by Jean Rabe
“It’s all right, Jasper,” she said. She reached a finger down and touched the tip of his nose. “And I’m glad you escorted our visitor. I sent for him.”
The dwarf looked at her quizzically, stroking his short beard. “A new student? Should I leave?”
“I want you to stay,” she added.
“Can we stay, too?” Raph panted, as he edged forward. “Raph, slow down! I told you not to barge into things.
You could get hurt!” Blister huffed and puffed up behind him, staring at Goldmoon. She straightened her tunic, brushed the sand off her shoes, and offered Goldmoon a smile. “Excuse us for coming to your home uninvited. My companions are rather headstrong. They didn’t mean to be impolite.”
“No apology needed,” Goldmoon replied. “You are all welcome here.”
She glided toward Dhamon. “There is a grand adventure in the offing,” she said. “And it is an adventure one person alone should not undertake, Dhamon Grimwulf.”
“You know my name?” The moment after Dhamon spoke the words, he wished he could draw them back into his mouth. If a woman could project an image over hundreds of miles and through a tomb door, she no doubt could learn the identity of whom she was projecting to.
“I know a lot about you, Dhamon. But do you know anything of me?”
He didn’t answer.
“Decades past, my companions and I sought to stop the Dragonarmies. In droves, the evil men and creatures came west from the Khalkist Mountains, sweeping into Balifor and beyond. It was the start of the War of the Lance. Our struggle lasted five years, and in that time we witnessed the fall of eastern Ansalon.”
Dhamon knew the stories of the Heroes of the Lance by heart. There were few on Ansalon who didn’t know about the exploits of Caramon and Tika Majere, Raistlin, Goldmoon and the rest.
“The dragonlances were the key,” Goldmoon said, interrupting his thoughts. “The secret of creating dragonlances was rediscovered during a time when many people had given up hope – like many have now. We used the newly forged weapons to drive back the Blue Dragonarmy. The good dragons, once held at bay because their eggs had been stolen, entered the war. The tide turned, and Takhisis’s forces scattered. The evil dragons fled to remote parts of Ansalon and became weaker. Some of my companions who fought in that war have passed beyond this world – the kender Tasslehoff Burrfoot, Tanis Half-Elven, Flint Fireforge, Sturm Brightblade, dear Riverwind. Those few of us left...”
She paused and took a step closer. “We can only watch and believe the future will brighten. This is your world now, your time. We bested the dragons once. Perhaps they can be bested again. The gods are gone, and the threat of the dragons is greater than ever before. And you’re looking for a cause, Dhamon Grimwulf, though you may not realize it. You’re looking for something to lighten your heart. It seems a cause has found you.”
She touched his shoulder. “Now is an age when men must gaze into their hearts and find the strength and faith to overcome the obstacles placed before them. They cannot look to the gods anymore for worldly salvation. They can only look to themselves. I’ve stared into your heart, Dhamon, and it’s much stronger than you believe it to be.”
“But what can I do?” Dhamon stared at the old woman. “Can one man really make a difference?”
“Not just one,” Goldmoon replied. “Jasper will go with you. And others will eventually follow. I will continue contacting visitors to the tomb.”
The dwarf scowled and shook his head. He shuffled toward Dhamon. “Flint Fireforge was my uncle. I promised him once that I’d help Goldmoon whenever she asked.” Under his breath he added “I just never thought she’d ask.”
“It might be exciting,” Raph whispered. “We might get to see a dragon. And I’ve never seen one of them before.”
“I think we should stay out of this,” Blister calmly returned. “This isn’t our concern. We only tagged along. This is Dhamon’s business, not ours.”
“So we’ll tag along again.”
“No, we won’t,” Blister scolded.
“Well, I will.”
“No, you won’t.”
Dhamon ignored the chatter behind him. “What do you want me to do?” he asked Goldmoon.
“You must travel north to Palanthas. Evil breeds there, and it must be stopped. It will be a long journey, but a necessary one. I have friends nearby. The sorcerer Palin Majere will meet you in a place called the Lonely Refuge. It’s in the Northern Wastes. Jasper can tell you how to get there. Palin will help. You must give him this.” She reached into the folds of her robe and produced a tattered piece of blue and yellow silk.
