The Dawning of a New Age

by Jean Rabe

  “A fine spy, you will be, my spawn,” Khellendros continued. He felt his creation’s heart beat with pride now, happy that it could satisfy its master.

  The Blue instructed his spawn to test the prison. It was a strong net, but not truly magical. With only a minimal amount of effort, the creature could tear its way free. Its talons were sharp enough to slice through the seaweed. Its nails crackled with lightning, sparking against the tight weave and threatening to sunder it so it could fly free.

  “Stop!” Khellendros ordered. “You must not free yourself – not yet.”

  The spawn settled back, confused and trying to make itself comfortable. It feebly wrestled with the net now and then to make the bag jiggle and to keep up the illusion of captivity.

  This kept its master happy.

  Chapter 28

  UNINVITED VISITORS

  Muglor was in the lead boat. Chieftain of the Strongfist Tribe of ogres in the hills near Palanthas, he’d chosen the largest longboat to ride in, as was his right. It was the boat that was most recently stolen and seemed the safest. Muglor didn’t care for the water, though he knew how to swim. The water only served to clean his hair and skin and chase away the smell of himself, of which he was quite fond and proud.

  Muglor was a little larger than the ogres he commanded, his size being one of the reasons he had been put in charge. He was ten feet tall and weighed more than four hundred pounds. Like his fellows, his skin had a dull, dark yellow cast. It was inordinately warty, and sickly-looking violet patches dotted his shoulders, elbows, and fell across the backs of his big hands. His long, greasy hair was forest green, though it looked black this night, as the moon was hidden by clouds and obscured some of his more interesting features.

  The darkness didn’t bother Muglor or his fellows. The ogres’ large, purple eyes were keen, easily taking in the peaceful Palanthas harbor and all the ships docked there – and the few men who strolled about on the decks.

  Muglor motioned for the rowers to stop, to let the longboats drift in. Though it was late, and though nearly all of the sailors would be sleeping or carousing in town, the ogre chieftain didn’t want to take any chances that those few awake would sound an alarm and ruin their mission.

  The ogre wasn’t so much worried about the townsfolk. He and his fellows could easily bash in the heads of those who might foolishly attack them. But he was concerned about the Blue.

  The Storm Over Krynn wanted humans, and the Storm wanted the ogres to obtain them. Muglor had no desire to disappoint the dragon. Muglor wanted the Storm to be happy. And making the dragon happy would mean Muglor could continue to live and lord it over his tribe.

  He knew the Dark Knights would help if it became necessary, but he wanted to do this job alone. They had already been insulted when they were instructed to bring the captured humans to a camp set up by brutes. Apparently the ogre camp was not good enough. The clannish brutes had moved right in on the ogres’ territory, accompanied by a few Knights of Takhisis. The tall skinny creatures were at the beck and call of the Dark Knights and even painted their skin blue. As if someone would mistake them for a blue dragon!

  Muglor’s thoughts were disturbed as the lead longboat brushed up against a green-hulled carrack. There were words painted on the side, and Muglor strained to read them. Flint’s Anvil. He raised his greasy eyebrows. Had he read that right?

  Flint was a piece of rock used to help start fires, and anvils sank. Of course he read it correctly – the humans simply chose a stupid name for their big boat. Muglor was also the rare chieftain who could read and who was intelligent – at least as far as ogres were concerned. He was the smartest member of the Strongfist Tribe.

  With choreographed waves of his big shaggy arms, he directed the other longboats to different targets. Satisfied everyone was following his orders and being reasonably quiet, Muglor stood and tossed a net over one arm. He stuck a crude club, a carefully selected piece of hardwood he’d affixed spikes to, in his belt. Convinced it wouldn’t fall out and make a racket, he dug his claws into the side of the Anvil and started climbing. One ogre remained in the longboat to make sure it wouldn’t drift away. Three others accompanied Muglor. They were laden with nets and weapons and tried very hard not to make the slightest sound.

