by Jean Rabe
The sivak stared at the elf. She glared back, refusing to back him up.
“I don’t believe you ever were only human, my friend.” Ragh let out a breath, the air hissing between his teeth. He continued, louder. “You don’t need to see Sable a third time unless you have a death wish.” Ragh slammed his fist against his hip for emphasis. “I, for one, don’t, and she’ll kill all of us.”
Dhamon disdained any reply, allowing a low rumble to escape his lips.
“You can’t win,” Ragh said, again gasping for air. “It would be suicide.”
“Yes, suicide,” Obelia agreed, to Ragh’s surprise. “A unique dragon, you are. Alone. Singular. Beautiful. If only Kalilnama could see you. If only all the elf spirits in Qualinesti in the lake could behold you.” He appraised Dhamon for several long minutes. “Maybe not suicide,” he said finally, undead eyes fixed on Dhamon’s sword-sharp claws, “but not worth risking in any event.”
“Not worth it,” Ragh agreed.
“Not necessary in any case. My elf-fish has already gone to far too much trouble to help you, Dhamon, for you to squander her efforts on a needless battle against the overlord. There is a safer course for getting one of Sable’s scales.”
“Yeah? What if there aren’t any scales, like you were saying?” Ragh, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet, nearly spat out the words.
“Let him talk, sivak,” Feril said.
“Perhaps there are no errant scales in the beast’s lair,” the spirit continued, his insubstantial nose wrinkling at the sivak, “but I was rash to say the black dragon does not shed at all. Even if Sable does not shed, she still might lose the occasional scale for odd reasons. Let us take a look elsewhere, before we despair.”
The ghost returned his attention to the stream, again supplying Feril with energy for the scrying spell. Dhamon and the sivak both edged closer. The water swirled and the motes of light Ragh thought he saw before became prominent again, floating to the surface, then rising above it and winking out like lightning bugs.
“Together we must concentrate on the scales, elf-fish, only on the scales—the lone, solitary ones. Dropped. Shed. Scales as black as the dragon’s heart. Perfect ones. Scales that have not been cracked by weapons or age or magic, that have not been fashioned onto armor and shields. Untouched, perfect scales.”
Feril tingled all over as her fingertips touched the stream. The sensation reminded her of the nights she used to run along the sea cliffs of Southern Ergoth. A storm would be raging, rain hammering down. Lightning would dance through the sky and charge the air with energy. Such dangerous energy always made her feel exited.
“Sable’s scales,” the Kagonesti murmured. “In Habbakuk’s name, please show us one of Sable’s scales. A perfect scale. A lost or shed scale.”
The water swirled faster, the lights sparkled dizzily. Then they suddenly dimmed and tumbled, sinking into the water; after a few minutes the water stilled. Instead of pebbles at the stream bottom, they saw the image of a mountain range.
“The Kharolis Mountains,” Ragh noted. He was standing close behind Feril. “Hey, I think I know that particular formation. We’re not terribly far from it.”
Two spires twisted together toward the sky. The twin spires were said to symbolize two dwarves from feuding clans who fell in love and turned their backs on their families, climbing to the highest point in the range to escape the conflict. The clans came for them, and in trying to get each to return home, the feud intensified. Swords were drawn, and several dwarves from both families were slain. The lovers stood at the high point of the mountains, fearing for their lives and praying to Reorx the Forge to be spared from the pointless bloodshed. Legend said Reorx reached down and touched the dwarf lovers, spinning them into the rock formation that has stood there all these centuries, forever safe from wars and forever part of the mountains they considered home—forever together.
“Aye,” Dhamon agreed. “I also know that part of the mountains well. There’s a pass near the spire, cleared a long time ago to make travel easy for merchants.”
Feril continued concentrating on the vision, a part of which was looming larger now. For an instant an odd image intruded. The faces of people appeared—a dwarf with steel-gray hair and a nose spread wide across his stern-looking face. Behind him were grouped a handful of dwarves and men, all looking careworn and haggard and determined. Then the faces winked out and once again there were only the twin spires. She focused on a crevice that drew her attention.
