The Dawning of a New Age

by Jean Rabe

  Dhamon stood his ground, his arms wrapped around the mainmast.

  “Go!” Rig shouted over the increasing wind.

  Dhamon shook his head no, his eyes stinging from the salty spray as he tried to glare at the captain.

  Shaon approached him, her body shaking and thinly coated with drenched cloth. “We’ll need your strength later!” she said, her voice pleading. The ship pitched to the side and she fell back, sliding away from him across the deck toward the side of the ship that was tilted dangerously close to the angry water. Her descent was stopped as the rope around her waist snapped taut and the ship lurched to the other side. Icy water slid over the side of the ship and onto the deck, lifting her off the wooden planks and hurtling her toward the mainmast.

  Shaon scrambled to her feet, wiped at her eyes furiously and then steadied herself. She extended her hand to Dhamon. She was shouting something but her words were lost in the howl of the tempest. Cold, pelting rain came at the ship sideways now, rushing down in sheets parallel to the water because the wind was blowing so.

  Dhamon reluctantly let go of the mainmast and clasped Shaon’s cold, wet hand. The ship pitched to the side again and the two fell to their knees, crawling toward the hatch. Shaon’s icy grip remained firm until Dhamon was able to reach the opening. He dove headfirst into the darkness below deck as the hatch banged closed after him.

  He could not be sure of how many hours of pitching and rolling, of being thrown into the sides of the hull and other crew members, of listening to every single creak and groan of the ship as it struggled to stay intact passed before he heard hurried footsteps above and a sopping cold rope was dropped down through the hatch. He could not be sure of whose voice it was that called his name from the raging blackness above.

  Chapter 18

  A KNIGHTLY CONFRONTATION

  Caergoth’s harbor was considerably larger than the one in New Ports. Banks of docks stretched out into a bay deep enough to accommodate galleons, drakkars, galleys, and dromonds. The harbor was filled with ships in various states of repair, and most of them had been damaged after a run-in with the Gale.

  Rig pointed to a galleon in dry dock that had a gaping hole in its bow near the waterline. He said he was surprised it hadn’t sunk before reaching the harbor; probably it had hit an iceberg. The crew must’ve had to pitch cargo overboard to keep its bow high enough to make it into port.

  After her harrowing encounter with the Gale, Flint’s Anvil also had a narrow brush with an iceberg. The strait between Southlund and the White’s territory was filled with bergs and blocks of ice that looked like tiny islands. Navigating around the ice was difficult, especially considering that the blocks on top of the water might be only a fraction of the size of the ice just below the surface. Rig was up to the task, however, and Dhamon and Jasper thought the mariner attacked the predicament with cautious enthusiasm. Under Rig’s guidance, the Anvil eased its way through the frigid obstacle course and around a particularly threatening iceberg without putting a single scratch on the hull.

  The ship was assigned a spot at the western end of the harbor, and soon she was lashed to the dock with her sails down. Blister asked to stay on the ship with Shaon. The two were becoming friends, and the dark-skinned woman said she could use help checking all the lines and sails. The kender put on brown leather gloves that had a magnifying lens attached to the thumb of the right hand, “to make examining the ropes easier,” she explained.

  Groller was appointed the task of purchasing barrels for fresh water and having them filled and delivered. The red-haired wolf, which had been hiding somewhere below deck for most of the trip, was at his side when he left the ship. Jasper decided to tag along, pleased at the prospect of being on solid ground and mildly curious how a deaf half-ogre, if he truly was deaf, would make a commercial transaction. The dwarf grimly suspected he’d end up making the arrangements himself. He scowled and fished about in his pocket to be sure he had enough coins for the barrels.

  The three other deckhands were granted a few hours leave, but Rig gave them strict orders that they were to report back well before sunset. The Anvil wouldn’t be staying the night in Caergoth.

