by Jean Rabe
Khellendros still wished to keep a low profile in the Northern Wastes, to have others do the drudge work. Let the humans’ attentions be focused on Malys and on Beryl and Frost to the south and west, he thought.
He concentrated on a lone blue spawn, the one hungry and angry, the one trapped in a magical bottle on a green car-rack. The spawn was sitting on a desk in a cramped cabin below deck. The dark-skinned woman with close-cropped hair was staring at it. Behind her, a kender paced and mumbled words he couldn’t quite pick up. The damnable glass was muffling everything.
Khellendros stared back through his creation’s eyes. He watched the pair intently, and he plotted. You may break free now, the dragon mentally told his offspring. I don’t need you as a spy any longer. I know where they are, that Palin Majere is coming back to the ship with his followers.
The blue spawn’s heart beat stronger. “Free!” it cried, in its parched voice. It beat its wings and shot upward toward the cork stopper. Its claws were extended and drove into the soft substance – and lodged there. The spawn hung, suspended, too weak from lack of food and water to go any further.
Khellendros closed his eyes and pulled back, silently and briefly grieving for the offspring he now counted as dead.
*
Hours later the wyverns returned, a blue dragon flying behind them.
“Do right?” The large one posed a question as it landed less than gracefully on the steamy desert floor.
The smaller sent a shower of sand into Khellendros’s face as it touched down. “Do right?” it echoed. “Done? Do now what? Do cooler place something?”
“Do darker place something?” the tall one almost begged. It shifted back and forth on its clawed feet, not wanting to keep any part of itself too long on the hateful sand.
Khellendros growled and flicked his tail toward the entrance of his lair. The wyverns stared at each other, then trundled into the darkness, thankful to be out of the heat and brightness.
The blue dragon glided toward the sand, landing several yards in front of Khellendros. He was roughly half the size of the Storm Over Krynn. Still, he was impressive, his long horns curling in an unusual spiral. He lowered his head so it was below Khellendros’s.
“Gale,” Khellendros hissed. “I am pleased you came.”
The lesser blue dragon nodded. “Yours to command,” Gale returned. “As always while I breathe.”
Khellendros knew his lieutenant was not as servile as he let on, yet he knew he had Gale’s temporary loyalty. The Storm had not destroyed the lesser dragon during the Dragon Purge, though he easily could have, and he kept the other overlords from doing the same. He had kept the smaller dragon safe. In return, Gale had vowed fealty, much as a knight would swear allegiance to a lord. Khellendros trusted Gale more than most.
“I’ve an errand for you,” Khellendros began. “One that will not take much of your time, and one that you might enjoy. Have you ever heard of Palin Majere?”
Gale nodded, a sly grin playing across his blue face.
Chapter 33
A BRIEF REPAST
They ate breakfast at Myrtal’s Roost – Palin at the head of the table. Dhamon, Rig, Shaon, Feril, Groller, Blister, and Jasper filled the rest of the chairs. The polished walnut box with the lance handle sat at Dhamon’s side. Everyone was in clean clothes, and looked more rested and presentable than they had in days.
Fury sat on the steps outside and sniffed at the wonderful aromas seeping from the crack under the door. His golden eyes sparkled hungrily as his tail thumped against the door. But the door stayed shut.
The captives had been returned to their ships, farms and businesses, grateful for their freedom. But their abuse at the hands of the ogres was something they never would be able to put behind them entirely. They’d forever be looking over their shoulders, cautious. They’d forever wonder what might have become of them if their rescuers hadn’t arrived.
Blister concentrated on a piece of sausage skewered by a corkscrew attachment on her black dress gloves. Feril sat next to her and frequently glanced at Dhamon. His eyes never met hers. He stared at the cider in his glass and busied himself with the food Palin had so generously provided for everyone.
“So what do we do now? Where do we go?” the kender asked between bites. “And how are we going to get where we’re going?”
Palin stroked his neatly trimmed, short beard and pushed his plate away. “Dhamon and I are going to the inn down the street to... pick something up. Then I suspect we’ll head toward the tip of the Northern Wastes.”
