The Second Generation

by Margaret Weis

  “He’s losing it! Get down! Everyone!” Tanin called out, falling flat on his face. There was a clattering of spears as the women followed suit. Even the black dragon—seeing Palin spinning about in the center of the room, out of control, the hammer starting to glow a fiery red—crouched on the floor with a whimper, attempting to fold its wings over its head. Only the dwarf remained standing, his face split in a broad grin.

  “I … can’t … hold … it!” Palin cried and, with a gasp, he let the hammer fly.

  The young mage fell to his knees, in too much pain and exhaustion to even bother looking to see what happened. But everyone else in the room, lying flat on the floor, raised their heads to watch the hammer. Round and round it whizzed, flying over the heads of the women, buzzing over Tanin and Sturm, whisking past the cowering dragon. Round and round it flew and, as it flew, it began to rise into the air. Dougan watched it placidly, his hands laced across his great belly.

  Glowing now a fiery red, the hammer circled higher and higher and, as it rose, the Graygem’s light began to waver in sudden fear. The hammer was aiming straight for it!

  “Yes, my beauty,” murmured Dougan, watching the hammer in satisfaction. “You forged it. Now, bring it home.”

  Desperately the Graygem sought to dim its light, realizing, perhaps, that it was its own power that was drawing the hammer to it. But it was too late. The hammer flew to the Graygem it had helped create as a lass flies to her lover’s arms. There was a shattering sound and a blinding flare of red and gray light, so brilliant that even Dougan was forced to shade his eyes, and no one else could see anything for the dazzling radiance.

  The two energies seemed to strive together, the red light and the gray, and then the gray began to dim. Peering upward, tears streaming from his eyes in the bright light, Palin thought he caught a glimpse of a gray, sparkling jewel tumbling from the air to land in Dougan’s hand. But he couldn’t be certain because, at that moment, the red glowing hammer fell from the air as well, plummeting straight down on top of them!

  Clasping his aching arms over his head, Palin hugged the floor, visions of his head being split open and his brains splattering everywhere coming to him with vivid clarity. He heard a resounding clang. Timidly raising his head, he saw the hammer, glowing red in triumph, lying on the floor at Dougan’s feet.

  Slowly, trembling, Palin stood up, as did everyone else in the room. He was hurting and exhausted; Tanin had to come help him or he would have collapsed. But Palin smiled up at him as his big brother clasped him in his arms. “My magic’s returned!” he whispered. “It’s back!”

  “I’m back, too,” said a voice. Glancing around, Palin saw the dragon was gone. In its place, crouched on the floor, his hands over his head, was a thin, middle-aged wizard dressed in black robes. The wizard sat up, staring around him as if he couldn’t believe it. “I’m back!” he cried out joyfully, patting his head and his neck and his shoulders with his hands. “No rabbit ears! No dragon’s breath! No minotaur muscles! I’m me again!” He burst into tears.

  “And you lost the bet, dwarf!” the dark-haired beauty cried out suddenly, getting to her feet. “The hammer fell!”

  “Yes!” shouted the women. “You lost the bet! The men are ours!”

  “Dougan …” growled Tanin ominously.

  The women were closing in on them, eyes burning with the fire of love instead of the fire of battle.

  Raising the hammer over his head, Dougan held up his arms. His face stern, his black eyes flashed as red as the glowing hammer. The voice that spoke was no longer the voice of the dwarf with the flashy clothes, but a voice as ancient as the mountains it had carved, as deep as the oceans it had poured.

  “Women!” the god called out in stern tones. “Listen to me! The power of the Graygem over you is broken. Remember now your children and your husbands. Remember your brothers and your fathers! Remember your homes and those who love you and need you!”

  One by one, the women looked around in dazed fashion, some putting their hands to their heads, some blinking in confusion.

  “Where are we?” asked one.

  “Why are we dressed like this?” asked another, staring at the tiger skin.

  “How dare you?” cried the blonde, slapping Sturm across the face.