“Closer to that opening,” Dhamon urged. “I think I see something interesting.”
The scene shifted slightly, and the crevice came into better view. Wedged into the narrow gap was what at first looked like a shield. Dhamon thought it might have been dropped by one of the men they’d caught a glimpse of, but on closer inspection, the object proved to be a glossy black scale the size of a shield.
“A scale from Sable,” Obelia proudly pointed out. “Looks like one that has been shed, not broken or ripped off. So the black Overlord sheds after all! That means there must be other scales lying about that people have not absconded with or spoiled. Let’s look some more, shall we?”
With Obelia guiding her, Feril scryed beyond the Kharolis Mountains, after some effort finding another scale next to a totem of bones in the middle of the swamp and another at the edge of a pool of quicksand in a small nearby glade ringed by shaggybarks. Dhamon and Ragh said they were passingly familiar with each of those locations, too. There were several more scales at the edge of a marshy tributary, but they were all broken or cracked. Another two were near a stand of strange stones that Ragh said he might have seen before and thought was located north of the Plains of Dust. One scale was set atop a carved wooden totem and painted with strange symbols that none of them could read. The last scale the spell revealed was in another mountain range that Dhamon said he had traveled. It was in ogre territory to the far east, down the slopes from the city of Blöten.
“Don’t forget scales from other overlords,” Ragh prompted excitedly. “At least take a look. Let’s see if the other overlords have also shed a few.”
“The White,” Feril said without hesitation. “Frost, who took my home.”
A wintry scene filled the calm waters now, and it was a few moments before they could pick out shapes amidst all the whiteness. Frost was there, looking sculpted from ice, and in the lair behind him were more than a dozen frozen carcasses of walrus-men and small whales—his larder. There were a handful of scales scattered on the ground outside Frost’s lair. Another white scale rested on an icy peak. A few were bolted to a wall in the Solamnic Keep on the western coast of the island. Another sat at the edge of the large glacial lake, and there were more than a few scattered on the ground in the dragon’s lair.
“That cold place is a long way from here,” Obelia observed.
Dhamon grunted, and even Ragh had to agree.
The picture shifted again, stirred by the magic running through Feril’s fingers. Now they saw a barren land with geysers of steam rising from vents in the ground. In the center of a plateau was a pool of lava. Something drew Feril toward the pool, from whose bottom shone an intense red light.
“Yes, I can see it,” Dhamon said eagerly. “There’s a scale, large as a kite shield and several smaller ones near it, no doubt shed by Malys.”
“Beyond us to retrieve something out of lava,” Ragh commented.
“Likely true,” Obelia said.
Feril’s fingers stirred the water one last time, and a desert stretched for as far as they could see. The color of the sand was the palest brown and contrasted sharply with the brilliant blue sky. Then suddenly Feril focused on a small dune, burrowing deep into it. Far under the sand—though just how far they couldn’t say—were buried three blue scales. She sensed others were buried even deeper.
“From the Storm Over Krynn,” Ragh pointed out, with a measure of respect. “Those also would appear beyond our ability to obtain.”
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��Perhaps.” Obelia looked thoughtful. “Perhaps not, given the nature-magic my elf-fish commands. In any event, it would take quite a bit of time and luck to find the blue scales, or the red one. The white is far from here. It appears, as I told my elf-fish before, the black overlord is the closest and presents our best opportunity.”
“Dhamon can fly,” Ragh reminded Obelia. “Nothing is too far when you’re on the back of a dragon. I’d rather go far north than tempt Sable’s clutches.”
Dhamon shook his head. “Sable is closest, Ragh.” Narrowed eyes kept the draconian from arguing. “I wasn’t planning on flying anyway. Sable’s minions would spot me in the air. I can travel more inconspicuously as Feril’s shadow.”
At her name, Feril sighed and stepped away from the water, swooning slightly from all the exertion. The others stopped arguing and looked at her. “I’ll be all right,” she said. Hours had gone by. They realized suddenly it was nearly dark. “I think we should try the mountains first, just to be on the safe side.”