“The Blue,” Jasper cut in. He took a long draw from his cider mug and nodded for Palin to continue.
“And the spawn,” Shaon added.
“I think we should rent a ship to take us there, around the point past the Palanthas harbor,” the sorcerer said. “We’ll need a base from which to operate.”
“We should take the Anvil,” Rig said quickly, surprising everyone. All eyes were on the big mariner, even Shaon’s.
“I’m a part of this, now,” Rig explained. “I guess I was only kidding myself that I could sail away and ignore what was going on around me. The dragons and all. it’s not safe for anyone anymore.”
Jasper’s fingers twirled in the air, making silent gestures to Groller so the half-ogre could understand the conversation.
“Thank you,” Palin said. “The Shadow Sorcerer and the Master have learned that Malys is up to something. She’s the largest dragon on Krynn, likely more formidable than the Blue in the Wastes. She bears watching, and that’s just what they’re doing.”
Palin smiled and looked at Rig. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a ship. I think it will feel good to travel someplace without having to employ magic to do so.”
Groller motioned to Jasper, forming a cup with his hands and tossing it back to his mouth. Then he made the sign for “ship,” another for “food,” and he rustled his pocket to indicate money. The dwarf quickly caught his meaning.
“We’ll need substantial supplies,” Jasper translated.
“But we don’t have any steel to buy them,” Dhamon said. He glanced up, caught Feril looking at him, then focused his attention on the eggs on his plate.
“I still have Raph’s spoons,” Blister said. “They must be worth something.”
“I’ll take care of the supplies,” Palin offered, as he tossed a small sack to the dwarf. “It’s the least I can do.”
Jasper looked inside the sack. It was filled with steel pieces. He nodded his thanks to Palin. “This will be more than enough,” he said.
“Then the least I can do is buy Dhamon a shirt,” the kender suggested. “He goes through clothes awfully fast.” She passed the bag of spoons across the table. “Dhamon, use these to buy something you like,” she laughed, looking directly at Rig.
“Rig and I will ready the ship,” Shaon volunteered. Jasper, Blister, and Groller agreed to help.
The half-ogre filled his napkin with a handful of sausages, stuffed it in his pocket, and strolled out to present Fury with a treat. Within moments, Dhamon, Palin, and Feril were left alone at the table.
Palin eyed his companions. A grand journey was in the offing, and it had been decades since he had involved himself in such an adventure – too long. Studying tomes and scrying were one thing, but plunging into a quest and personally dealing with dangerous matters himself was something he had to confess he had missed.
“Even with Goldmoon’s counsel – and the lance – we could die in the trying, you realize,” said Palin.
“Everyone dies,” Dhamon said. “It’s only a matter of when.” He edged away from the table and toward the door. Jangling the spoons, and tucking the walnut box under his arm, he looked over his shoulder at the sorcerer. “I’ve some clothes to replace. I’ll meet you at the inn down the street shortly.” The door closed softly behind him.
Palin glanced at Feril. The Kagonesti was eyeing the door.
“I speak from experience,” the sorcerer began.
“Life is too short, even for an elf, not to fill it with something or someone important to you. My uncle was always alone. He filled his life with magic, but he still had this emptiness. I fill my life with magic, too. But I have Usha and my family. I don’t think my magic would be as strong if they weren’t there. I wouldn’t be as strong, and I wouldn’t have the same convictions.”
The Kagonesti offered him a slight smile, then rushed after Dhamon. She caught up with him outside. “Wait!”
“Feril, I...”
“I think I’m in love with you,” the Kagonesti blurted out.
Dhamon closed his eyes and shook his head. “Don’t....”
“Don’t you feel anything toward me?” The elf stepped in front of him, blocked his way.
“What I feel, or what I think I might feel, doesn’t matter,” he began. “Besides, there’s Rig to consider.”
“Rig? Because he fussed over me after we rescued him?” She sighed, putting her hands on her hips. The mariner had kept close company with her all the way back to Palanthas. She hadn’t minded the attention. Dhamon had been preoccupied with Palin – and at the time she thought it was because they were discussing the spawn or speculating about the Blue. Now she realized it was also because he had noticed Rig’s attention.