  Only the dark-haired beauty seemed sad. Shaking her head, she said with a sigh, “I miss my family. And I remember the man I love and am betrothed to marry. But it will start all over again. The eternal wars. The fighting, the bleeding, the dying.…”

  She turned to the god, only to find no one but a flashily dressed dwarf, who smiled at her in understanding.

  “Think a moment, lassie,” said Dougan kindly, patting her hand. “You’ve read the books, remember? And so have they.” He pointed at the others. “You have knowledge now. No one can take that from you. Use it wisely, and you can stop the senseless wars. You and the others, with the help of your menfolk and your children, can make this island a paradise.”

  “I don’t know who you are,” the dark-haired beauty said, gazing at the dwarf in wonder, “but you are wise. We will do as you say. And we will honor you always, in our hearts and our prayers.” (And so the islanders did, becoming the only humans, as far as anyone knows, to once again worship Reorx, the Forger of the World.)

  Bending down, she kissed Dougan on his cheek. The dwarf’s face flamed as red as his hammer.

  “Go along with you now!” he said gruffly.

  Arms linked around each other’s waists, the women ran, laughing merrily, from the room, and the brothers soon heard their joyful voices outside the castle walls.

  “As for you—” Dougan turned upon the black-robed wizard.

  “Don’t scold me!” begged Lord Gargath meekly. “I’ve learned my lesson. Truly. I will never have anything to do with gems as long as I live. You can believe me!” he said, glancing up at the empty ceiling with a shudder.

  “And we’ll expect to see you at the conclave,” said Palin severely, retrieving the Staff of Magius. “You’ll be a renegade no longer?”

  “I’m looking forward to the next meeting!” Lord Gargath said eagerly. “Is there anything I can bring? A cake, perhaps? I make a marvelous devil’s food.…”

  Afterword

  (This Time For Real)

  Dougan and the brothers returned to the gnome ship without incident. In fact, the warriors were so happy to have their women back with them, their families once more united, that they gave back the armor and the swords. (The chief had decided the armor was too hot anyway, and he thought the sword a primitive weapon, compared to a spear.)

  The gnomes had repaired the damage to the ship. Indeed, they discovered that having one end smashed in improved the steering immeasurably and they were quite excited at the prospect of returning home to Mount Nevermind and smashing in the prows (or sterns) of the remainder of the gnomish fleet.

  One small incident marred an otherwise idyllic cruise (not counting constantly ducking the sail, being hit by falling fish, and wondering whether or not they were going to sink before they reached land, due to the leaking of the smashed-in prow … or stern …).

  Dougan was lounging on the deck one night, contemplating the heavens (the planet Reorx was missing) when suddenly he was accosted by the three brothers.

  “Sturm, get his arms!” Tanin ordered, leaping on the dwarf from behind. “Palin, if his beard so much as twitches, send him to sleep!”

  “What is this outrage! How dare you?” Dougan roared, struggling in Sturm’s strong grasp.

  “We risked our lives for that rock,” Tanin said grimly, glaring down at the red-faced dwarf. “And I want to see it”

  “You’ve been putting us off for days,” added Palin, standing beside his brother. “We at least want a look at it before you take it back to your forge or wherever.”

  “Let me loose!” Dougan swore an oath. “Or you’ll see nothing ever again!”

  Sturm, at a nod from Tanin, let go of the dwarf’s arms. Dougan glanced a
round at them uncomfortably.

  “The Graygem?” the brothers said, gathering around.

  “Well, now, lads.” The dwarf appeared highly uncomfortable. “That’s going to be a bit of a problem.”

  “What do you mean?” Palin asked nervously, not liking the expression on the dwarf’s face. “Is it so powerful that we can’t look at it?”

  “Nooo …” said Dougan slowly, his face flushing in the red light of Lunitari. “That’s not it, exactly.…”

  “Well, then, let’s see it!” Tanin demanded.

  “The … uh … the fact is, lads,” stammered Dougan, winding his black beard around his finger, “that I’ve … I’ve misplaced it.…”

  “Misplaced it!” Sturm said in amazement.