Ragh puffed himself up and kicked at the water with his foot. “Fine, fine. Whatever you say. I’ll get a campfire started.”
“I’ll see what I can rustle up to eat,” Dhamon said mildly, following him.
Feril gestured to Obelia, who retreated into the flask. She carefully stoppered it and spread some clay around the opening to help ensure that no water would leak out. Then she put it back in the satchel and waited for the others to return.
The mountain pass was not difficult to find. Trails led directly to it from the Qualinesti forest. They saw right away that the pass wasn’t a natural occurrence. Color hands in the rock had been split by a force that had knocked part of the mountain away. Most of the rockface was smooth, worn away by time and weather, but on jagged sections here and there hawks had built their nests.
“It wasn’t magic,” Dhamon said, pointing to how the pass had been cut and shaped. “The dwarves carved a path through here a very long time ago.”
“To control access to their mountains,” Ragh added.
Feril raised a questioning eyebrow.
“They cut only a few passes through the Kharolis so they could watch people going through their mountain range. Easier to keep track of trespassers.”
Feril nodded in understanding.
“I watched them at work once, the hill dwarf clans,” Ragh continued. “Not cutting this pass, but one that was farther north. Not quite so big as this one—you could fit a wagon and more through it… mind you, I didn’t watch the whole time. I wasn’t that curious, and dwarves aren’t that exciting to watch no matter what they’re doing. It took hundreds of them with their picks, and at the base of the pass at night they used urkan worms, huge beasts that dwell underground and can’t stand the light. Years it took the dwarves, as these mountains are thick. Gave them something to do, I suppose, and it created another route for them to control.”
“Kept travelers away from dwarf villages and mines,” Feril noted, “except such passes can’t keep away the worst brigands and creatures who fly.”
“Like we should be flying,” Ragh muttered.
“We agreed that it’s safer this way,” Dhamon rumbled.
“Besides, I’d rather keep my feet on the ground,” said Feril.
Dhamon took the lead into the pass. Tucking his wings into his sides, he squeezed through some parts of the pass with inches to spare, followed by Feril and Ragh, the latter making considerably more noise as gravel crunched beneath his scaly feet. Dhamon purposely stepped on sharp rocks as he went, relishing the faint bite of the stone beneath the pads of his claws. His armorlike scales inured him to a great many such things. He could feel pain sometimes, and he could feel a raging storm, the wind whipping around his snout and against his eyes, but the mere touch of a mortal? He couldn’t, for example, feel Feril’s fingers when she brushed at his scales. He wished he could remember what her touch felt like.
If he were human, all the softer sensations would return.
As he covered ground he could hear the constant chatter and bickering of Feril and Ragh close behind.
“Do you really think the ghost’s spell will work?”
“We stand a pretty good chance for success,” Feril answered the sivak. “I believe Obelia is… was… a sorcerer of some merit and…”
“Dhamon told me there were quite a few ghosts at the bottom of the lake and that a number of them were not so pleasant and helpful as this Obelia.”
“They were mostly Qualinesti elves who stayed behind when the dragon attacked the city, as well as some Knights of Neraka who had fought for Beryl.” Feril readjusted the pack on her back. “Oh yes, and there were specters of goblins and horses, all sorts of creatures that were destroyed by the lake when the dragon died.”
“How did you manage to coax one of the ghosts to come with you?”
“Obelia wanted to help. He asked to come along.”
“Doesn’t answer my question.” Ragh shuddered. “The dead usually stay where they died, anyone knows that.” He was thinking of the chaos wights on the island of Nostar—those undead that had nearly killed him, Dhamon, and Fiona a long time ago. “The dead don’t often prefer to mingle with the living.”
“Obelia is different. Anyway, I’d mingle with however many ghosts it took to make Dhamon right again. I’d mingle with demons from the Abyss.”
“I agree,” Ragh conceded, “but that ghost…”
“Obelia. The spirit’s name is Obelia, and you’ll see him again, soon. When I smell water, I’ll scry on that scale again, just to make sure we’re headed in the right direction, and Obelia will help us determine just how far we are from it.”
