by Jean Rabe
Gilthanas glanced back to smile at the band of adventurers, and then entered the tomb. Ulin stood transfixed, as did Groller, Fiona, and the Knights of Takhisis behind them. Fury sensed the warmth spilling outward and brushed by them, padding inside. Beyond the threshold he shook himself, snow flying onto the marble floor, and instantly melting into dozens of puddles. The wolf looked over his shoulder, and as if motioning for them to follow him, went deeper inside.
Inside, the walls of the tomb bore torches that burned but produced no smoke, their flickering, yellow glow playing along the black, shiny interior. The room was empty except for benches that lined the walls, an obsidian dais upon which rested an empty sarcophagus, and an altar at the far end of the tomb.
“Those were Huma’s,” said Gilthanas, gesturing to a sword and shield at the foot of the coffin. He was silent and still for a moment, then he quickly walked over to the stone altar. The others quietly joined him.
“The Order of the Sword... Crown... and Rose” said Fiona, pointing at the carvings in the altar’s surface. She quickly pulled her hand back, for fear of coming too close to touching the altar.
Gilthanas crouched on the floor. “Down here,” he said.
Centered below the altar was a large, iron plate. Its surface was flush with the floor, so it could only be lifted by pulling up the iron ring in its center. Gilthanas tugged the plate free, and slid it to the side.
“After you” the elf said to Ulin.
The young mage warily looked down into the black hole. “Something else you forgot to mention?”
Gilthanas laughed, and pointed to the opening. “This is our route to Dragon Mountain. In order to get inside, we have to ride in this windpipe, which leads us underground and then, up into the interior of the mountain.”
The elf gained Groller’s attention, pointed at the half-ogre, and then pointed down the hole. Groller blinked slowly, then repeated the gestures, directing them back at Gilthanas. “Yes, me, too,” said the elf, nodding.
“I’ll be first,” said Fiona, striding forward. She sat down on the smooth floor, slid herself over to the hole, and situated herself so she was perched on its edge, her lean legs dangling into the dark expanse. “I can feel the air moving, like a warm wind pulling me down “
Fury settled by her side, then jumped to his feet as she began to lower herself down into the hole. “There are handholds down here,” came an echoing voice from inside the shaft. “I’ll just climb —”
Her voice disappeared in a sudden gust of wind that made them all rush forward to the edge of the opening. “She’s probably almost inside Dragon Mountain,” said Gilthanas. “It’s that fast.”
Fury yapped, his long muzzle directed down the hole. His claws slid against the obsidian floor as he readied himself to jump, then hesitated and backed up a few inches. Groller moved behind the wolf, and stroked Fury’s magnificent red coat of fur. The wolf suddenly sprang forward, silently disappearing into the darkness of the shaft.
One by one the remaining adventurers lowered themselves into the windpipe and were instantly whirled away on great columns and gusts of air to the interior of Dragon Mountain. They emerged in a brightly illuminated chamber, climbed a great curving staircase and discovered the Hall of Lances in the upper gallery.
Many of the lances were ornate, with handles of silver and gold that practically glowed. Some looked so very similar to Rig’s lance that the elf suspected they were made by the same craftsman. Others were made of intricately carved wood while still others were plain – merely functional weapons that stood out among the others because they were so proudly unadorned. Not a speck of dust was on any of them.
“Which one was Huma’s?” Ulin asked.
“I think that could take us a while to find out,” Gilthanas answered. “Unless our friends here have some clue we’re unaware of.” The Qualinesti looked at the Knights of Takhisis. Neither offered a suggestion. “Fine. Then let’s everyone relax. We’ve reached our destination, and I for one would like to be out of the cold for a while. And I’d like to catch some sleep.” He walked several feet down the corridor, yawned for emphasis, and dropped his fur cloak on the floor. “Ah, here’s a good spot.” He quickly settled on it. “I don’t intend to inspect any of these lances until I’ve inspected the inside of my eyelids for a few hours.”