  “The Graygem?” Palin glanced around the boat in alarm, fearing to see its gray light beaming out at them.

  “Perhaps, ‘misplaced’ isn’t quite the word,” the dwarf mumbled. “You see, I got into this bones game, the night before we left the island and …” His voice trailed off miserably.

  “You lost it!” Tanin groaned.

  Palin and Sturm stared at the dwarf, too stunned to speak.

  “Aye, lad.” Dougan sighed heavily. “It was a sure thing, too.…”

  “So the Graygem’s loose in the world again,” Palin murmured.

  “I’m afraid so. After all, I did lose the original wager, if you will remember. But don’t worry, laddie,” said the dwarf, laying his hand on Palin’s arm. “We’ll get it back! Someday, we’ll get it back!”

  “What do you mean we!” Tanin growled.

  “I swear by Paladine and by Gilean and by the Dark Queen and by all the gods in the heavens that if I ever in my life see you even looking my direction, dwarf, I will turn around and walk—no, run—the opposite way!” Sturm vowed devoutly.

  “The same goes for me,” said Palin.

  “And me!” said Tanin.

  Dougan looked at them, downcast for a moment. Then, a grin split the dwarf’s face. His beady eyes glittered.

  “Wanna bet?”

  IV

  The first sign of the change

  is not the golden eye

  nor the dangerous stature

  the countenance of hill and desert,

  instead it is the child’s breath

  the chill of water underground

  the cry at night a memory of knives

  and you startle

  sit up in the bed and say

  this is something I have made

  somehow I have made this thing.

  So you fear it away

  let the night cover your dream

  and the red moon wades

  through a hundred journeys

  jostled like blood

  in the coded vein,

  and then the arrivals

  rending the edge of belief

  a vacancy in play

  the abstract smile

  that has nothing to do

  with whatever you did

  and you know that your wishes

  can never conceal

  the long recollection of elsewhere.

  The cuckoo’s story, the supplanted nest

  the egg left in care of unwary others.

  Surely its child is alien, elfshot,

  stolen by gypsies, forever another,

  and yet, in the accident

  of blood and adoption,

  as it was in your time

  and the time of your mothers,

  forever and always your own.

  So sing to the stranger this lullaby

  Sing the inventions of family

  the fiction of brothers

  the bardic ruse of the father

  Sing the mother concocted of reasons and light,

  Sing to me, golden-eyed daughter.

  Raistlin’s Daughter

  Margaret Weis and Dezra Despain

  I first heard the legend of Raistlin’s Daughter about five years after my twin’s death. As you can imagine, I was extremely intrigued and disturbed by the rumors and did what I could to investigate. In this I was assisted by my friends—the old Companions—who had by this time scattered over most of Ansalon. We found versions of the legend in almost every part of Ansalon. It is being told among the elves of Silvanesti, the people of Solamnia, and the Plainsmen who have returned to Que-shu. But we could find no verification of it. Even the kender Tasslehoff Burrfoot, who goes everywhere and hears everything (as kender do), could discover no firsthand information regarding it. The story is always told by a person who heard it from his aunt who had a cousin who was midwife to the girl … and so forth.

  I even went so far as to contact Astinus the Historian, who records history as it passes before his all-seeing eyes. In this, my hope to hear anything useful was slim, for the Historian is notoriously close-mouthed, especially when something he has seen in the past might affect the future. Knowing this, I asked only for him to tell me whether or not the legend was true. Did my twin father a child? Does he or she live still on this world?

  His response was typical of that enigmatic man, whom some whisper is the god Gilean himself. “If it is true, it will become known. If not, it won’t.”

  I have agreed to allow the inclusion of the legend in this volume as a curiosity and because it might, in the distant future, have some bearing upon the history of Krynn. The reader should be fore-warned, however, that my friends and I regard it as veritable gossip.