  The dragon had asked for humans who were strangers to Palanthas, people whom the locals wouldn’t be attached to and wouldn’t be terribly concerned about if they happened to disappear. Muglor, being particularly smart, figured the best place to find such strangers would be at the port. The stupid people of Palanthas would think the missing sailors had drowned or left for work elsewhere – or were kidnapped by pirates, which they’d be afraid to pursue. No one would be the wiser if the ogres plucked up only a few, and the Blue – and Muglor – would be happy.

  Muglor effortlessly vaulted the Anvil’s rail and landed with a thump on the deck. Squinting through the darkness, his eyes separating the shadows and locking onto objects that generated heat, he found a man. Sleeping? Must be, Muglor thought. He didn’t hear me. The chieftain and his fellows crept forward.

  Groller sat facing the shore, his back against the mainmast. His neck brushed up against the wood and was sufficiently scratched to feel good. He was thinking about Fury, his friend who’d run off a few days ago. He knew the red wolf would be back soon. The wolf was prone to disappearances, sometimes for days or weeks, and he always managed to return.

  The half-ogre sighed and inhaled the salty air. Tomorrow he would go back into the city, to the place Rig took him that was called Myrtal’s Roost. The steak he and Rig had there two days ago was delicious, and Groller had more than enough coins for several more. Maybe he would treat Jasper, teach him hand signs for different types of food.

  Rig promised once they left the harbor they’d run along the coast of Northern Ergoth, stop at Hylo and pick up a hauling contract or two. The sea barbarian claimed the money would be good. The half-ogre grinned. He’d drink the best ale that coins could buy and live on a feast of steaks. He’d even buy some for Fury.

  Suddenly, he stiffened, his wide nostrils picking up the scent of something unfamiliar and out of place. He stood and sniffed again, then whirled to face the Anvil’s starboard side.

  Ogres! He reached for the belaying pin that always hung from his waist. But he was too late. The biggest ogre, a dis-gusting-looking yellow brute, was already on him, wrestling him to the deck and striking him with a club. Groller grunted and fought hard, but his foe was heavy and had the advantage of surprise. The club cracked up against the side of his head, and he felt himself falling, sinking. He felt a tide of warm darkness rushing in to cover him as if he were a rock along the shore being covered by the tide. Then he felt his hands being bound, his body being wrapped in something – a fishing net?

  If I wasn’t deaf, he thought as the black tide continued to sweep around him. If I wasn’t deaf, perhaps I would have heard them, and I could have warned Rig and Jasper. Then the tide swept away his consciousness and blackness claimed him.

  “He be human?” The smallest ogre posed a question, pointing at Groller.

  Muglor bent over to scrutinize their prisoner more closely. “Be part human, at least. He’ll do,” the chieftain passed judgment. “Below you go. Find more.”

  Muglor scooped up Groller under one arm and half-car-ried, half-dragged him to the rail. The chieftain pitched his burden over the side of the Anvil, and the ogre below caught him and arranged him roughly in the bottom of the longboat. Looking across the harbor, the chieftain watched other netted sailors being deposited into boats. He grinned, revealing a row of pointed black teeth.

  “The Storm Over Krynn be happy,” Muglor beamed. He patted an empty sack that hung from his side and trundled below deck to see if there was anything other than humans worth taking, too.

  Less than an hour later, Muglor and his flotilla of longboats sailed from the Bay of Branchala. The boats sat heavy in the water, laden with netted prisoners.

  “He not be huma
n,” Muglor said, pointing at an unconscious short-haired dwarf who lay on the bottom of the boat.

  “Sorry,” a young ogre apologized.

  Maybe the brutes won’t notice, Muglor thought. He’ll be put in the center of the pen.

  The flotilla headed toward the northeast, toward the hills where the ogres made their home. Once ashore, the longboats would be carried to their camp. No evidence would be left along the water’s edge – in the event one of their prisoners might turn out not to be a stranger and someone in Palanthas would try to take steps to find him.

  Chapter 29

  IN THE DESERT

  Midway through the next morning, they stopped walking. They were sore, tired, and thirsty. Their stomachs growled incessantly Feril volunteered to hunt, but Dhamon argued that rest was more important right now. He’d found a small hill with a slight outcropping – enough to provide a little shade from the sun that was high overhead and beating down on them.