Fiona stood at the entrance of the hall, her eyes searching the rows of weapons fading into the distance. Ulin followed her glance, and swallowed hard. He put his furs on the floor, and arranged them into a makeshift bed. Finding Huma’s among all of these was just about impossible, he thought. But he would do his best in trying. He took a deep breath, and relished the novelty of the warm air spreading over his face and hands. “Warm,” Ulin said to himself. “I do remember what warm feels like.”
Chapter 17
A CURIOUS MALEVOLENCE
Curling wisps of steam drifted upward from the Red Dragon’s cavernous nostrils, mingling with the heat from the volcanoes that ringed her plateau. Heat rose from the craters and from the rivulets of lava that ran down their sides. The air was oppressively hot, the way the dragon liked it, and tinged with the agreeable scent of sulfur. And the rocky ground she rested upon was seared and lifeless, the way she preferred it.
The Red Marauder, as those humans in her realm called her, spread her wings and stretched her neck, working out an uncomfortable kink while admiring her surroundings. She pointed her massive head down and opened her maw. Fire rushed out in a great gout of blinding red, the flames crackling. The flames raced to touch the farthest edges of her plateau, moving like a crashing wave of boiling crimson to flow over every crevice and rock.
The flames licked about Malys’s claws and rose higher, and still the dragon continued to dispense fire. The blaze grew and flowed about her belly now, lapping against her scarlet scales, soothing her with its smothering, comforting heat. The great red dragon paused only to draw a breath of air before she again unleashed her brilliant flames.
This blessed heat, Malystryx purred to herself. It helped to placate her temper and ease the loss of one of her pawns. The Red had been watching through Rurak Gistere’s eyes, and she had witnessed the destruction of the subcommander’s unit. Malys was only mildly upset at losing Gistere, who had shown slightly more promise than the other Knights of Takhisis she had toyed with.
But more than Gistere, she had wanted the man who singlehandedly cut down half the knights in the woods in Khellendros’s realm. She thought the man would make an even more suitable pawn. And when she had him, she would also have his magnificent weapon to study. Through her link with Subcommander Gistere, she had sensed the magic in the blade and wondered how a mortal came into the possession of such a deliciously deadly thing.
The Red knew that one of her consorts, Khellendros, was searching for ancient magic from the Age of Dreams – though the Blue was unaware she knew. Such magic was powerful, and Malys intended to snatch her share, to fuel her own dark schemes. The glaive the man had wielded was obviously a relic, one capable of parting armor as if it were cloth and easily slicing through the skin and bone underneath. Malystryx would have it – and she would get the man to bring it to her.
“It will be mine,” she hissed.
Though Gistere had failed her in life, he had succeeded – at least partially – with his death. He’d grafted her scale onto the man and established a tenuous link with her that the new pawn seemed to know nothing about.
Malys looked through the man’s eyes now, seeing polished wood beams several feet above him, a swinging wrought iron candle holder, and the top of a bookcase against a far wall. The man was laying on a bunk below the deck of a ship, his bed swaying with the motion of the waves. She had tried to peer through his eyes many times before, but without success. The link was far from perfect; still, with repeated efforts and great patience, she was certain she could make it work.
Propped against the wall, at the edge of the man’s vision, was the glaive, its sharp edge beckoning
to her in the afternoon light that spilled in through the porthole.
“That weapon will be mine.”
The man closed his eyes, and Malystryx saw darkness. She turned her attention inward, looking into the man’s mind in an attempt to fathom his spirit. What are you about? she entreated. Resting, his mind was not so active, his defenses down. She slipped beyond them.
*
Dhamon Grimwulf tossed fitfully in his bunk, just as Flint’s Anvil tossed on the frigid seas. In his dreams he wore his Knights of Takhisis mail and stood on a battlefield, fallen enemies all around him. He walked from the field, his feet passing directly through the bodies and floating over the pools of drying blood as if he were as insubstantial as a wraith. The blood couldn’t touch him. Death couldn’t reach him.
The Dhamon-wraith walked toward an old cabin, well tended and nestled against the side of the hill. He glided to the door, which somehow swung open for him, and he spotted a familiar figure inside, a tall, aging Solamnic Knight bent over a bed on which rested a young Knight of Takhisis. Dhamon realized he was staring at himself.
