The Dawning of a New Age

by Jean Rabe

  But Dhamon jumped to the side. The bandit was so close Dhamon could smell the pungent, old sweat that clung to the man’s clothes.

  The bandit pressed again, and Dhamon held his breath to avoid the stench. He dropped to a crouch, watching the fancy sword pass over his head. In that moment, he brought his own blade up, thrusting it hard through the man’s stomach. He pulled it free as the body fell heavily.

  Dhamon shook his head sadly, then knelt between the bodies. He hung his head, laid his sword on the ground, and clasped his hands in front of him. The soft breeze teased the stray strands of hair that had come loose from his ponytail. He mumbled reverently.

  “Is he praying?” Raph whispered.

  “I think so,” Blister said.

  “Doesn’t he know the gods are gone? There’s no one to hear him.”

  Blister drew a gloved finger to her mouth, encouraging Raph to be quiet.

  “There’s not a scratch on Dhamon,” Raph whispered. “He just killed two men and he didn’t even get dirty. And now he’s praying over them. They were evil, and he’s praying.”

  Dhamon rose, picked up his sword, and strode toward the stream. He washed the blood off the old blade, sheathed it, then retied his hair.

  “You’re not a farmer, are you?” Blister asked.

  “No,” Dhamon answered.

  Behind him Raph was chattering again and rummaging through the dead men’s possessions. He pocketed most of the coins and the other interesting odds and ends that were pulled from the bodies.

  “You want this fancy sword, Dhamon?” Raph asked. “You earned it. And it’s too long for me.”

  Dhamon shook his head.

  “Bet it’s worth something,” Raph mumbled softly.

  “It’s probably at least worth passage to Schallsea,” Blister said. “Look, Dhamon’s leaving! Let’s go.”

  “Wait! I gotta get my spoons!”

  Chapter 13

  THE PATH TO THE SILVER STAIR

  New Ports was perched on a thumb-shaped bay of the New Sea. It was a bustling town, growing with the addition of elves who’d left the Qualinesti forest when the Green moved in. Not all the elves left the forest, nor did all those who left come here. But those who did swelled the population and made it look as if the town was thriving.

  The town was built like a wheel. The oldest residential section formed the hub, and from it radiated spokelike streets filled with homes and businesses. The newest buildings were those farthest from the center of town, except for a stretch of old buildings on the coast.

  It was easy to distinguish the older section of town from the new. The center of the city was comprised of sturdy stone buildings with thatch roofs. The shutters and window boxes were worn and covered with chipping paint. To the west, the buildings were smaller, made of wood, and covered in new paint – or no paint at all. Some looked like they had been thrown together, and their walls smelled of freshly cut pine. Between them were shacks and lean-tos, occupied by people who did not yet have permanent homes. It looked like a city that was swelling, prospering, perhaps growing too quickly.

  But despite appearances, New Ports wasn’t flourishing. Beggars clustered between buildings. Urchins played by the back doors of inns, hoping to find tasty morsels amid the trash or to receive handouts from the cooks. Several businesses were closed or looked dusty and vacant inside.

  Raph struck up a conversation with a street merchant who explained that most businesses were faring poorly, and some closed their doors because it took more coins to stay open than they could make in a day. People were simply saving their money in the event the Green expanded her territory east to the town and they needed to buy passage to another land where it might be safer. Most of the residents were uneasy, though they hid it well under smiling facades.

  The fishermen were the only truly happy folk around, the merchant said. Now that the far part of New Sea was a marsh due to the Black’s alteration of the climate, the warm weather had extended to the west and touched this stretch of the water and fishing was considerably better. People had to eat, so the fishermen were profiting because New Ports had more mouths to feed.

  Dhamon paused at a corner and bought an apple from a gnome. The kender did likewise, then they were quick on his heels toward the waterfront.

  The salty sea air was strong and not unpleasant. The breeze stirred it with the scents of freshly-caught fish, crabs, and lobster. Dhamon spied several men fishing with nets and poles from an old, narrow dock that stretched out into the sparkling bay. A few ships were moored to the larger docks where the water was darker and deeper. It was midday, so most of the fishing boats would be out for several more hours.