  Shaon plopped to the sand and dropped the net bag at her feet. Fury stretched out beside her and stared at the tiny creature who peered back at him through gaps in the dark green net.

  The sea barbarian winced as she reached out to pet Fury.

  Her arm was branded, burned from the bolt of lightning she’d been the target of last night. It would likely leave a lengthy, ugly scar. “Why did I come along?” she whispered to the wolf. “Did I really think I could speed them up? Help them? Or did I just want Rig to miss me for a while?”

  Again she thought about the big mariner, wondered what he was doing and wondered if he was thinking about her. She closed her eyes, leaned back, and imagined she was on the deck of the Anvil. She was going to have to change that name as soon as she got back, even if Jasper protested. The dwarf would be gone soon enough anyway.

  Dhamon sat next to the Kagonesti. Feril tried to fuss over the claw marks on his back, but he brushed away the attention. There was no water to clean the wound, and if they made any more bandages out of their clothes, they wouldn’t have anything left to wear. The kender, perhaps because she was small – or lucky – had the least damage. She had managed to only get her topknot singed.

  “Dhamon, how long do you think it will take to reach the Lonely Refuge?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Several days, maybe – if we’re lucky. The map was in the pack on my horse, and the horse is probably miles and miles from here. Sorry you came along?”

  Feril grinned and shook her head. “We’ll find the Refuge. And I’ll find us something to eat in a little while. I’m a good hunter. Maybe I’ll take Fury with me. I wonder if he can hunt? Or has living with people made him soft?”

  “I just wonder where we are,” Blister interposed distractedly.

  Feril glanced at the kender. Blister had been mumbling and pacing, periodically stopping to kick at the sand, trace circles in it with the heel of her boot. Her bottom lip protruded in concentration, and her arms swung at her sides. She wore gray canvas gloves today. There were some sort of odd attachments on them – a button and hook contraption on each thumb and larger buttons on the palms.

  “I know all about draconians,” the kender was babbling to herself. “I read about them somewhere. They’re copper, bronze, brass, silver, and gold. They don’t come in blue. At least they didn’t before. These have got to be new. Hey! Dhamon, look! There’s a building!”

  Dhamon leapt to his feet, his mouth gaping. The kender was right! There was a tower, tall and distinct, sitting about a half-mile away. Had it been there a moment ago? He wasn’t sure. He’d been looking off in that direction.

  “Is it a mirage?” Blister wondered aloud. “I’ve heard about the heat on the sand playing tricks on your mind.”

  “No,” Dhamon said. He extended a hand toward the Kagonesti, offering to help her up. She leapt to her feet without any help, and started toward the structure.

  “It’s not hot enough yet for mirages,” Feril said. “At least, I don’t think it is. And it’s casting a shadow. Mirages don’t do that. I’m betting it’s magic.” She cast a curious look at Dhamon. “And some of us have faith in magic.”

  Shaon, roused from her daydreams about a carrack named after herself, roughly snatched up the spawn’s bag, nudged the wolf, and followed. “Come on, Blister, Fury,” she urged. “If it’s not a mirage, I’m going to be inside it in a few minutes – and filling my stomach with whatever food I can find.”

  The tower was made of smooth stone, a simple, gray granite. It was massive, shedding a long shadow across their path.

  Dhamon guessed there were eight or nine levels to it. Perhaps more extended below the sand. Had it been here all along and something only now allowed them to see it? A few yards from the door, he stiffened and held up a hand to stop the others. Maybe this was where the blue draconians, the spawn, came from. There were no tracks around the structure. The spawn flew and didn’t have to leave any.

  Then the door soundlessly opened, and a figure draped in silver and black appeared in the entranceway. A voluminous hood obscured the face in its shadowy recesses, and the sleeves dangled just below where the tips of fingers would be. The figure could be a man – or a ghost, even a spawn.

  It beckoned them forward. But Dhamon made them hold their place.

  “You must be Goldmoon’s champions,” the figure said. His voice was soft and scratchy. “I am the Master. Palin is inside. He has been waiting for you.”

  “Is this the Lonely Refuge?” Blister asked excitedly. The kender had run to catch up with her long-limbed companions. She took a step closer.

