Darkness and Light p-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  Cloudmaster. At about dawn, the vat was ready. With a

  Micone as a draft beast, the gnomes shifted the vat into place over one of the volcanic vents. Then they sat back and waited for the clay to harden.

  Flash's head popped up through one of the holes in the floor. "We're ready for the sand!" he cried.

  Roperig moved closer to the hole and said, "What's hold ing you up?"

  "Nothing," said the mud-caked gnome. "I said, we're ready for the sand."

  "He means, what's holding you up in the hole?" said

  Sturm.

  "Oh! I'm standing on a Micone." The giant ant was cling ing upside down under the opening, and Flash was standing on its belly.

  The whole crew, save Kitiara and Rainspot, descended to the great cavern. There the train of Micones saddled with hoppers of sand stood in a line, like a cavalry troop on parade. Each time Birdcall poked his head through the toothed passage in the rock and whistled, an ant detached and followed him.

  Farther in, past the Micones' birthing chamber, the gnomes labored over the glass vat. Sturm watched as they emptied bucket after bucket into the baked mud bowl, spreading the sand evenly across the bottom and sprinkling in various unnamed powders they'd brought down from the flying ship. The heat in the chamber was terrific. On Cupe lix's orders, the Micones had broken open one of the magma flues, allowing more of the rock to well out of the ground.

  The giant creatures seemed unaffected by the heat. The vat was precariously perched above the magma pool on piers of stones. The little men walked nonchalantly along the edge of the fiery pit, hardly noticing painful death could claim them if they slipped. Not for the first time, Sturm felt an admiration for the gnomes. They were foolish and trying at times, but in their element, they were indomitable.

  The sand grew hot and steamed. In a process too sudden and subtle to see, the hard grains softened into a smooth mass, first bright orange and then nearly white as the heat rose to its highest level. The glare was too much for the gnomes and Sturm, and they drew back to the cooler end of the chamber.

  "How will you get the melted glass up to the lens mold? asked Sturm.

  "We shan't," said Stutts, mopping his florid pink brow.

  "We're casting the rough lens down here."

  Even as he said this, Micones laden with fresh mud clicked into the chamber. Birdcall, who seemed to have a particular rapport with the ants, directed them to dump their loads in a natural hollow in the cavern floor. Birdcall and Sighter fell to with trowels, sweeping the crimson mud about in smooth swirls, forming a round bowl.

  When the mud was firm, though not entirely dry, Stutts and Sighter conferred. Everyone waited for the word — the gnomes, Sturm, the Micones, even Kitiara and Cupelix in the obelisk above. Stutts tapped his fingers together and talked far too fast for Sturm to follow. Sighter nodded.

  Four Micones took up positions around the glass vat.

  Birdcall sat astride one ant, warbling and waving his hands to conduct the giants' efforts. The Micones clamped their pincer jaws on the studs the gnomes left poking through the mud walls, and lifted the vat easily off the magma furnace.

  Supported by twenty-four individual legs, the vat was maneuvered over the rocky floor to the mold.

  "Are you ready?" Stutts called to Birdcall. The whistling gnome gave the high sign and Stutts called out, "You may pour now!"

  Two ants lifted the vat up. White-hot molten glass slipped over the rim of the vat and splashed heavily into the mold.

  Torrents of steam billowed out as the water was driven from the still-damp mud.

  "Higher!" Stutts cried. "Tip the end up higher!"

  Parts of the vat's outside began to crumble and break off.

  The molten mass of glass surged against the weakening walls. Cracks developed in the lip.

  "Keep them back!" Sturm admonished Stutts. The gnomes, in their boundless urge to see everything, had crowded close to the lens mold. If the vat broke open, they would all be swamped with melted glass. Stutts pushed his colleagues to a safer distance.

  The vat was vertical now, and the last gobs fell into the mold. There was more molten glass than the mold would hold, so it lapped over the edges. As the Micones lowered the vat to horizontal, the cracked sides fell to pieces.

  "Phew!" said Stutts. His forehead was raw from constant wiping. "That was none too soon!"

  The mold, being solidly bound by rock, was holding well.