  That left Dhamon and Rig standing at the railing, looking toward the shore. It was an old port, from the look of the faded and chipping paint on the wharf and many of the taverns and inns that dotted it. And though it was a busy one, and likely a profitable one, it didn’t look like the building owners were reinvesting any of their gains in maintaining their establishments. The newest structures were tall wooden towers, three of them, perched near the shore and stretching high into the air. Poised on platforms at the top were men who looked toward Southern Ergoth, spyglasses to their eyes. They were looking for signs of trouble, namely from the White who lived there.

  The people who walked up and down the wharf were mostly sailors and deckhands on leave or on errands. There were several who looked like businessmen with work to conduct along the shore, and there were small groups of travelers who had just gotten off of ships or who were looking to book passage. A few women moved between them all, their attention fixed on the smattering of stalls that sold clams and shell fish.

  A pair of fishmongers walked near the buildings and at the edge of the docks – trying to sell to anyone whose clothes looked reasonably intact and therefore might have coins in their pockets.

  “Seems someone who had enough gold to sail to Schallsea would have enough to buy some decent clothes,” Rig muttered. The sea barbarian was clad in dark green leather pants, and a pale yellow silk shirt with voluminous sleeves. He wore a band about the top of his head that was made of braided red leather that nearly matched the sash about his waist. The headband had thin tails that hung down to his shoulder blades and flapped in the gentle breeze.

  Dhamon shrugged indifferently.

  “Can’t catch the ladies’ eyes looking like you do.”

  “Maybe I’m not trying to.” Dhamon stepped back from the rail and looked up into the cloudy sky.

  Rig followed his gaze. “I don’t like the look of them,” the big mariner stated flatly. “That’s why we’re not staying.”

  “Clouds are clouds. What’s wrong with them? Are they too worn for your taste?”

  “The sky always carries a message, Dhamon – for those of us smart enough to read it. And that message is usually written in the clouds. When the clouds are flat, like sheets, the air is calm and the temperature’s stable. The journey’ll be easy. These clouds are bloated, and they’re gray at the bottom. That means they’re filled with rain, and it’s only a matter of time before they let it loose. The only question is, will it be a simple downpour? Or will it be a big storm?”

  Dhamon slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the silk banner Goldmoon had given him. He remained silent.

  “I don’t mind rain, and a little squall never hurt any decent sailor. But we’ve still got a way to go to get by Frost’s territory – and a potential storm with icebergs thrown in the mix is something I’d rather not deal with. This will be my ship after I drop you in Palanthas, and í want it in one piece.” He glanced at the dry-docked galleon. “So, we leave before sunset.”

  Dhamon padded past the mariner and followed the plank down to the dock.

  “Hey! Where are you going? We’ll be leaving in a couple of hours.”

  “I’m going to talk to some of the sailors. Maybe they came from the north. And maybe they were smart enough to read the clouds there. Might give us an edge.”

  “Shaon! Mind our ship!” Rig bellowed. “Wait, Dhamon. I’ll join you.”

  As he brushed by Blister, the mariner added, “I’m really sorry about your little friend.”

  *

  Jasper and Groller stood on a wood-plank sidewalk that stretched along the street just beyond the docks. Caergoth was Southlund’s capital, and as such it was a good-sized city with an enticing waterfront. Several of the buildings had colorful awnings spread over the walk in order to keep the rain or sun off the s
hoppers, depending on the weather. Other businesses had signs in their windows advertising specials that might lure potential buyers inside – clam chowder, bitter grog, eelskin boots, dyed leather tunics, and the like.

  The dwarf stared at the half-ogre. “You really can’t hear me, can you?” Jasper asked.

  Groller stared back and raised an eyebrow. The half-ogre couldn’t hear anything, but his other senses worked. His eyes took in the exasperated expression on the dwarf’s face. Groller pursed his lips and brought his arms out in front of his body, forming a circle with them parallel to the ground. Then he nodded toward a barrelwright a half-block away. Jasper hadn’t noticed the sign that displayed a stack of wooden barrels until the half-ogre pointed it out.

  Without waiting for a reply, and since he couldn’t have heard one anyway, Groller turned and began walking toward the shop. The red wolf padded at his side and drew the stares of passersby.