  It didn’t take the trio long to find a ship that made somewhat regular runs to Schallsea Island. It was a small coastal trader called the Wind Chaser. Made of poplar and pine, it was not quite fifty feet long and had only one mast and a square sail. The captain was a handsome, dark-skinned man with short black hair. He was tall and muscular and bedecked in a crisp yellow shirt with voluminous sleeves that snapped in the wind. His tan breeches were baggy and gathered at the knees, just above his black snakeskin boots.

  “Schallsea, huh?” the captain asked as he strode from the center of the deck and peered over the low rail at Dhamon. He had a deep, melodious voice that carried well and was pleasant to listen to. His dark eyes locked onto the kender, and he pursed his lips. “I only go when I’ve enough passengers – and enough coin. That will probably be sometime tomorrow or maybe the day after that”

  Raph produced the filigreed long sword he’d been dragging. “Will this buy us a ride?”

  The captain grinned, his eyes surveying the weapon in admiration and lingering on the pommel. Dhamon glanced at the cutlass that hung from the dark man’s right hip. It was well-oiled and had a keen edge that flashed in the sunlight, but it wasn’t as valuable as the sword Raph had offered him. Several daggers were strapped about his waist, and the pommels of more daggers peaked out from beneath his shirt and from the tops of his boots.

  “That’s a fine blade. How’d you come by it, little one?” The speaker was a woman, as dark as the captain, but with even shorter hair. It almost appeared as if she’d shaved her head. She wore an ivory satin vest that nearly matched the color of the lowered sail she’d stepped from behind. Her brown breeches hugged her long legs like a tight glove, and the green silk sash she wore low around her hips waved animatedly in the strong breeze.

  Dhamon suspected they were from the race of sea barbarians far to the northeast, black mariners from the lands around the Blood Cup, or the Blood Sea.

  “My uncle gave me the sword,” Raph began. “It’s been in the family for years. I’m just too short to use it, and I’m tired of hauling it around.”

  “That’ll buy passage for you,” the captain stated.

  “For all of us,” Blister said.

  The dark man raised an eyebrow. “All right. For all of you. The sword’s valuable enough. Come back tomorrow. Before noon.”

  “Today,” Dhamon insisted. “I need to go to Schallsea Island today.”

  “Well, you’ll not get there in a day – no matter how early we leave. It’s about three hundred miles to the main port on the island. Come back tomorrow and we’ll see if there’s enough passengers to make the trip.”

  “I’ve some coin,” Dhamon continued. “I could make it worth your while to leave now.”

  “Someone after you?” the captain probed. “You a wanted man?”

  Dhamon shook his head. “I’m just in a hurry.”

  “The coin and the sword,” the woman said. She moved up behind the captain, gliding silently like a cat. “And then you’ll have yourself a deal. I’m Shaon.” She extended a slender, calloused hand to Dhamon to help him aboard. Her grip was forceful. “This is Rig. He’s in charge of the Wind Chaser. We’ve two other crewmen, and they’ll be here soon. They’re picking up some supplies.” She pivoted on her sandaled feet and brushed by Rig. “The men won’t b
e happy about this,” she whispered. “They thought we’d be in town at least one night.”

  “It’ll cost you a hundred steel coins and the sword,” Rig snapped.

  Dhamon sighed and reached for his backpack. Raph’s eyes grew wide.

  “He’s got that much steel?” the young kender whispered as he tugged on Blister’s tunic.

  “We could practically buy a boat for that,” Blister cut in, ignoring her curious companion. “Fifty, and not a coin more. Fifty’s too much anyway, but we’re in a hurry. Take it, or we’ll find another boat.”

  Rig grumbled as he glared at the two kender, who scrambled onto the deck. But he nodded and cupped his hands.

  “Heard of the Silver Stair?” Dhamon asked as he paid the coins.

  The dark man nodded. “The Citadel of Light. Pilgrims have been visiting the site for years.” He passed the coins to Shaon, then pointed to a pair of benches near the center of the deck.

  “That’s where I need to go. The Silver Stair.”

  “It’s farther up the coast. It’ll cost you more.”