  —Caramon Majere

  Twilight touched the Wayward Inn with its gentle hand, making even that shabby and ill-reputed place seem a restful haven to those who walked or rode the path that led by its door. Its weather-beaten wood—rotting and worm-ridden when seen in broad daylight—appeared rustic in the golden-tinged evening. Its cracked and broken windowpanes actually sparkled as they caught the last rays of dying light, and the shadows hit the roof just right, so that no one could see the patches. Perhaps this was one reason that the inn was so busy this night—either that or the masses of gray, lowering clouds gathering in the eastern sky like a ghostly, silent army.

  The Wayward Inn was located on the outskirts—if the magical trees deemed it so—of the Forest of Wayreth. If the magical trees chose otherwise, as they frequently did, the inn was located on the outskirts of a barren field where nothing anyone planted grew. Not that any farmer cared to try his luck. Who would want anything from land controlled, so it was believed by the archmages of the Tower of High Sorcery; by the strange, uncanny forest?

  Some thought it peculiar that the Wayward Inn was built so close to the Forest of Wayreth (when the forest was in appearance), but then the owner—Slegart Havenswood—was a peculiar man. His only care in the world, seemingly, was profit—as he would say to anyone who asked. And there was always profit to be made from those who found themselves on the fringes of wizards’ lands when night was closing in.

  There were many this evening who found themselves in those straits, apparently, for almost every room in the inn was taken. For the most part, the travelers were human, since this was in the days before the War of the Lance, when elves and dwarves kept to themselves and rarely walked this world. But there were a few gully dwarves around; Slegart hired them to cook and clean up, and he was not averse to allowing goblins to stay in his place as long as they behaved themselves. There were no goblins this night, however, though there were some humans who might have been taken for goblins—so twisted and crafty were their faces. It was this large party that had taken several of Slegart’s rooms (and there weren’t many in the small, shabby place), leaving only two empty.

  Just about the time when the first evening star appeared in the sky, to be almost immediately overrun by the advancing column of clouds, the door to the inn burst open, letting in a chill Mast of air, a warrior in leather armor, and a mage in red robes. From his place behind the dirty bar, Slegart frowned. It was not that he disliked magic-users (rumor had it that his inn existed by the grace of the wizards of the tower), but that h
e didn’t particularly like them staying in his place.

  When the big warrior (and he was a remarkably big young man, as both Slegart and the others in the common room noted) slapped down a coin and said, “Dinner,” Slegart’s frown broadened immediately to a smile. When the big man added, “and a room for the night,” however, the smile slipped.

  “We’re full up,” growled Slegart, with a significant glance around the crowded common room. “Hunting moon tonight …”

  “Bah!” The big warrior snorted. “There’ll be no moon tonight, hunting or otherwise. That storm’s goin’ to break any moment now and, unless you’re partial to hunting snowflakes, you won’t shoot anything this night.” At this, the big man glanced around the common room to see if any cared to dispute his remark. Noting the size of his shoulders, the well-worn scabbard he wore, and the nonchalant way his hand went to the hilt of his sword, even the rough-appearing humans began to nod their heads at his wisdom, agreeing that there would definitely be no hunting this night.

  “At any rate,” said the big man, returning his stern gaze to Slegart, “we’re spending the night here, if we have to make up our beds by the fire. As you can see”—the warrior’s voice softened, and his gaze went to the magic-user, who had slumped down at a table as near the fire as possible—“my brother is in no condition to travel farther this day, especially in such weather.”

  Slegart’s glance went to the mage and, indeed, the man appeared to be on the verge of exhaustion. Dressed in red robes, with a hood that covered his head and left his face in shadow, the magic-user leaned upon a wooden staff decorated at the top with a golden dragon’s claw holding a faceted crystal. He kept this staff by him always, his hand going to it fondly as if both to caress it and to reassure himself of its presence.

  “Bring us your best ale and a pot of hot water for my twin,” said the warrior, slapping another steel coin down upon the bar.

  At the sight of the money, Slegart’s senses came alert. “I just recollect”— he began, his hand closing over the coin and his eyes going to the warrior’s leather purse where his ears could detect the chink of metal. Even his nose wrinkled, as though he could smell it as well—“a room’s opened up on t’second floor.”