  Already the edges of the lens were turning red, cooling from incandescent white. Bubbles popped in the center as steam forced its way out from the mud liner. Sighter frowned at the sight.

  "Hadn't planned on that," he said. "Bubbles will distort the glass."

  "It doesn't need to be of the first water," said Stutts.

  "How long will it take to cool?" asked Sturm. The shim mering heat from the poured glass was mesmerizing.

  "Fully cooled, twelve hours or more," said Sighter. "It'll be hard a lot sooner than that, but we can't crack the mold until we're sure the core is cooled."

  "Maybe we could get Rainspot to sprinkle it with water,"

  Cutwood suggested.

  "No! It would shatter into a million pieces!"

  With nothing else to do but wait, Sturm and all the gnomes but Sighter left the cavern. There was still some daylight left on the surface, and the gnomes wanted to get the Cloudmaster back into flying trim.

  The flying ship posed proudly on the level valley floor, and once the wings were restored to the hull, it gained a majestic air. The obelisk's long shadow moved swiftly around with the rapidly setting sun.

  "Ready for wing test?" Wingover hallooed in the voice pipe. A squawky, muffled "Yes" returned from the engine room. "Engage engine!"

  Kitiara sensed a deep grinding vibration under her feet.

  The wing tips lifted, flexed and started down again, but balked. An agonizing shudder ran the length of the ship.

  The wings hung down where they were and quivered.

  "No, no! Shut off!" Wingover yelled. The door of the din ing room banged open, and Flash emerged, coughing.

  Wingover stuck his head out the wheelhouse window.

  "What happened'" he said.

  "That stupid Birdcall installed the armature switch upside down! When I fed lightning to the engine, it flashed back through the cable and burned out the storage jar! We have no power!" Flash exclaimed, close to tears.

  Kitiara grabbed the gnome by the shoulder and spun him around. "No power?" she said. "What does that mean?"

  "It means, we can't fly home!"

  Chapter 27

  The Invaders

  Gloom settled in with the night. Birdcall was sound ly berated for his sloppy work, but once the reproaches were finished, the gnomes went right back to their usual good-natured camaraderie. Kitiara was furious, Sturm resigned. The dragon tried to lighten their spirits.

  "Be of stout heart!" he admonished. "If worse comes to worst, I shall fly to Mt. Nevermind and notify the gnomish authorities of your plight. They will, of course, mount a res cue expedition. Assuming I get clear of this tower, that is."

  "Yes, assuming that," Sturm said. He went away to com miserate with the gnomes.

  Kitiara sidled over to where Cupelix was perched. "Can you hear me?" she said in the lowest of whispers.

  Certainly. The dragon's telepathic voice caressed her mind.

  "When we get you out, I want you to take me with you," she muttered.

  And leave your friends behind?

  "You said yourself the gnomes on Sancrist can be notified.

  It may take some months, but they'll try to reach their col leagues marooned on Lunitari." Since the ruin of the Cloud master's engine, Kitiara had begun to understand how the dragon felt, trapped on this moon. Also, once Cupelix was free, she feared he would not linger on Lunitari while the gnomes struggled to repair the flying ship. Her dreams of partnership would be over.

  And what of Sturm?

  "Someone has to look after the little fe
llows," she said.

  "Don't think me uncaring; I'm just eager to be gone from here."

  Fortunes to find, wars to win.

  "Not to forget showing you around, too."

  Yes, of course. Still, I wonder, dear Kit. If you could fly and I could not, would you leave me here also?

  She grinned up at the huge creature. "You're far too big for me to carry," she said.

  Supper was a subdued affair, and they all turned in soon after eating. Cupelix withdrew to his tower top, and the humans and gnomes slept scattered about the obelisk's now spacious floor.

  Sturm was awake. He lay on his back, staring up into the tower's black recesses. It well matched his mood. Was this his ultimate fate, to be marooned on the red moon forever?

  The dragon had said something about things never dying here. Would he live on and on, bitter, lonely, forever denied his heritage as a knight?