“A piece of cloth?”
Goldmoon pressed it into his hand and motioned for the kender and Jasper to leave. The dwarf’s grumbles were heard above the kender’s banter, and Goldmoon waited until they were situated in front of one of the Citadel’s large fountains.
“The cloth is a banner that was tied to a dragonlance. Palin has the lance’s handle, or haft. When you’ve joined these two pieces, Palin will tell you where the lance rests. Unite the weapon’s parts, Dhamon Grimwulf. It was one of the original dragonlances, rumored to be the most powerful of all. It might be our only hope against the dragon overlords.”
“One weapon?”
“A single weapon maybe, but, more importantly, a symbol. Something to give the people of Ansalon hope. Something they can stand behind, be united by. There are a few other original lances left, but most of them are inaccessible to us right now. What you will join together will be a start. Perhaps subsequent visitors to the tomb who answer my summons can retrieve the other weapons.”
Dhamon took a deep breath. Should he go to Palanthas and the Lonely Refuge, or travel wherever he wanted? Was she giving him a choice? Or was she giving him an order?
Could he walk away and take his life elsewhere? Or had he already decided at the tomb in Solace to let this woman chart his destiny, help him cleanse his heart?
“There are many ships in New Ports. I’ll see if one will take us to Palanthas,” he said.
“Hurry,” Goldmoon urged.
Chapter 15
A GROWING EVIL
“It was my idea to come here,” the creature snarled. “I said we should do it. It was me! Do you hear?”
The young goblin, a manlike thing less than four feet tall, had a flat face and a broad nose that looked as if it had been smashed with a hard object. His dark mouth was wide, and small yellow fangs peeked out from below his thin upper lip. His forehead sloped back, giving his bright red eyes more prominence, and his hairy arms almost dangled down to his knees, making him look apelike. He was a fine specimen of his race.
The sun that was starting to drop toward the horizon was only a shade lighter than the goblin’s burnt orange skin. He squinted into the offensive light as he ranted. “I should get the credit for the idea! Do you hear?”
His fellows appeared roughly the same type, though they were older, less muscular, and had skin tones ranging from dirty yellow to deep vermilion. All of them were wearing crude leather boots and mismatched pieces of armor that had been pathetically fastened together. Most of the armor had been stolen from the graves of kender and elven warriors. Only a few pieces had been claimed in fair fights. And to the goblins, a fair fight usually meant a carefully planned ambush or a well-constructed pit trap laden with sharp spikes.
Several carried crude shields fashioned from boards and bearing designs of clenched fists or bashed heads. A few had impressive metal shields looted from fallen foes. Their weapons included primitive stone axes, clubs with metal spikes pounded into them, and maces.
“It was not your idea,” the largest of the goblins barked. He carried a dented metal shield that bore the emblem of three roses – two buds and one full bloom – indicating it had at one time belonged to a knight from the Order of the Rose. “We were summoned.”
The large goblin was called M’rgash, and he was the chieftain of the three dozen who were slowly picking their
way through what was left of the forest. At one time the dense forest covered about half of Kendermore and bordered on Balifor. But a mountain range had sprung up where the two countries met and had obliterated a considerable number of trees.
M’rgash’s entire tribe numbered more than four hundred, and they laired in tunnels deep beneath Wendle Woods to the south in kender territory. These three dozen were among his favorite and most loyal warriors. He handpicked them for this journey, and they’d set out five days ago.
The goblins stopped at the base of a rocky embankment that formed the base of the mountain ridge and looked up. It hadn’t been there a few months ago.
“We might have been summoned, M’rgash,” the orangeskinned goblin retorted. “But it was my idea to answer the call.” He was called Dorgth, and he was M’rgash’s lieutenant.
M’rgash growled and slapped Dorgth’s face with enough force to send the young lieutenant reeling. It was necessary for M’rgash to show a little force every now and then in order to keep his lofty position. “It was my decision. You merely agreed with me.”