The mention of water made Dhamon increase his pace. He was thirsty. His stomach was rumbling, causing the ground to vibrate. The bears had satisfied him for a while, but he was growing hungry. His nostrils quivering, he prowled the air for any scent of mountain goats. No such luck. Soon enough, though, they reached a mountain stream that cut parallel to the pass, and Dhamon and the others drank their fill. Feril pulled the flask out of her satchel and released Obelia.
“I’m going to stretch my wings and scout ahead,” Dhamon said. He was still hoping for goats and had just picked up a strong odor indicating that there might be a small herd reasonably close by. Feril, Ragh, and the spirit sorcerer could handle the scrying without him. “I won’t be gone long.” Then he took to the sky and headed upwind of the scent, throwing all of his efforts into suppressing his fear aura so the goats would not smell him coming and scatter.
He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the wind tease the underside of his wings and the sun warm his face. He understood why Ragh envied flying, and for more than a few minutes he simply relished the glory of flight. It wasn’t until his stomach rumbled a little louder than he was reminded of those delicious goats.
He spotted them now. There were nearly two dozen in the herd, one of them an impressive ram with large curling horns. They were perched atop a southern ridge, the ram holding its magnificent head high. Dhamon’s mouth watered in anticipation as he dived toward the animals, making sure the wind was blowing in his direction. The goats would be caught unawares.
Obelia, out of the flask, seemed pleased. His gaze lingered on the cloudless sky and the walls of the mountain pass for several minutes before he channeled his magical energy into the Kagonesti, who was kneeling next to the stream.
“Is there a bit of a breeze?” the spirit asked as, gradually, the image of a dragon’s scale hove into view. “I can see small ripples on the water.”
“A slight breeze,” Feril answered. The reflection of the draconian appeared superimposed on the scale’s image, as Ragh was peering over her shoulder, trying to get a good look at the scrying magic. “Just a slight stirring is all, Obelia.”
“What does it feel like, this slight breeze that ruffles your hair?” the ghost asked. “It’s been so long since I have felt anything like that. I don’t remember.”
“The breeze gently
caresses the back of my neck, and it brings the fragrance of mountain laurel that must be growing nearby, probably on one of the high ledges,” Feril replied. “It’s a faint, sweet fragrance, and when I breathe deeply, I can taste the sweetness of the flowers on my tongue. The air is cooler here than in the woods, as the walls of the pass shade us from the brunt of the sun. The stream is cool, too, and feels good against my fingers.” She went on at some length about other smells and sensations, bringing smiles and sighs of contentment from Obelia, then grumbling from Ragh when she mentioned his acrid scent.
While Feril talked, she also focused on the scale they were scrying.
“I think it’s lodged in that crevice,” Ragh observed, “lodged deep and tight. It’s as though the mountain shifted at some point and is trapping it. I don’t see a gap between it and the rock. Probably that’s why it’s still there and why some passing hill dwarf hasn’t grabbed it up and fashioned it into souvenir armor or a shield.”
“If it’s wedged tight, that is good,” Obelia said. “Feril possesses nature magic, and she can shift the stone or turn it to melting liquid if she needs to.”
“Dhamon could smash the rock,” Ragh offered.
“The stone has a peculiar scent,” Feril continued, “clean and dusty at the same time. It smells old, though I doubt there are many who could guess the age, and the dirt on the trail leading up to it… I can smell it, too. It’s not as old.”
“Big deal,” Ragh whispered. “So it’s old.”
He glanced at the Kagonesti, seeing the faint lines around the edges of her eyes and around her lips. She was looking pretty old herself. The sivak wondered if Dhamon had noticed.
As Feril’s fingers stirred the image of the scale in the stream, her mind guided the magic. She watched as the view pulled back and the scale grew smaller. Now, at the top, she saw the spiral rock formation of the dwarf lovers entwined forever. At the same time, she spotted living dwarves moving along the pass beyond the ancient formation. They rounded a bend and disappeared from her view.