches. Then a moment later he felt himself falling, the strings cut, the wind gone. All sound ceased except for the pounding of his heart. The magic sucked him down into a silent, seemingly bottomless vortex of quivering energy that sent sparks dancing and biting across his skin like thousands of ravenous insects.
After several interminable moments, the irritating sensation lessened and became a mere tingling on his arms and face, on his fingers that still clasped the book. But the sensation of falling continued.
The colors shifted before his eyes as the rose of Lunitari, the gold of Usha’s mesmerizing eyes, and the silvery white of his Uncle Raistlin’s hair chased away the hues of the birches and the burned firs. The red, gold, and white worked themselves together like yarn on a spinning wheel, blended into one by the spell that was transporting him between dimensions and to the plane named the Abyss.
He blinked, and the colors changed again, for an instant becoming a brilliant blue that swelled and receded as if it were a thing alive, a great being inhaling and exhaling. Then the blue was gone, replaced by a foglike, wispy gray that felt damp and oppressive. Gray tendrils like spidery lengths of an old man’s hair, curled and wrapped about his wrists and ankles, circled his waist and tugged him ever onward toward his frightening destination. Above and below him there was only this grayness, this perpetual fog that filled his senses, this fog that carried him toward Chaos, and perhaps to his doom.
Chapter 1
THE STORM OVER KRYNN
In Nightlund, far from the land of the Irda, a dense fog clung to a broad swatch of tall rye grass and stretched toward a lush forest canopy high overhead. The fog’s milk-white tendrils writhed about the trunks of the oldest oaks, circling ever tighter.
The fog was thickest against the earth, palpable, practically obscuring the gentle rise and fall of the land. It flowed toward a clearing on the horizon, where it embraced a ring of ancient stones.
The fog never left the ring, which marked the heart of Nightlund. The sun couldn’t chase it away, and the fiercest wind couldn’t drive it away. It was part of the primal, unfailing magic that pulsed through the carved stones and reached beyond Krynn – to other worlds and the dimensions that lay between. The fog shrouded the ring of stones from the curious, keeping it safe for those few who knew how to use it as a portal. And whenever a traveler us
ed the ring, the fog shimmered with energy – just as it shimmered now.
Inside the ring bits of color, gold and blue, sparked, danced, and shimmered, then faded and coalesced again. The blue intensified to a brilliant, glistening hue, growing to fill the interior of the stone circle. The gold sparks expanded to form huge twin orbs that cut through the fog like beacons.
“I am home,” the traveler hissed. “And soon, Kitiara, very soon, I shall bring you home, too.”
The traveler’s thick blue legs tensed and pushed against the ground, propelling him above the ring and the fog, above the forest’s highest canopy and into Nightlund’s cloudless early evening sky.
He swept his enormous wings out to his sides and beat them almost imperceptibly, just enough to keep himself aloft. Then the traveler craned his long, scaly neck, and his cavernous nostrils quivered and sniffed and took in the heady scent of the land below.
The blue dragon was immense, a great ancient wyrm. Each of his scales was as large as a knight’s shield, though they all lay sleek and gleaming against his body, making it seem as if he was made of molten sapphires. His serpentine tail trailed behind him and undulated slowly.
“Ah, Kitiara, to have finally found you!” he cried. “To have touched you after so many years!” He threw back his head and a joyous rumble started deep in his belly. The sound raced up his throat, and he opened wide his gigantic jaws. A bolt of white-hot lightning shot from between his fangs and arced high into the sky, streaking toward Lunitari. “Soon, Kitiara, we shall be together again!”
The dragon beat his wings faster now, whipping the air into a frenzy, forcing away all of the fog except that which eternally clung to the ring. His jaws clacked open and shut rhythmically, and his tail jerked and twitched. He closed his eyes. Seemingly from out of nowhere, clouds gathered and blotted out the pale red moon. The clouds quickly turned dark and thickened, grew heavy with rain.
A bolt of lightning shot from the dragon’s mouth and buried itself deep into the largest cloud. The sky reverberated in response, and a myriad of lightning strokes flashed down to tease the treetops and dance erratically toward the earth.
A bolt struck the dragon’s wings, raced to his shoulder blades, then played along the spiked ridge of his back. It crackled up his neck and along the length of his silver-white horns, and it darted toward the tip of his tail and sparked across his massive haunches. Then another bolt struck him, and another. He relished its tingling touch. He was its master.
The dragon closed his eyes in ecstasy, and his roar was echoed by the storm’s booming thunder. Then the rain began, splashing against the dragon’s hide, against the shrouded, ancient ring of stones far below. He flew higher, until he was just below the clouds, and then unleashed his lightning breath again and again. He was illuminated by the bolts, his rain-shiny scales acting as bits of mirrors that reflected the lightning and made him glow.
He lashed his tail about like a whip. In response, the storm grew fiercer still, and the rain came in torrents, battering the trees and flattening the grass.
The deluge intensified as the dragon swooped to hover above the ring of stones, still hidden by the immutable magical fog, but not from him.
“Hear me!” he cried in a voice that sounded like a keen wind. “Khellendros, the Portal Master... Khellendros, the Storm Over Krynn... has returned! Khellendros, once called Skie by Kitiara, is home!”
The lightning and thunder rocked the ground, the rain hammered against the trees, and the sky grew black as midnight.
Chapter 2
THE ABYSS
The falling sensation stopped, and the fog pulled away from Palin, leaving him on a barren rock floor in what seemed to be an immense cavern. The air was hot and fetid. Dozens upon dozens of knights mounted on dragons flew high above him, skimming just below the ceiling and streaking toward something. Palin could hear the sounds of battle, the faint screams of the dying, the roar of war cries and the whoosh of dragonbreath. Chaos was somewhere ahead.