M’rgash was an old goblin, having seen nearly forty summers, and he knew goblin protocol better than any in the tribe. He cast a baneful look at Dorgth, who had risen in the ranks only because of his brashness and fearlessness. Then he motioned the entourage to follow him. Dorgth, properly chastised, took up the rear.
The goblins wound their way ever higher, quickly clawing their way up the sheer surface until they found what amounted to a path. M’rgash knelt and traced a footprint in a small patch of dirt. “Hobgoblins,” he muttered. “I suspect our large cousins were summoned, too. But why?” He stepped onto the path and glanced to his right. The path snaked around the far side of the mountain. To his left it curved upward, leading to a large crevice. The spiky rocks at the very top were dark, indicating the sun had sunk lower. It would be blessed twilight within several minutes. M’rgash had timed the journey well.
The goblin chieftain strode toward the crevice, his tribesmen shuffling single file behind. Beyond the crevice stretched a plateau, and on it sat Malys, who took up nearly half of the space. The Red was impressive, and M’rgash stood in the heavy shadows of the opening and heard the sharp intake of the dragon’s acrid breath. The warriors behind him heard it as well, and M’rgash heard the nervous chattering of their teeth.
“Don’t run,” the goblin chieftain mumbled. “Show no fear.”
The dragon sat on her rear haunches, her horns even with the top of the rocky ridge that surrounded her plateau. The last bit of the sun’s rays poked through the crevice and made her scales look molten. Her dark eyes gleamed malevolently at M’rgash. Wisps of steam curled upward from her great nostrils as she slightly nodded her head, deigning to acknowledge him.
To her right stretched a line of two dozen barbarians. Savages, they wore strips of fur and leather. Their tangled hair hung past their shoulders, and their skin was tanned and weathered from living above ground. Their muscles were thick, sweat-slick cords that stood out along their arms and legs with veins that twisted around them like rope. The goblin chieftain picked out their leader immediately. He held the largest spear and wore a heavy silver chain around his neck with a large golden charm dangling from it. The lead barbarian’s eyes met M’rgash’s glance, but only for a moment. The barbarian returned his attention to the dragon.
To Malys’s left was a gathering of nearly fifty hobgoblins. M’rgash softly growled when he noted that Illbreth the Untrusting was leading this particular clan. The hobgoblins were clustered together, whispering and skittishly pointing at the dragon. M’rgash chuckled to himself. His cousins, nearly double his size, had little military training and didn’t know how to stand at attention. The hobgoblins were a dark reddish brown, their hide a mixture of tough skin and hair. They carried maces and spears that were in far better repair than their black leather armor.
M’rgash, seeing that he had Illbreth’s attention, strode through the opening so his soldiers could follow. He ordered them to form three lines directly behind him. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they looked like a reasonably well-polished military unit. However, the goblin chieftain smelled the strong scent of fear they gave off. He hoped the Red and Illbreth did not also recognize the odor.
Malys idly drummed a claw against the plateau’s slate floor. “We will begin,” her voice boomed. “Know that I could destroy you all if I wanted.”
The fear scent grew stronger, and M’rgash heard the gasps of his hobgoblin cousins.
“But if I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t have summoned you here so your bodies could litter my lair. I have need of you.” Her voice reverberated off the stone walls.
The silence that followed was long and uncomfortable, and finally the goblin chieftain found the courage to break it.
“Tell us what you need, dragon.” His tone was strong and steady, filled with respect. “If it is within our power, we will give it to you.”
“It is.” The dragon lowered her head until her chin grazed the ground. Her neck snaked forward until her face was mere feet from M’rgash’s. He could feel her hot breath. “I want your allegiance and the allegiance of your tribe. I want the allegiance of all the tribes represented here. Understand?”
Then she pulled her head in close to her chest and glanced from the barbarians to the hobgoblins, and finally back to M’rgash and his soldiers.
“You have our allegiance!” The barbarian leader took a step forward and bowed to the dragon. “I, Harg Darkaxe, so swear!”