  “How much more?” Raph piped up.

  “Twenty.”

  “Ten,” Blister countered. The kender put her hands on her hips and scowled.

  “Done.” The dark man laughed and strode toward the bow.

  “You would’ve really paid him twenty – and the hundred he asked for before that?” Blister asked.

  Dhamon drew his lips into a straight line. “It’s all the coin I have. But, yes, I would have.”

  “You’ve got to learn to bargain, Mr. Grimwulf,” Blister lectured. “If you don’t, you’ll end up without a coin in your pocket. And then you’ll starve.”

  Dhamon and the kender hadn’t quite settled themselves on an old bench when two sailors laden with fresh water and fruit climbed aboard. They seemed surprised at the ship’s imminent departure, and started to object, explaining their plans for the evening. But a cross look from Rig and a couple of barked orders cut them off and sent them scurrying to work on the sail. Moments later they were untying the ropes that held the Wind Chaser to the dock and the boat was moving slowly away.

  “Stop! Wait for me!” called a voice accompanied by the hurried stomping of bootsteps. Dhamon looked over the rail at the hopeful passenger. “Rig Mer-Krel, you told me you weren’t leaving until tomorrow at the earliest! What do you think you’re doing?”

  The captain motioned to Shaon, who rushed to the side and stretched to reach a slender arm over the railing. Dhamon noticed Raph’s filigreed sword hung from Shaon’s hip. Within a heartbeat she had helped aboard a russet-haired, panting dwarf.

  “Sorry, Jasper,” Shaon said, as she ruffled her fingers through the curls on his head. “We must’ve got our days mixed up.”

  “It was a good thing I saw your sail open,” the dwarf huffed. He grumbled and fished around in his pocket, eventually producing seven steel coins. “The usual place, the Citadel. Just drop me up the coast as close as you can get.”

  Blister and Raph opened their mouths, a protest at the dwarf’s small fee playing on their lips. But a glare from Dhamon silenced them. Dhamon inwardly fumed that he’d paid so much more than the dwarf, but he had the sense to keep quiet. At least he had a ride to his rendezvous with the ghost.

  The dwarf shuffled toward the bench opposite them and settled onto it, directly across from Blister. Dhamon caught Raph staring at the newcomer. The dwarf did indeed look a little unusual and worth a second glance. The hair on his head was short, no more than a few inches long, and it grazed the tops of his ears. His beard was neatly trimmed, too, and was short – undwarf-like. Dhamon guessed him to be about a hundred years old, in his prime, and fit for his stunted race, wearing a leather tunic over a bright blue shirt and trousers. He lacked the paunch of many of his kind, but not the dour expression. The dwarf grimaced at them.

  “Who’re you?” Raph asked.

  The dwarf glowered at the kender. “Jasper Fireforge. Shaon says you’re going to Schallsea, too.”

  “The Silver Stair,” Raph announced. “Mr. Grimwulf thinks he has to go there, and Blister and me are going too.”

  It was Dhamon’s turn to grimace.

  The dwarf’s eyes narrowed and he cocked his head. A shrug of his stout shoulders parted the neck of his leather tunic, showing a heavy gold chain and a piece of jasper.

  “You’re going there,” the young kender persisted. “I overheard you tell the lady – just as you paid her only seven steel.”

  “Where I go is my business,” the dwarf returned.

  Raph opened his mouth to ask another question.

  “And when I go somewhere,” the dwarf interrupted, “I prefer to go there quietly.” He crossed his stubby arms, closed his eyes, and continued to glower.

  The rest of the trip passed in an uneasy silence, with the two kender often at the bow, where they could chatter without bothering the dwarf.

  *

  The sight of the Citadel of Light left even the noisy kender speechless. The sunlight bouncing off of the Citadel’s many huge crystalline domes made it hard to look directly at the structure, but its beauty drew them closer. Arcs of water from two grand fountains followed the curves of the sparkling buildings and drew attention to the central dome of the citadel. A figure stood in its entryway, waiting.

  “She greets all who come here to learn the powers of the heart,” said the dwarf, his mood brightening considerably. He eagerly moved forward and the kender followed him.

