The Dawning of a New Age

by Jean Rabe

“Thought so. You’ve got almost as much gray hair as you do blonde.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  His hair was red and was a snarled mess that was tied in a poor semblance of a topknot. Blister suspected his unruly mane was the source of half his name – Raph Tanglemop. Her topknot was neat, every hair in place. It took her a long time to arrange it, and she used modern methods to do so. No need to make her fingers ache when a gnomish invention would do the trick. Blister’s clothes were also a contrast to her newfound companion’s. His orange shirt seemed to collide with his bright green pants that had mismatched blue patches on the knees. And he wore a dark purple vest that had a half-dozen lighter purple pockets sewn on it with yellow thread. Blister wore tan leggings and a rose-colored tunic that hung a few inches above her knobby ankles. Her brown leather boots matched her pouches, and nearly complemented the wood of the hoopak she laid next to Raph’s flowers.

  “I bet Tas had one just like that,” Raph said, as he closely admired her offering.

  “No. I suspect his wasn’t broken.” Blister nodded toward a crack in the haft.

  “So why are you leaving this one, if I may be so impertinent to ask?”

  “This was my favorite,” she replied wistfully. “Besides, those inside have no need of weapons – functional or otherwise. This is just a token of respect.”

  “Oh.” Raph’s attention drifted from the tomb to a tall man who was standing several yards away, under the branches of a shaggybark tree.

  “Wonder what token that fellow’ll leave?” Raph speculated out loud. “Maybe a bag of seeds. I think he looks like a farmer.”

  Blister glanced over her shoulder. “What he leaves, if anything, should be none of our business.”

  Raph scowled. “Just curious,” he said.

  “Let’s be polite.” Blister tugged the smaller kender away from the steps. She sat against the trunk of an Errow elm, the closest tree to the tomb. Raph slumped at her side.

  “You’re pouting,” she observed.

  “I never pout,” he said, his lower lip protruding noticeably.

  The stranger glanced in their direction, then strode toward the tomb. He stopped a few feet from the doors and knelt. He could have been a farmer or a common laborer. His gray shirt was thin and worn at the elbows, and laced with a plain white cord. His black leather breeches also showed some age, and the heels of his boots were pitted. He wiggled his shoulders to free a canvas backpack, and let it fall to the ground behind him.

  “Wonder who he is?” Raph whispered. “Wonder what’s in his pack?”

  The stranger’s skin was tanned and slightly weathered from the sun, and his long blond hair was neatly tied at the base of his neck with a black leather thong. His shoulders were broad, and Blister saw muscles ripple beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He drew a long sword from a battered scabbard at his side and laid it on the ground in front of him.

  Then he bowed his head, whispering.

  “Do you think he’s going to leave that sword? It looks old. I bet it’s valua... er, sharp. And I bet it would be dangerous just to leave it there. Children could get hurt.”

  “Shhh!”

  “If he’s going to leave it, I’m going to go pick it up. Just to keep the children safe, of course.”

  “It would be too big for you to carry,” Blister admonished.

  “I could drag it.”

  The man could hear the kender quibbling nearby, but pushed their voices aside and gazed up at the tomb. He had walked to the tomb from Crossing, a port city to the north. It had taken him more than a week to reach the site, and he’d pushed himself, especially in the foothills near Solace. He was tired and hot, and he intended to find an inn and rest right after he paid his respects. Then he’d come back again tomorrow.

  “Forgive me,” he spoke softly and stared at the silver door, his eyes fixed on the lily. “The battles I fought, the blood on my hands, those I killed —” He stopped. A breeze had picked up, washing over his face and cooling him.

  His skin began to tingle, slightly at first, but then more pervasively. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and a shiver raced down his spine.

  “You spoke of battles,” he thought he heard the breeze whisper. “Are you a warrior?”

  The man glanced about, spied the kender chattering to themselves. It wasn’t one of them. He looked over his shoulder. Perhaps another visitor to the tomb had arrived and overheard him. But no one else was here.

  “Are you a warrior?” the wind persisted.

  “I was,” the man answered softly.