M’rgash saw Illbreth step forward, too. The hobgoblin’s knees wobbled, and his jaw trembled. M’rgash was pleased that though he was frightened, his cousin was even more afraid.
“I-I-I am Illbreth, leader of the Bloodridge Band. I promise the allegiance of my men here, as well as that of all my tribe in The Desolation. We number more than two hundred. We are yours.”
It was M’rgash’s turn. He puffed out his small chest, took a deep breath, and bowed to Malys. “I am M’rgash, chief of the mighty Tunnel Tribe. Our numbers are more than four hundred. And we pledge our —”
“What does our allegiance entail?” The words were Dorgth’s. The young lieutenant had left the third rank and strolled forward to stand even with M’rgash.
The chieftain growled and stretched an arm out to strike his insolent lieutenant. Dorgth leapt forward to avoid the blow, moving closer to the Red.
“What do we have to do? I want to know before I make any promises,” the brash goblin persisted. “I won’t blindly swear allegiance to anybody.”
Behind Dorgth, M’rgash muttered a quiet string of foul curses.
“You dare question me?” Malys hissed. A growl started deep in her belly, and the slate floor trembled in response. “I could slay you before your next breath!”
Dorgth held his place and stared up at her. The sun had set, and he could see much better now. The offending light no longer troubled his eyes.
“I was curious,” the goblin lieutenant answered. “That’s all.” He didn’t offer her an apology. According to goblin protocol, an apology was an acknowledgment of weakness.
“Stand away from your fellows,” the dragon spat. “Come closer to me. That’s it. Closer. Closer.”
M’rgash clenched his hands and pursed his lips as he watched his lieutenant inch nearer to Malys. He would be needing a new lieutenant now. Who should he choose? Thornthumb? Perhaps Snargath? None of them were as brave, but they certainly weren’t as foolish, either.
The Red’s gaze drifted from the barbarians to the hobgoblins, back to M’rgash and his charges. “Do you have any others so audacious, goblin?” The rumble in her belly was growing louder still, and flames flickered out between her fangs.
“No, dragon!” M’rgash bellowed. “Dorgth is an impudent dog. He is not like the rest of my men!”
“Pity” Malys hissed. The rumble crescendoed until the plateau shook. She opened her maw and a column of flame rushed out. The searing lance of fire streak
ed over the head of Dorgth and hit M’rgash first. The goblin chieftain’s screams were drowned out by the wild crackling of flames. The fire spread to engulf the three ranks behind him. The air on the plateau was instantly filled with the scent of charred bodies and the overpowering odor of fear from those who still lived.
She closed her mouth and stared down at the sole remaining goblin.
“Chieftain Dorgth,” she began, “I trust you will return to your tribe and explain that they are working for me – all four hundred of them. All without question.”
The goblin swallowed hard and nodded. He touched the top of his head where his hair had been singed off and then cast a quick look over his shoulder to see the smoking piles of ashes that had been his comrades. “Y-y-yes. I swear my allegiance – and theirs!”
“Hear me!” Malys snarled. “In exchange for all of your pitiful lives, you and your brethren in the mountains, plains, and tunnels will serve me. You will begin by gathering humans – villagers, farmers, wanderers – in the nearby lands you call Khur and Balifor. Age is unimportant. Take the old, as well as the young – even the infants.”
“A-a-alive?” Dorgth stammered.
“Of course, I want them alive!”
“A-a-and when we have them? What do you want us to do with them?”
The dragon rumbled again, and the tremors sent shivers racing up and down the spines of the hobgoblins, barbarians, and Dorgth. “Cage them. Pen them up. Keep them weak and submissive, but keep them alive. Treat them like cattle, and show them no respect. And when you’ve collected more than the number in your tribe, return to me for instructions.” After dutifully cleaning up the ashes of his vanquished tribesmen, Dorgth led the procession from the Red’s plateau lair.
None of them spoke until the sky was black and until they were deep in what was left of the forest between Kendermore and Balifor. Then the silent woods were filled with shared ideas for carrying out the Red’s orders.