  Dhamon looked back toward the sea. Rig had agreed to wait just offshore until late afternoon tomorrow – for the promise of another ten pieces of steel. He said he’d bring the rowboat back for them when they signaled. If they took longer than that, the dark man said they’d have to catch him on his return trip next week. Dhamon grudgingly accepted the terms. He didn’t want the Wind Chaser out of sight. He had no desire to be stranded, even though he had no particular place to go.

  When Dhamon turned back to face the citadel, he found his companions had left him behind. The figure standing in the entry of the central crystalline dome beckoned to him. He was unsure of what waited for him. He rushed to catch up with his cohorts and found himself breaking into a run, suddenly swept up by an exhilarating wave of emotion that carried him forward.

  Chapter 14

  THE FACES OF GOLDMOON

  Dhamon heard the hurried footsteps of the dwarf and the kender behind him and briefly wondered if he should have slowed his pace to accommodate them. He wasn’t sure of what had come over him. He had sped right by. It wasn’t like him to be pointedly rude. He turned to retrace his steps and apologize to them.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  The voice was familiar. He turned to see a small woman with pale, wrinkled skin. Her white robe fluttered in the sea breeze and outlined her slight frame.

  “I have been calling out to many warriors who visited the tomb, but you were the first to answer my summons.”

  It was the phantom woman, but her voice sounded softer than when he’d heard her near Solace and she looked much older than the young woman he saw at The Last Heroes Tomb. Her blond hair was wispy, and contained thick streaks of white. Her blue eyes were dull and rheumy. The strong sunlight revealed the lines on her face, and Dhamon could see that the flesh on her arms and along her jaw sagged slightly.

  She was an old woman, seventy or eighty, he guessed, though she exuded a matronly air and carried herself with a quiet grace and dignity. Her gait was slow, but he could tell she was not infirm. There was a presence about her, a sensation of power.

  “Please, come closer.” Her voice was soft, not much above a whisper.

  Dhamon’s eyes locked onto hers, but he held his place. “I can see you well enough from here,” he said.

  “Tell me what brought you to the tomb.”

  Dhamon gave a slight shrug. “I came to the tomb to pay my respects to the knights. That’s why most people go there, isn’t it? But the tomb has nothing to do with why
I’m here.” He paused and pursed his lips. “And just why am I here?”

  “I go to the tomb to honor my friends,” she replied, ignoring his questions.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Goldmoon of the Qué-Shu.”

  He stared at her as he searched his memory. Was this the Goldmoon, a Hero of the Lance? Was she the woman who fought in the War of the Lance and helped to restore healing magic to Krynn? The age would be about right, he mused.

  “How were you able to call me?” was the only question he voiced.

  “There is still some magic left in the world and in me. I sent my thoughts to the tomb in Solace. A place that honors fallen heroes should attract living ones, don’t you think? I believed the tomb would be the best place to find new champions.”

  “Did you have to use your magic to make yourself look like a young woman? Did you think you needed that to get my attention?” Dhamon snapped. “Did you think I’m only interested in helping —”

  “Goldmoon!” Jasper came rushing forward, panting from his long, hurried run. He regarded Dhamon. “His legs! They go on forever.”

  The dwarf’s stubby legs carried him past Dhamon. The old woman smiled and extended a hand, and the dwarf shook it. Jasper looked into Goldmoon’s starlike blue eyes. They were bright and full of warmth and surprisingly youthful.

  “Sorry I’ve been away so long,” he muttered. “I tried to get into Thorbardin, but you know they sealed the mountain. I thought I could find a way in, visit my relatives. Maybe I could have if I would’ve looked harder. But I remembered my promise and came back here.”

  Jasper watched her brush a strand of thick, silky hair away from her unblemished face. Her ruddy complexion nearly matched his, and the skin on her hand felt soft and smooth against his calloused fingers. The dwarf wasn’t looking at an elderly woman. He saw Goldmoon as an ageless beauty full of life and filled with a sense of hope and faith. There were no age lines when he looked at her. There were no wrinkles or white hairs, no slowness of motion. Her voice and her manner were strong, as she was at the time of the War of the Lance.