The man Dhamon knew as Sir Geoffrey Quick placed cool cloths on the young knight’s head. He painstakingly gathered a mixture of herbs to make a poultice that he spread on strips of linen and applied to the deep wound in the young knight’s abdomen. Rags dark with blood lay on the floor, staining the polished wood. The thin, quiet Solamnic paid them no heed.
The young Knight of Takhisis wanted to die, prayed not to be healed at the hands of his enemy, concentrated on the pain and beseeched it to take him beyond the man’s control. But the Solamnic was stubborn and refused to give up. The wraith floated closer and watched the older man intently as he changed the bandage. Quick’s long fingers worked deftly. Strands of his dark hair fell forward into his face, and he tucked them behind his ears. His large brown eyes scanned the bandage repeatedly and then he nodded, apparently satisfied with his work.
Sir Geoffrey Quick filled young Dhamon’s mind with rousing tales of the Solamnic Order, of courage and sacrifice, and of noble deeds so unlike those committed by his Takhisis brethren. Most of all, he spoke of simple kindness.
Lies, Malys hissed. The man speaks falsehoods. His words are deceptive.
The Dhamon-wraith shook his insubstantial head, and the dragon’s voice dropped to an unintelligible growl. At the same time, the younger man on the bed tried to ignore the Solamnic’s words, and fought to recite the Blood Oath in his head over and over in order to block out the older knight’s voice. But eventually he listened. And eventually he realized Quick spoke the truth.
Malys felt her link weakening.
The Dhamon-wraith watched his younger self leave the cottage and bury the black armor of his former Order beneath an old oak. The sword given to him by his previous commander was laid there, too. But his past could not be completely buried, his spirit still bore the scars of dozens of battles and he felt the lingering ties of friendship to his blue dragon partner.
The Solamnic gave him another weapon – the first sword the older knight had used in battle – to replace Dhamon’s discarded sword. That precious sword, it was all Dhamon had with which to remember the Solamnic – Geoffrey Quick – who was later killed by Knights of Takhisis.
Dhamon hadn’t been there that day, else he would have given his life defending the man. But he had heard of the man’s fate, and despite his best attempts, he had not been able to discover who killed him.
The years melted, and now Dhamon stood on a peak south of Palanthas. The wraith watched an older version of himself fall into the lake, the precious sword slipping from his fingers even as he slid from Gale’s blood-slick back. He watched himself struggle in the water, sensed himself being dragged under the surface by a massive bronze claw. Feril stopped searching for him along the shore, gave him up for dead, and he imagined her turning to the mariner for comfort.
Then suddenly the water in the lake disappeared, replaced by fire. Dhamon panicked at first, thrashing as he sank down into the flames, gasping for air, again trying to wake up.
Malys concentrated, and the link grew stronger.
Breathe, a voice hissed to him. Breathe in the fire. And suddenly he realized that the flames weren’t burning him; he was no longer drowning. The fire was in fact soothing. Its fiery tendrils wrapped around his arms and legs, teasing his face and nuzzling his chest. The scale on Dhamon’s leg pulsed, and sent waves of calm through his body. The scale quietly throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
The Dhamon-wraith heard faint words. The Peak. Come to me.
“No.” The wraith spoke. “Feril. I must stay with Feril.”
The words dosed the link between Dhamon and the Red. Malystryx snarled as again she saw the streams of lava winding their way down from the peaks of her precious volcanoes. The man’s spirit was strong – stronger than Gistere’s had been, stronger than her other pawns scattered throughout Ansalon.
She could try to impose her will again, she knew, but she didn’t want to push him too much – not yet.
“No longer does someone from the Tower of Wayreth scry upon us, my queen.” The speaker interrupted Malys’s thoughts. A growl started in her throat, but she quickly suppressed it and looked admiringly at the creature that emerged from between two volcanoes. It walked through the lava and across the heated plateau without flinching. “You have done well, spawn,” Malys hissed.