  Dhamon looked intently – skeptically – at the silvery-robed man.

  “Please, come in. There’s no need to stand out in the heat. I’ll tell Palin you’re here.”

  “I don’t know,” Blister babbled. “Maybe he killed Palin. Maybe he’s only pretending Palin’s inside. Maybe he wants to kill us, and he just wants to do it in there – where it’s probably cooler. Maybe he’s the you-know-what – The Storm Over Krynn.”

  Fury padded up to the door, sniffed at the man. Then with a wag of his red-haired tail, the wolf disappeared inside.

  “I think it’s all right,” Feril whispered.

  Dhamon nodded, but his hand drifted to the pommel of his sword. He strode into the tower, Feril and Shaon on his heels. The door started to close as Blister took a last nervous look at the sandy waste, then also rushed inside.

  The large, open room they stood in was cool and pleasant. A thick rug stretched across the center of it, which soothed the kender’s aching feet and made her feel a little better.

  The walls were covered with tapestries and exquisite paintings that depicted beautiful countrysides, faces of distinguished people, ships, unicorns, and windswept coastlines. A polished stone staircase wound up the side of the room, and more paintings led upward, each one seemingly more striking and expertly rendered than its predecessor.

  A man came down the steps. He was tall, dressed in dark green leggings with a lighter green tunic. A white sash was wrapped around his waist, and designs embroidered in red and black crowded it. His graying auburn hair was long, his eyes intense but tired-looking, and he had the start of a beard shadowing his lean face.

  The kender guessed him to be roughly her age, perhaps older but in remarkably good health if so. He walked straight, his head held high and his shoulders squared. She judged him handsome and intriguing for a human. She decided immediately that she liked him.

  “Goldmoon’s champions,” the Master of the Tower announced, as he extended a sweeping arm toward Dhamon and his companions. “This is Palin Majere,” he softly added. “Our host.”

  Silence filled the room. Dhamon wasn’t sure how to begin, and Feril was too busy ogling the surroundings to say anything. Blister edged forward and nodded a greeting, knowing better than to extend her hand for fear he might actually shake it and hurt her.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir. Jasper Fireforge told me all about you. Well, some about you anyway. But Jasper’
s not here. He’s on the ship – in Palanthas. I think he was afraid it might sail away if he left. Of course, it wouldn’t, even if he did. It’s waiting for us. I’m Blister.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Blister. Goldmoon said you would be coming. Follow me, we have much to discuss.”

  “Take a look at this,” Shaon said, suddenly rushing forward. She held the jiggling net bag toward Palin. “It calls itself a spawn. We were attacked by three of these things last night. Only they were a lot larger and meaner at the time.” Palin took the bag from her and peered through the net. The spawn stopped wriggling and stared back through a small hole in the weave.

  *

  From his lair beneath the desert, many miles to the north, Khellendros gazed through the eyes of his spawn.

  So this is Palin Majere, the Blue thought. Not so old or feeble as I had anticipated, and his allies are powerful. I shall study this Palin Majere, Kitiara’s nephew, as he studies my spawn. And I shall learn what happened to his parents. Perhaps they still live, and I can use him to get to them. Such a fine sacrifice all of them would make.

  *

  “Goldmoon said she sensed a growing evil near Palanthas. And I think these are definitely evil,” Dhamon began. “They’re like draconians, though a little different.”

  “They explode into balls of lightning when they die,” Blister cut in. “Of course, they can shoot lightning bolts at you when they’re alive. And they can fly. This one said its master is a big storm.”

  The sorcerer stroked his chin. “The Master of the Tower and I will study this spawn. Won’t you join us upstairs after you’ve had time to refresh yourselves? Please, take your time. This,” he said, indicating the net bag, “will take a considerable amount of study. We will be on the top floor.” The sorcerer turned and retraced his steps up the stairs.

  *

  They were given a chance to bathe and eat, to tend to their wounds and put on clean clothes that were provided for them. Their old garments were discarded into a fireplace. Fury contentedly curled up in front of the hearth. Despite the heat outside, the interior of the tower stayed pleasantly cool.