  Jasper started to call out, to ask Groller to walk slower. But he stopped himself. “Yelling at a deaf man,” he muttered. He cursed softly and hurried to catch up, which was not an easy feat given the quick, long stride of the seven-foot-tall half-ogre.

  Just outside the shop, Jasper managed to close the distance. Panting, he tugged on Groller’s vest, and the half-ogre turned and looked down.

  “Mmm. How do I do this?” Jasper grumbled to himself. “We need eleven barrels. Did Rig tell you how many? Of course he couldn’t have. You wouldn’t have been able to hear him. Good thing I came along.” He made a motion with his arms, like Groller had, forming a circle in front of his chest. Next, he formed a cup with his hand and pretended to drink.

  The half-ogre grinned and nodded.

  “So you can understand me,” Jasper said. “Or, at least I think you can.” He held up his hands and spread his fingers wide. Then he formed fists and let one index finger stand up.

  “Ee-lef-en,” Groller answered. “Burls. Ino. Em not stoopped. Jus def.”

  His words were difficult to make out. But Jasper caught the gist and nodded furiously. The pair went inside.

  Groller strolled up to the counter, and a thin, elderly shopkeeper emerged almost immediately from behind a curtain. The dwarf, who stood at the back of the shop to watch, suspected the shopkeeper was alerted by the creaking of the floor beneath the half-ogre’s feet.

  “No animals in here!” the thin man shouted. He stood just barely over five feet, and he wore a shirt that was a couple of sizes too big. A leather apron hung from his neck. “I mean it. No —”

  The red wolf’s ears flattened against his head and he growled softly, and the shopkeeper stopped protesting. Groller pointed to a row of barrels stacked against the wall. He pulled a small hunk of slate from a deep pocket and fumbled with a piece of chalk. He held it before the shopkeeper.

  The man shook his head. “I can’t read.”

  Groller returned the slate to his pocket. “Ee-lef-en,” he said slowly. The half-ogre thrust his thick fingers into his vest pocket and pulled out a few coins. “Ee-lef-en burls fild wid wadder.” He handed the coins over. “Livered to docks – Flindsez And-val.”

  The shopkeeper looked at him quizzically and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Eleven barrels?”

  The wolf barked and wagged its tail.

  “Delivered to the docks?”

  The wolf barked.

  “The ship’s name?”

  “Flint’s Anvil,” Jasper offered.

  The wolf barked again.

  “So you haven’t been deaf your whole life,” Jasper observed, following Groller out of the shop. “You had normal hearing – at least for a while. Otherwise, you couldn’t talk. I suspect you talked better at one time. Probably hard to make the words sound right if you can’t hear them.” He tugged on the half-ogre’s sash to get his attention.

  Jasper pointed to his own ear, then balled his fist and made a motion as if he were wadding something up and throwing it away. Then he pointed to Groller and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Def tree years,” Groller answered.

  The dwarf pointed to a man and woman who were entering a leatherworker’s shop. A young boy trotted behind them. Then Jasper pointed to the half-ogre.

  “No fam-lee. No more. Allufum ded.” The half-ogre’s scarred face grew sad, and he bent to scratch behind the wolf’s ears. “Ohnlee Feweree.”

  Jasper cocked his head, not understanding the last bit.

  Groller drew his lips into a thin line, squinted as if he was mad. Then he curved the fingers of his right hand and held them over his heart. His hand flew up violently, suddenly. Then Groller’s face softened, and he reached down to pet the wolf again.

  “Angry. Mad,” the dwarf muttered. “Fury! The wolf’s name is Fury. I understand.” Jasper grinned and realized it was his first smile in days.

  Groller, not hearing Jasper, nudged the wolf along and shuffled past the dwarf. Jasper watched him saunter into an inn that advertised a special on clam chowder and dark rum. The red wolf dutifully sat outside to wait. The dwarf licked his lips and felt for the steel in his pockets. “Plenty of coins,” he whispered. “And I am hungry.” He glanced at the harbor for a moment and then joined Groller.