  Perhaps someone was behind the tomb. He made a motion to rise, but his legs felt as if they were rooted to the ground. Suddenly the double doors to the tomb shimmered, became translucent for an instant, and a ghostly woman with golden hair stepped through them. A flowing robe of pale blue mist clung to her ethereal form. Golden curls whipped softly about her radiant face. And when she moved, the stranger felt a soft breeze flow over him.

  “Perhaps you could be a warrior again,” she stated. Her voice was musical. She closed her eyes and extended a ghostly hand toward him.

  The man’s skin tingled even more, and a chill coursed through his body. He shivered, but the sensation quickly passed, and he swallowed hard and stared at the image.

  “I’ve looked into your heart,” the ghostly woman said.

  “Are you a ghost? A specter of someone who died in the Abyss? Why show yourself to me?”

  “I’m no ghost. I show myself to warriors, strong men and women with the ability and willingness to make a difference in the world.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Names are for another time, for when we meet on Schallsea.” Her hair settled about her shoulders, and her diaphanous blue eyes locked onto his. “I sense that you are searching for a cause, one to heal your wounded soul. I can give you a grand one.”

  “How do you know what I’m searching for?”

  “I know your heart. Perhaps better than you do,” the ghostly image replied to the man. “Come to the Silver Stair on the island of Schallsea.”

  “Where the Citadel of Light is?”

  “Where your destiny lies.”

  “My destiny?”

  “And Krynn’s.”

  The stranger watched the image quaver and disappear. “Excuse me,” Raph blurted. “Are you all right?”

  The man shook his head, trying to clear his senses. The door looked solid. The ghost was gone. “Did you hear what that woman said?” he asked, standing and retrieving his sword.

  Raph scowled as he watched the man thrust the old blade into the scabbard. “What woman?”

  “The one who came out of the tomb.”

  “No one came out of the tomb,” Blister interjected.

  “The woman who stepped through the door.”

  “Maybe you’d better rest,” Blister suggested. “I think you have a fever.”

  “Here’s a spoon of wellness!” Raph exclaimed as he reached into his pouch and pulled out a tarnished silver soupspoon.

  “How many of those do you have?” Blister asked.

  “A couple dozen or so. But they’re all different”

  “I don’t need to rest,” the man stammered. “I’m fine. I just need to get to Schallsea.”

  “I’ve never been to Schallsea,” Blister said. “I’ve always wanted to go there. I know a ship runs a trade route from New Ports to the island.”

  “Thank you.” The stranger nodded to Blister, declined Raph’s spoon, and brushed by the kender.

  “I’ve never been to Schallsea, either,” Raph announced. “Wonder what it’s like?”

  “I don’t have anything better to do at the moment,” Blister mused.

  “So let’s go!”

  Blister hurried to keep up with Raph, who hurried to keep up with the tall human.

  Chapter 11

  GHOSTLY TIDINGS

  Again the ghostly image of the woman appeared, though this time i
t was to hover above the top of a long, dark table in a room high in the Tower of Wayreth. The sun was setting and the orange glow that spilled into the room created a soft halo about the translucent woman.

  The apparition glided toward Palin, who sat alone and unaware at the head of the table. Stacks of parchment were carefully arranged in front of him, and he was staring at one curled and yellowed page that was covered with notes written in a near-incomprehensible scrawl. The page fluttered in the breeze created by the phantom, and he glanced up.

  Palin’s lips edged upward into a slight smile. “You have good news, I hope,” he said.

  The apparition drifted until her fair, blue eyes were even with Palin’s. She stretched out an insubstantial hand, and he extended his own, until solid and incorporeal fingers touched in a sort of greeting.

  “It is not as good as I had hoped,” the female image replied. “But it is a start. I’ve called out to many suitable warriors, though only one so far seems to be a likely prospect. He makes his way toward Schallsea as we speak.”

  Palin shook his head. “Only one?”

  “There will be others,” the apparition said. “Remember, I was alone at the beginning, in the time of the War of the Lance. But your father joined me, and your uncle. And then more were added to our ranks. I will continue calling to people at the tomb. More will answer. It might just take more time than expected.”