  The dark space above him closed in. The odd, displaced sensation flooded over him yet again -

  — He sat up and heard crickets chirruping in the bushes. A canopy of trees almost closed out the sky of Krynn. Sturm could see the sculpted outline of a high wall in the distance, and knew that it was Castle Brightblade.

  He drifted across the night-cloaked land to the castle's main gate. To his surprise, torches flamed in the side brack ets, and two imposing figures in armor flanked the entrance.

  He moved in closer.

  "Uh! What goes?" said the guard on Sturm's right. He lev eled his poleaxe directly at Sturm.

  He can see me! Sturm held up his hand and said, "I am

  Sturm Brightblade. This castle belongs to my father."

  "Fool, nothing goes," said the other guard. "Put axe away."

  "I say is." The right-hand guard took a torch down from its holder and stomped toward — and through — Sturm. By the blazing pine knot, Sturm saw the guard's face. It was not human, nor dwarven, elven, kender, or gnome. The pro truding snout was green and scaly, and toothy horns sprout ed from a wide mouth. His eyes were vertical slits, like

  Cupelix's.

  Draconians! He was furious that these ugly brutes were in his ancestral home. Sturm pushed through the gate into the bailey. There were wagons and carts parked there, groaning with swords, spears, battle-axes, and sheafs of arrows. The draconians were turning Castle Brightblade into an arsenal, but for whom'

  In the great hall he found a crackling fire built. Camp stools were set up before the hearth, and a trestle table was covered with scrolls. Sturm hovered by the table. The scrolls were maps, primarily of Solamnia and Abanasinia.

  Steel rang on stone, and Sturm started, forgetting that he could not be seen. A tall, powerful figure strode out of the dark hall. He was helmetless, his face hard and expression less. Long, smooth locks of white hair fell over his shoul ders. The man crossed between the fire and the table and sat on one of the stools. He set his helmet down beside him.

  Sturm had never seen such a helmet before. Tusks protruded from the visor, and the whole form was shaped like the head of a predatory insect.

  — "Come and sit down," said the man, whom Sturm thought of as the general. A second figure stirred in the shadows.

  He — it? — did not come into the circle of firelight. A thin hand, sleeved in dark gray, reached out and dragged a camp chair into a dimmer corner of the hall.

  "I forget you do not care for fire," said the general. "Pity.

  Fire is such a useful force."

  "Fire and light shall be my undoing some day," rasped the robed figure. "I have seen my demise in flames. I am not eager to meet my end just yet."

  "Not with so much to do," replied the general. He perused the map of Solamnia. "When do you hear from your Mis tress that Red Wing will be here? The arms grow rusty in this damp old castle."

  "Patience, Merinsaard. The Dark Queen has well gauged the temper of the land, and she will set the armies in motion when the auspices are most favorable."

  The general snorted. "You speak of signs and portents as if they determined everything. It's the charge of the lance, the shock of cavalry, that decides the fate of battles and empires, Sorotin."

  The hidden sorcerer chuckled, a moldering, decayed sound that chilled Sturm. "Men of action always like to think that their fate is in their hands. It comforts them and makes them feel important."

  Merinsaard said nothing. He leaned to the hearth, plucked out a burning brand, and thrust it toward his shad owed compatriot. Sturm got a glimpse of a face that sur prised him. It might've been handsome but for its deathly paleness and the evil that emanated from burning eyes set in it. The magic-user, Sorotin, groaned and shrank away from the flame. Merinsaard tossed the burning twig after him.

  "Mind your tongue," Merinsaard said. "And remember, I command here. If you displease me, or fail in your necro mancy, I'll feed you to the fire myself."

  The sorcerer panted raggedly with fear. "Be not too bold, my lord. For one is here now who watches and is no friend to our cause." Sturm's heart skipped a beat.

  "What?" said the general. He reached under the pile of maps and pulled out a viciously curved dagger. A sticky coating of greenish poison showed on the cutting edge.

  "Where is this intruder? Where?"

  "Standing between us, great general." He did mean

  Sturm!

  Merinsaard slashed through the empty air. "You fool!

  There's no one there!"