Palin’s lungs burned. It was difficult to breathe here, and the warmth of the place surged upward from the rock, through the leather of his boots, and into the very soles of his feet. He swallowed hard and glanced down at his hands to make sure he still held the book. He’d been clutching it so fiercely his fingers had gone numb. The book was there, he noted with relief, as was his magical staff.
The next several moments were a blur to the young sorcerer. Like bits and snatches from a nightmare, events began unfolding around him. He spied Steel Brightblade, his cousin, on the back of a blue dragon overhead. He motioned to him, and within several heartbeats Palin was sitting behind the young Knight of Takhisis. The dragon’s wings closed the distance to Chaos, taking Palin and his cousin toward the father of everything and nothing.
“He need only be wounded,” Palin whispered to Steel.
Then he was on the ground again, the battle raging about him, the sea of men and dragons – of blood and flame – filling the air surrounding Chaos’s giant form.
Somehow Usha was here, on the ground at the far rim of the battle, and Tasslehoff, too. Palin saw them as he lifted his eyes from the book, spotted them at the edge of his vision. The last words of the spell tumbled from his lips and his eyes locked onto Usha’s. Chaos swatted a dragon overhead as if it were a gnat and the creature tumbled from the sky and struck Palin.
He felt the crushing weight of the creature’s tail over his chest, felt the book fall from his fingers, and the staff slip from his grasp. A sudden wave of cold washed over him. He, the knights and dragons, and the form of Chaos that reached to the cavern’s rocky ceiling were all swallowed by a sheet of impenetrable blackness.
Chapter 3
SPAWN
The warm sand felt good against the pads of the creature’s clawed feet as it plodded across the desert toward the northwest, angling away from the dawning sun.
Hours ago the creature had an urgent purpose, a reason for being in this seemingly endless desert. It was supposed to locate its mistress’s allies – the blue dragons who laired in this hot desolation, and the lesser creatures like itself which milled about. Once gathered, they would be transported to the battle that was brewing in the Abyss.
But the creature had received those instructions many hours ago, the evening before in fact, and now it had lost touch with its mistress, the Queen of Darkness – Takhisis. It could no longer feel her powerful presence. Not knowing what to do, it continued its monotonous course and enjoyed the feel of the sand.
The creature walked upright like a man, but more resembled a dragon. Its coppery-hued scales and skin proclaimed it a kapak, one of the most dull-witted of Krynn’s draconians. It had a lizardlike snout, reptilian eyes, and hunks of scraggly and matted dun-colored hair that hung from its mottled jowls. It sported leathery wings that it flapped occasionally to cool itself. The spiky ridge on its back ran from the base of its thick skull to the tip of its stubby tail, which twitched with nervous uncertainty.
What to do? it wondered. Despite its simple mind, the kapak sensed something was wrong. Perhaps the battle had begun earlier than expected and the Queen of Darkness was occupied.
Should I continue to search for the dragons? It had already discovered two empty lairs. Maybe the queen’s other draconian minions, dispatched at the same time, had found all the dragons that lived in the Wastes and the lot of them had been spirited away by the queen. Or perhaps the battle was called off and the Dark Queen had neglected to inform her loyal kapak minion.
Maybe I have been forgotten, it thought. Abandoned. The kapak paused and stared across the barren expanse, which was broken only occasionally by patches of scrub grass and piles of rocks. It scratched its scaly head, then resumed its journey, deciding to abide by its orders until it again felt the touch of Takhisis’s mind.
*
Khellendros continued to revel in the summer storm as he banked toward the northwest and left Nightlund behind. The rain was warm and sang to him, pattering out a soft melody
against his back. It sang that it was glad to have him home.
It feels good to be home, the great blue dragon thought. He cast his eyes skyward and let the rain wash into his golden eyes. And it shall feel even better to end the loneliness, to again be joined with Kitiara.
“I made a promise to you once,” he hissed aloud, as the miles passed beneath his enormous wings. “I vowed to keep you safe. But I failed you, and your body died. Your spirit disappeared from Ansalon, though I know it lives and remembers me.”
The dragon remembered, too. He remembered what it was like to be teamed with the only human whom he believed possessed the heart of a dragon. Ambitious and crafty, Kitiara had led him on successful strikes and rode him into one glorious battle after another. Together, there was nothing they would not dare to do and no force that could stand up to them.
Khellendros felt complete in those long-ago years, always purposeful and always content in the company of his trusted, calculating partner. He remembered the overwhelming exhilaration they shared in the midst of a fight, remembered the dizzying sense of victory afterward.
And he remembered the frustration of not being able to save Kitiara one rare day when she was alone and far from his side. Even across the miles, he had felt her body die, had felt the instant of her death as if an incredible blow had been landed against his own stomach. He had flown to her then and seen the crumpled, weak human shell that once housed her remarkable mind. And through a haze of anger and tears he had watched her spirit slip free and rise above its useless shell. Her spirit still lived!
Khellendros had vowed to snare her essence and find another shell – one that he would guard more carefully – for his partner. The dragon had chased Kitiara’s spirit above Ansalon’s plains and valleys, losing touch with it from time to time, then feeling it nearby but just beyond his grasp. Years he had spent chasing, searching. At times there had been months filled with frustration, when not even a hint of her spirit crossed his path. Still, the great dragon had refused to give up, and at last found her essence again, touched her mind and called out to her.