The Red appreciatively eyed her firstborn. It stood little more than five feet tall, with rippling muscles covered by tiny red scales that glittered in the bright rays of the late afternoon sun. When the creature moved, its legs looked like twin columns of writhing flames. Its hands and feet bore impossibly sharp ruby-colored talons. And its tail, viciously barbed, undulated slowly about its ankles like a hypnotically swaying snake.
The creature’s face was nearly human, but covered with a thick red hide dotted here and there with crimson scales. Its eyes were orange, the shade of glowing coals, and a rough ridge ran above them, lengthening into a spiky growth that started at the top of its shiny pate and continued to the base of its tail. The spawn’s wings swept outward from its back, batlike and as dark as dried blood. They flapped slightly as the creature walked, giving it a buoyancy so that it almost floated toward Malys. The creature did not want its claws to mar its queen’s throne room.
“You have something else for me to do, my queen?”
“The kender,” Malystryx replied. “My informants in the villages say they have found a hiding place within my realm. Find it.”
“Yes, my queen.” The spawn bowed deeply, paying proper homage to its creator and master, then it flapped its wings harder and rose from the plateau, disappearing in the steam that continued to curl upward from Malystryx’s nostrils.
Chapter 18
DREAMS
Ulin stretched out on his makeshift bed of firs in the Hall of Lances. It felt good to be out of the cumbersome clothing, and even better to be inside of a building. He was exhausted, but he was having trouble falling asleep.
“Who would’ve thought there’d be more than one?” he mused aloud as he stared up at the rows of lances – some obvious works of beauty, others simple and crude weapons. “How are we ever going to figure out which was Huma’s? The oldest? The most ornate?”
He listened to the wind howling fiercely outside of the mountain. Inside it whistled through the hallway, flowing around the lances, muted, but eerily persistent.
In the space of a few heartbeats his companions had fallen asleep. Gilthanas, several feet away from him, slept with his arm protectively draped across Rig’s dragonlance. Groller snored softly next to Fury. The red-haired wolf’s legs jerked and his tail twitched, as if he were running in a dream. The two Knights of Takhisis also dozed. As a precaution, their legs and ankles had been bound together with belts.
Fiona Quinti, the young Knight of Solamnia, sat cross-legged, her back rigid against the wall, her eyes wide.
“Can’t sleep?” Ulin whispered.
“I’m uneasy,” she softly replied.
“We’re safe in here,” said a voice equally soft, but masculine and unfamiliar.
Ulin tossed off his furs, leaping to his feet and glancing around to see where the unexpected words came from. Around him, his companions still slept. He crept to Fiona’s side and extended a hand to help her up.
“Show yourself!” Ulin exclaimed loud enough to rouse Gilthanas, the Knights of Takhisis, and Fury. Groller alone, oblivious to the commotion, continued to sleep.
“As you wish.” The speaker stepped out of a narrow alcove flanked by silver lances. He was thin and small, seemed no older than twelve or thirteen, and he was dressed in a simple white tunic that hung to his knees. His legs were bare, as were his arms and feet
Fury padded toward him, growling softly.
“What is a child doing here?” Gilthanas asked. The elf was alarmed, more so because of the wolf’s unease, and he gripped Rig’s lance tightly.
“Be careful. He’s more than he seems, or else he is not alone,” Ulin cautioned. “No child would be living here.”
“I am not a child, though I favor this form. I have spent more years upon this earth than you. Would this make you more comfortable?” The youth shimmered, and in the blink of an eye he grew taller. His skin paled to the hue of parchment, hanging on him in wrinkles. Age spots were spattered across his bald head, and his narrow shoulders sagged forward. “Or perhaps this?” He grew taller still, squarely broad-shouldered now and darkly tanned. A thick mane of blond hair cascaded to his shoulders. The muscles in his arms bunched, and veins stood out on them like cords.
“Who... what are you?” Gilthanas pressed. “Explain yourself.”
“I am the keeper of this place,” the being answered as he resumed the form of the youthful innocent and glided closer to the sorcerers and the knights. He reached out a slender hand, stroking the wolf. Surprisingly, Fury stopped growling and wagged his tail. “It is you who have some explaining to do – else I’ll turn you out into the cold.”