  “I haven’t given up hope,” Palin said softly.

  “I know. And neither have I.”

  “This one who comes to you,” Palin began, “if he is willing...”

  “I will send him to the Lonely Refuge, in the Northern Wastes near Palanthas.”

  “The handle is there.”

  “Waiting for the pennant,” the ghostly image added. She nodded and disappeared.

  Chapter 12

  COMPANY

  “What’s your name?” Raph huffed.

  “Dhamon.”

  “That’s it? Just Dhamon?”

  “Dhamon Grimwulf.”

  “Hmm. Not a very cheery name. Why’d your folks call you that? Must have been in a bad mood, huh? Maybe it was raining. Or maybe a wolf killed all the cows on their farm. Where’re you from?”

  Dhamon didn’t answer. Though exhausted, he in fact lengthened his stride, and it was all the two kender could do to stay within several yards of him. The vision of the phantom woman kept playing over in his mind, spurring him on and raising question after question.

  “A grand quest,” he muttered half under his breath. “Schallsea. My destiny. Maybe I’m crazy to be doing this, going after a ghost. Maybe I imagined the whole thing.”

  “He’s talking to himself again, Blister.”

  “Hush. Walk faster, Raph.”

  Dhamon had a map of the country. He’d purchased it from a scribe in Crossing and used it to find the tomb. He had intended to stay at the tomb longer, a few days maybe, to meditate, consider what had brought him there, and to think about what he would do with the rest of his life. He hadn’t counted on the ghost.

  He looked at the map as he walked. It was an artfully-rendered one, and the mapmaker had taken considerable care to ink sites of historical interest and paths through the woods south of Solace, near the cities of Haven and Qualinost. But Beryl ruled there, and Dhamon was glad the vision was directing him away from the creature and not to it.

  The map also showed a road from Solace to New Ports, and unfortunately it looked like a considerable distance. If the mapmaker’s scale was accurate, it would take at least a couple of days to get there.

  Maybe I can lose them by then, he thought. He yawned, glanced over his shoulder, and saw the two kender huffing. They’ll have to sleep sometime.

  So did Dhamon. Early that evening he selected a clearing by the side of the road, one with a stream nearby so he could bathe and clean the dirt from his clothes. Just a few hours of rest, he told himself. I’ll be up before dawn, and the kender will still be snoring. Maybe I’ll rethink this whole thing then and decide to turn back.

  Dhamon’s dreams were filled with images of battlefields, the twisted corpses of men left behind in shallow, unmarked graves, pools of sticky blood scattered across the ground. It was always the same. But tonight was a little different. The phantom woman intruded and floated above the carnage. She neared him and lessened the nightmare. “Schallsea,” she repeated. “Your destiny.” The words echoed in his head until his fatigue took over. He awoke midmorning, to the smell of roast rabbit and fresh berries.

  “He even talks to himself in his sleep,” Raph whispered. “I was wondering if he’d ever wake up. And I thought farmers were s’posed to get up with the sun.”

  “Hope you slept well!” Blister chirped. “We left the best part of breakfast for you! It’s still plenty warm.”

  “Caught it myself,” Raph interjected. “With my spoon of rabbit grabbing!”

  “And your snare,” Blister added quietly.

  Dhamon’s stomach rumbled. The rabbit smelled better than the dried venison in his pack. “Thank you,” he said, as he helped himself. While he ate, the kender continued to chatter.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced.” Raph puffed out his chest and gestured at his companion. “This is Blister Nimblefingers. She’s a lot older than I am. I’m Raph Tanglemop. I’m originally from Zhea Harbor in Southern Ergoth. I don’t know if Zhea Harbor is still called Zhea Harbor, or even if it’s a harbor. There’s lots of ice around it now. I doubt ships could get in. And what’s a harbor without ships? See, this big white dragon moved in – a really big dragon – and the whole country started getting terribly cold. I don’t like the cold. I don’t have warm enough clothes for it. And I’m not particularly fond of dragons – even though I’ve never actually seen one before. I suspect if I saw one I wouldn’t be here. Anyway, I decided I should move out before I froze. So I got on this ship and came here. Well, actually I came to Solace – after landing in Crossing – because the name Solace sounded like it would be a nice place. And I would’ve stayed in Solace for a while. I saw some other kender there. They told me about the tomb and Tasslehoff and everything. That’s where I met you and Blister. I’ve never been to Schallsea. That sounds like it could be a nice place, too.”