  "Not in the fleshly sense, my lord. He is a spirit from far away — very far, by the aura he emits. Perhaps as far as -

  Lunitari? That is far indeed."

  "Get rid of it, whatever it is," said Merinsaard. "Kill the spy! No one must know of our plans!"

  "Calm yourself, my lord. Our visitor is not here to spy. I sense that this was once his home."

  "Dotard! No one has lived here for twenty years. The last lord of the castle was hounded out of the country."

  "True enough, mighty Merinsaard," said Sorotin. "Shall I bring this spirit here in body, or bid him go back where he came?"

  Sturm struggled with his feelings for a moment. He tried to will himself to solidity so that he might challenge these evil men. But he could sense no change in his state.

  "Can he speak to the living of this world'?" asked Merin saard.

  "I think not. He is too attenuated by the vast distance he has traveled. I sense no knowledge of magic in him."

  "Then hurl him back to his wretched body and keep him there! I have no time for ghostly ambassadors."

  Sturm saw a glint in the darkness. He heard a sweet chime. The sorcerer had struck the silver bell he carried.

  "Hear me, 0 Spirit: As I ring this magic bell thrice, you will depart from this castle, this land, this world, never to return." The bell chimed once. "Argon!" Twice. "H'rar!"

  Three times. "In the name of the Dragonqueen!"

  Every muscle in Sturm's body jolted at once. He literally felt as though he'd fallen from a height, but he was awake and in his body, in the obelisk on Lunitari. He sat up, breathing hard and shaking. The entire vision had passed without any new clue to his father's whereabouts. That was distressing enough, but the machinations of this Merinsaard and Sorotin — in Castle Brightblade — filled him with out rage. Someone must be told! The alarm must be given!

  He roused Sighter from his blanket. "Wake up!" he said.

  "Let's have a look at that lens of yours."

  "Now?" said the gnome through a jaw-cracking yawn.

  "Yes, why not? It's been hours."

  A Micone was standing by, as per orders, and it allowed

  Sturm and Sighter to mount for a ride down to the casting chamber. The whole cavern was filled with dripping patches of mist. The giant ant didn't like the dampness at all. Once or twice, its barbed feet slipped on the vitreous wall, making

  Sturm cling tightly to the rope harness and causing Sighter to cling even more tightly to Sturm.

  The lens was still ruby red, but very little heat radiated from it.

  Sturm
tapped his fingers lightly on the edge of the mold.

  The fourth tap broke loose a chunk of mud, now dry and brittle. The inward sloping side of the lens was exposed.

  Sighter stood on his toes to examine the glass.

  "No," he muttered. Out came the magnifying glass. He peered into the scarlet casting. "Broken gears and slipped pulleys!" he exclaimed. "The lens is worthless!"

  "What?"

  "The glass, the glass! It's nearly opaque!"

  "It can't be," Sturm said. Sighter handed him his magnify ing glass. Sturm peered into the lens. All he could see were millions of tiny white bubbles trapped in the solidified glass.

  That, and the dark red color, made it obvious that the lens would be useless for focusing the sun's rays into a burning beam.

  "Perhaps when it's polished," Sturm said hopefully.

  "Never!" Sighter sputtered. "You'd have more chance try ing to focus sunbeams through a cedar tree!" He threw his pocket glass on the rocks and stamped it until it shattered.

  "What's the matter?" asked a voice. Stutts and the others had also come to inspect the giant lens. Sighter bitterly explained that their work had been for nothing. The crest fallen gnomes ringed the mold and stared down at the lens in disbelief.

  "Worthless," said Fitter.

  "Useless," said Roperig.

  "A waste of time and effort," Cutwood added.

  "Now what do we do?" asked Rainspot.

  "Try to explain it to the dragon," said the crushed Sighter.

  No one said much about the lens failure except Cupelix.

  The otherwise genial, well-mannered dragon had a dragon sized tantrum.

  "Thundering incompetents! Witless — inept!" A tremen dous telepathic FOOLS! made them all flinch.

  "Do be still," Kitiara said severely. "A dragon your age, carrying on like a spoiled child! Do you think the little fel lows guarantee success?"