  *

  Dhamon stopped to talk to the first mate of a carrack. The man was standing on the shore, looking toward a row of stone and wood buildings that were near the docks. He was eyeing one in particular. It had a large sign above the door that depicted an overflowing tankard of ale. The mate cleared his throat, licked his dry lips, and mentioned he was thirsty, but he continued chatting with Dhamon. Rig was quick to step between the pair.

  “We’re heading up the coast,” Rig interjected. “I overheard you tell Dhamon that your ship came down from there yesterday.”

  The mate nodded. “Weather’s holding,” he said. “Or it was. Our last stop was Starport, about ninety miles to the north. Those men pulled out several hours after us – judging by the time they got here. Maybe you should talk to them.”

  He pointed at a group of uniformly-clad men about a hundred and fifty yards away. There were a dozen of them; all wore steel armor that had been painted black. From their vantage point on the Anvil’s deck, Dhamon and Rig hadn’t been able to see them.

  Over his armor, each man wore a dark blue tabard with a gray skull and a white death lily embroidered on the front and back. They were huddled together, as if deep in discussion.

  “Knights of Takhisis,” Dhamon whispered.

  Though the Dark Queen of Krynn vanished with the rest of the gods, her knighthood had remained intact. It was one large order, but it had also fragmented into various divisions that fell under the auspices of powerful commanders who were spread across Ansalon. The knights still fought battles to defend the land their commanders claimed or to enlarge territories. Some worked as military forces for cities, and the commanders had prestigious positions in the government. A few groups had overrun cities and claimed them for the knighthood.

  “They’re still in considerable numbers, even though their goddess is gone,” Rig mused. “I wonder which petty general these work for. At least with their factions divided, they’re no real threat anymore.”

  Dhamon shook his head. “They’re armed and armored. They’re a threat.”

  “There’s a ship full of ’em,” the mate cut in. “That small galley over there. They might have better information for you.”

  “You could be right. Thanks.” Rig tossed him a copper coin. “Your next drink’s on me.” Then he strode toward the group.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Dhamon called. “They’ve probably got things on their mind other than talking to us.”

  Rig either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. Dhamon’s fingers slid to the pommel of his sheathed sword, and he followed a few yards behind.

  “Heard your ship came down from the north!” Rig’s deep voice cut across the sand that separated him from the knights.

  The men turned and revealed what had been
at the center of their huddle – a young elven woman.

  “My, my,” Rig said in a low voice. “I think I’m in love.”

  “I thought you were in love with Shaon,” Dhamon whispered.

  “I am. Or close to it.”

  The woman was tanned and shapely, dressed in tight dun-colored leggings, and a sleeveless, fringed chestnut tunic that clung to her slightly muscular frame. Her long, light brown hair was thick and curly and flared away from her face, covering up her shoulders and looking like a lion’s mane.

  She sported several tattoos. On her face was an artfully-painted orange and yellow oak leaf. The stem curved around and above her right eye, and the leaf draped over her cheek, with the tip extending to the corner of her mouth. A red lightning bolt stretched across her forehead. From a distance it looked like a headband. Finally, on her right arm, from the elbow to the wrist, was a blue and green feather. The tattoos marked her as a Kagonesti, a wild elf.

  She glanced briefly at Rig and Dhamon, then stared into the face of one of the knights. A band on his arm indicated he was an officer and in charge of the group.

  “The dragon won’t stop with Southern Ergoth,” she was saying. “You have to realize that.”

  Rig and Dhamon were close enough now to hear her words.

  “If something isn’t done, if someone doesn’t stand up to him...”

  “What?” the officer returned. “The Kagonesti will never get their homeland back?”

  There was muffled snickering from a handful of the knights.

  “He’s corrupted nature,” she continued. “Southern Ergoth is an icy wasteland. Nothing grows there anymore. What if he travels here next?”

  “I think he likes Southern Ergoth just fine,” the youngest knight said. “I think he’s satisfied and will stay put.”