  “I’m originally from Kendermore,” Blister interrupted as Raph took a gulp of air. “I left home when Malys came. I had to warn the Knights of Solamnia about the Red. After I accomplished my mission, I found I had no home left to return to, thanks to Malys. So, I decided to see the world.” Dhamon offered her a weak smile between the last few bites of the delicious rabbit.

  “How about you?” Raph persisted. “Are you a farmer? Blister thinks you’re a farmer. Well, I do anyway, and she probably would agree with me. Do you raise pigs or cows? Or maybe corn? I haven’t figured that part out yet. How’d you come to be at the tomb? And why do you always talk to yourself?”

  “I’d better be on my way,” Dhamon said as he reached for his backpack. He stood and strapped on his sword. “I suppose you’re joining me?”

  “Of course!” Blister and Raph answered practically in unison.

  “You’re not going anywhere – yet.”

  The three whirled to see a pair of grisly men, bandits from the looks of them. The pair had snuck up behind Dhamon and the two kender during the steady stream of conversation. Their clothes were worn and dirty, but they had on expensive new boots and carried clean satchels, spoils of their previous victims perhaps. The swords they waved were in good repair. The taller one’s blade had a fine filigreed hilt edged in gold that hinted it once belonged to a gentleman.

  “There’s a toll for using this road,” the tall one said. A fresh scar ran from just below his eye to the bottom of his jaw, and he was missing the little finger on his right hand. “The toll is whatever you have that’s valuable.”

  “Then, provided we’re satisfied, you can be on about your business,” the other sneered. He was several years younger

  than his companion, and
his scars were less noticeable.

  “I have spoons,” Raph offered nervously. He fumbled in his pouch and held up a tarnished one.

  The tall man was quick. He spun forward and kicked the pouch from Raph’s grasp. A dozen spoons went flying, spinning in the air and clattering to the ground. Raph scooted back and tried to hide behind Blister.

  “We don’t want spoons!” the younger bandit shouted. He grinned, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. “We want steel coins. Give them up – Now!”

  “No!” As the word erupted from Dhamon’s mouth, he leapt backward and drew his long sword. The blade arced above his head, flashing in the morning sun, and came down hard on the older bandit’s sword hand. He struck with only the flat of the blade, but the force was enough to disarm the man, whom Dhamon guessed was the greater threat.

  The younger bandit stepped forward, slicing the air to keep Dhamon at a distance. But Dhamon brought his sword up to arrest the swing, and the blades met loudly.

  “I like a challenge!” the young man jeered.

  “I’d have thought you’d like to live,” Dhamon retorted. “We can end this now, and you and your friend can leave. No one will get hurt. And I’ll forget this happened.”

  The young man laughed and darted in, slashing at Dhamon’s legs and cleaving only air.

  “Look out!” Blister cried. She fluttered her short arms in the direction of the older bandit, who’d stooped to retrieve his weapon.

  A growl escaped Dhamon’s lips. He pivoted to his right and swept his blade in a wide arc. The young bandit was unprepared, still moving forward. Dhamon’s weapon passed over his opponent’s sword and sliced deep into the young bandit’s chest. An expression of surprise etched on his face, the bandit dropped his blade and fell to his knees, clutching at the growing line of red on his tunic. A moment later he pitched forward, his face falling in the dying embers of the cookfire.

  Dhamon stepped over the body to meet the charge of the older man. “I’ll repeat my offer,” he hissed between clenched teeth. He brought his blade up to parry a vicious stroke. “End this now and walk away.”

  “I’ll end it by killing you!” The bandit pushed forward, trying to make Dhamon trip over the dead man behind him.