“You’re jealous,” she finally said. “Rig is just a friend. He flirts, that’s all. And if you weren’t so jealous you could see that. And if you are jealous that means you’re feeling something.”
“All right, I feel something,” Dhamon confessed.
“Something? That’s it?” The Kagonesti glanced toward the harbor and caught sight of the Anvil’s mainmast. “Well, when you decide just what it is you feel, let me know. Maybe I’ll still be interested.”
As she whirled on her heels, he closed his hand around the crook of her arm and pulled her close. His hand drifted up and cupped the back of her head, his fingers entwining in her soft hair, becoming trapped in the curls. He brought his lips down to smother hers hungrily. The force of his emotions surprised him, but she returned his kiss, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him fiercely. They were oblivious to the stares of the passersby, and to the bemused expressions of those in the shops who watched from behind windows. After several long moments, they released each other.
“Something, huh?” Feril teased silkily. “I think I could get used to something.” She playfully tugged on his tattered collar, bringing his face close to hers. This time she initiated the kiss, and again it was several moments before their lips separated.
“I’ll see you on the Anvil,” she whispered into his ear.
Chapter 34
RETRIBUTION
Gale skimmed low over the desert sands, letting the heat rise up and soak into the undersides of his blue wings. Soon the heat would be behind him and he’d have to contend with the uncomfortable coolness of the Palanthas countryside.
But it won’t be for long, the dragon thought as he passed beyond the edge of the Northern Wastes and headed toward the city. After he had finished this particular task for Khellendros, he could return to the blessed heat and his own lair.
Gale’s quarry was on a ship in the harbor – that much The Storm Over Krynn had explained. Well, there would be streets and buildings and all manner of things between himself and the harbor – all manner of things waiting to be destroyed. After all, Gale considered, Khellendros did not say he was to deal only with the ship and that only Palin Majere should feel the Portal Master’s wrath.
The dragon’s sapphire lip curled upward in a smile. If he was to be bothered by running an errand, he’d make sure he got some enjoyment out of it. Gale pumped his wings faster, and the miles melted away below his striking form. His mind reached out to touch the wind that played over his scales.
Obey me, Gale coaxed. The breeze picked up in response.
*
Groller and Jasper quickly arranged for a dozen barrels of fresh water, and a good supply of dried fruits and meats. They selected several bolts of canvas, in the event the sails might need mending along the way, and a half-dozen coils of new rope.
There were plenty of steel coins left over, but the half-ogre made it clear he wanted to keep some in reserve – in the event they needed more supplies later.
They made arrangements for everything to be delivered this afternoon to the Anvil, and then the pair, accompanied by Fury, headed toward the docks.
“Windy,” the dwarf said. He tugged on the half-ogre’s sleeve and made the sign for “wind.”
Groller nodded, made the sign for storm, then drew his hands close together.
“A storm is coming,” Jasper translated. “I hope you’re wrong. I hope instead we...” The wind howled, drowning out the rest of the dwarf’s words, and the sky darkened.
A ridge of hair stood up on Fury’s back, and the wolf growled softly.
*
Dhamon’s hair whipped about his face, and he turned his head this way and that to keep it from streaming into his eyes. He had the walnut box under one arm, and a paper-wrapped bundle of clothes tucked under the other. The paper made crinkling and snapping sounds in the strong breeze, as he walked toward an inn named the Feather Rest.
Palin was waiting for him.
“The lance is in here?” Dhamon looked through the window. It was a rather plush establishment, with a lobby full of overstaffed chairs.
“On the second floor,” Palin answered. The sorcerer smiled. “In good hands, rest assured. Follow me.”
He led Dhamon up a wide, gently curving staircase with a peach-colored carpet runner tacked to the middle. A brass chandelier hung from the ceiling above the landing. Its candles were not lit; enough light spilled in from a window at the end of the hall. Palin strode to the nearest door, knocked once, and entered. Dhamon hesitated for a moment, then stepped inside.
The room was finely furnished, with a large four-poster bed, an oak cabinet, and several comfortable-looking chairs. Standing midway in the room, Palin was hugging an old woman. Near her, an elderly man looked on and smiled. Dhamon stared at the threesome.
The old woman was slight, with short, curly white hair and flashing eyes that complimented her bright blue dress. The wrinkles on her face were not deep, though they seemed more pronounced around her eyes and lips when she smiled. The man looked familiar somehow. He was big, broad-shouldered, and had a wide girth. His thick hair, an equal mix of steel-gray and white, fell to his shoulders. He was wearing a pair of light brown trousers over which hung an ivory tunic. His meaty, weathered hand patted Palin on the back.
“Son, it is good to see you,” the old man boomed.
“Caramon Majere,” Dhamon whispered. “You’re Caramon
Majere, and you’re...” He turned to the old woman, who had disentangled herself from Palin.
“I’m Tika.” Her voice was clear and soft. She smiled warmly as she took Dhamon’s hand. “We’ve been waiting for you and Palin for several days. We were beginning to worry.”
“You were beginning to worry,” Caramon corrected. “I knew Palin would be along. I figured he was busy.”
Dhamon stared at the two. Heroes of the Lance, soldiers in a long-ago war, he thought they’d have been dead. Caramon must be near ninety, he suspected, though the man looked to be twenty years younger than that. He was obviously fit, with no stoop to his shoulders. Tika also wore her age well. Perhaps they’d been blessed by the gods – decades ago, when the gods were still around.
“The Inn of the Last Home?” Palin queried.
“Is in good hands,” Tika replied. “But we should be getting back there. Business always drops off when we disappear for a while.” She turned to her husband. “Caramon, don’t you think you should retrieve what this young man came for?” The elderly man nodded and walked over toward the bed. He knelt, lifted up the quilt, then retrieved a long, canvas-wrapped bundle.
“A friend of mine carried this, and it served him well.” He rose and placed it almost reverently on the bed, at an angle bec
ause of its length. He began untying the cords.
“I remember it all as if it happened yesterday – not a lifetime ago,” Caramon continued. “Sturm Brightblade wielded this. He was a very good friend. Sturm was strong and determined. I guess we all were, confident in our youth. Somehow our weapons and wits were enough during the War of the Lance. But the dragons are larger now. Things are different.” Palin nudged Dhamon closer, taking the package of clothes from beneath his arm. Caramon continued to talk as Dhamon sat the walnut box at the foot of the bed.
“Goldmoon contacted us many weeks ago,” Caramon went on. “She was with us during those years. She fought beside us and encouraged us when things seemed impossible. I think we all owed her our lives at one time or another.” His fingers fumbled for a moment with the cord’s last knot, before it finally yielded. “She said there’d be new champions in need of old weapons. Well, this is a very old weapon.” He drew back the canvas, revealing a silver lance that shone softly in the light that drifted in from the open window.
The wind picked up, making the curtains flutter wildly. It was a cool wind, and it whistled as it washed over the lance.
Dhamon bent over the weapon. It was so polished and well-cared for that it looked newly forged. It had tiny etchings along its widest part, the images of dragons circling, some flying. The shadows cast by the waving curtains made it seem as if the dragons were moving. He touched the metal and was surprised that it felt warm. His fingertips tingled.
“We’d kept it in pieces, I guess because we all wanted a piece of history, a trophy from the war. This hung above the mantle in our inn. Tika and I gave the haft to Sturm, our oldest son, whom we named after Sturm Brightblade.” Caramon’s shoulders slouched. “Sturm and Tanin, another of our sons, died a long time ago. The haft passed to Palin, our youngest.”
“Young,” Palin chuckled. “Not anymore, father.”
“Goldmoon kept the banner,” Caramon added. He nodded toward the walnut box. “Is it in there?”
“Yes.” Dhamon quickly retrieved the haft. Its silk banner fluttered in the wind, which was even stronger now. He handed it to Caramon, who expertly joined it to the lance.
