The Dawning of a New Age

by Jean Rabe

  slammed the makeshift club into its ugly yellow stomach. The ogre doubled over, and Groller swung again, this time hitting the brute on the back of the head and knocking him to the earth.

  Feril’s song was heard above the pounding of feet. It was an old elvish tune about the woods and the land. The breeze stopped as the song crescendoed, and then the last note died away. She hurled the pebble at the two ogres still running her way. As the rock spun toward them, it glowed and enlarged – first to the size of a man’s fist, then bigger still. It struck the smaller of the two in the chest. Caught by surprise, he lost his footing and fell backward. Groller was on him in a heartbeat, driving the club into his skull.

  The third ogre sprung on the Kagonesti. His filthy claws closed about her waist and dug in as he forced her to the ground. The nails cut through her dress and raked her sides. Then all of a sudden he stiffened, his grip relaxed and he fell forward with a groan, his great weight pinning her. The foulness of his breath made her gasp. Blood trickled from his mouth and onto her cheek. She rolled out from underneath him to see Jasper standing there, his stubby fingers bloody, and a grim look on his face. A wooden stake protruded from the ogre’s back.

  She leapt to her feet, surveying the scene. Groller was swinging his club in a wide circle, keeping a quartet of ogres at a distance. Another four were closing on the escaping prisoners. As she watched, bright shards of light flew from Palin’s fingertips and struck the creatures, buying time for the prisoners to race to the safety of the rocks. The ogres pitched forward, almost in unison, grabbing their glowing stomachs and howling in agony.

  The largest of the lot, the one she guessed to be the leader, writhed and cursed as Fury continued to grapple with him. But the wolf seemed in little danger.

  She cast her gaze back to the tent and started off in that direction, the pounding footfalls of Jasper behind her. Dhamon, his shirt crimson with blood, had his back to the tent and was swinging his sword in a high arc over his head. Five ogres pressed toward him, cursing and growling. He pulled the blade hard to his right, just as one of the ogres darted in. Then he lunged forward. The sword connected with the creature’s neck and cut through the tough muscle and bone. Blood spurted in the air, and the decapitated brute fell to his knees before pitching forward.

  The remaining ogres hesitated, and Dhamon used the moment to his advantage. He pressed forward, jabbing his sword like a spear, and pushing it through the belly of one of the brutes. The blade sank all the way in and protruded from the ogre’s back as Dhamon brought his leg up to shove the beast away and free his sword. The ogre toppled over, nearly in the path of the mariner, who was emerging from the tent.

  Two ogres remained focused on Dhamon, but the third turned its attention to Rig. It glowered at the mariner and charged the big man, growling and dripping foul-smelling saliva. Rig was ready. A dagger was gripped in his left hand, and his rapier was balanced in his right. “I’m not a sleeping target now,” the mariner taunted. “You won’t find me such an easy mark.”

  The ogre barreled in, and Rig slashed at him. His blade slid into the creature’s throat, but it kept coming, its long arms reaching out for him, and its claws raking his chest. Simultaneously, the mariner plunged his blade into the beast’s side, withdrew it, and thrust again. The ogre fell, taking the mariner down with him. Rig cursed and pushed the dying creature off him before lumbering to his feet.

  Dhamon’s eyes were blazing and locked onto the larger of the two creatures still hounding him. He feinted to his right, dropped to his knees, and slashed his sword forward and up, cleaving an appendage off of the large ogre. The beast howled and pulled the bloody stump against its chest as its fellow ogres surged forward, angry and spitting. Dhamon’s sword slashed again into the smaller ogre’s leg, cutting through the dirty yellow flesh and exposing bone. But the ogre ignored its wound and lunged forward, slamming its shaggy shoulder into Dhamon’s chest and knocking him back into the tent. The old canvas billowed around them, sagged and groaned, spilling human and ogre to the ground.

  A Dark Knight crawled out of the sagging tent’s collapsed entry. “Incompetent beasts!” he shouted. The larger ogre with the severed hand took a few steps back, apprehensively watching the man.

  “Kill them!” commanded the Knight, gesturing toward the three companions who were fast approaching.

  “Run or die!” Rig shouted, rushing forward.

  Confused, the beast froze for a moment. But when Jasper snarled and stepped forward with a makeshift club, the ogre turned and stumbled off into the darkness, still moaning and holding its bloody stump. When the three turned their attention to the Dark Knight, they found he had disappeared.

  Rig and Feril ran to the collapsed tent, furiously pulling at the canvas. A bloody yellow claw reached up to strike a blow, but Rig managed to grab the ogre’s arm. As the mariner struggled with it, he felt the thing shudder. Its muscles bunched, then relaxed. Rig released the arm and stepped back as Dhamon crawled out of the canvas.

  Feril was at his side in an instant, helping him up. “So much blood,” she said in an awed voice.

  “It’s not mine.” He sheathed his sword and tore the silk shirt from his back. Feril breathed a sigh of relief to realize that he wasn’t badly injured.

  “Thanks for the rescue,” Rig said.

  Dhamon nodded an acknowledgment, then his eyes widened as he took in all of the carnage. Groller had taken out four ogres singlehandedly with his club, and now was plodding toward another group that was struggling to their feet – the ogres Palin had momentarily downed with his magical shards of light. Fury stood on the chest of the largest ogre, blood dripping from his fangs. He cast his head to the sky and emitted a howl.

  Dhamon slipped past the mariner and Feril and he rushed toward Groller. Jasper followed. Groller charged one of the four remaining ogres, abandoning his club and leaping on the brute’s back. The pair rolled over and over, dust flying, and the commotion drew the attention of the other three. Leaderless, they were confused. Outnumbered, they were frightened.

  Dhamon waved his sword in the air. “Surrender!” he called to the few still standing. “If you value your lives, yield now!”

  A cracking noise echoed through the campsite. Groller had snapped the neck of his foe and now was rising to his feet.

  “We give,” one of the ogres said. “No kill us. We give.”

  Jasper stepped forward. “Why’d you kidnap us?” The angry dwarf shook his small fist at them.

  The ogres stared dumbly at their ruined campsite, their fallen comrades. “For the Dark Knights,” the spokesman said finally. “The dragon wanted people.”

  Dhamon strode up to the ogre, flashing his sword. The light from the still-blazing campfire caught the blade and made it gleam threateningly. “The Blue?”

  The ogre looked to its brethren and then up at the sky. “Don’t know.”

  That was answer enough for Dhamon. “Where’s Skie?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t want to know. Somewhere in the desert, but don’t know where. Muglor know. But Muglor dead.” The ogre glanced toward Fury, who was pawing over the large, dead ogre. “That Muglor.”

  Dhamon sighed. “Why’d skie want these particular men?”

  The ogres looked at each other and shook their heads dumbly.

  “Then for what?” Dhamon persisted. “You don’t kidnap people for no reason.”

  “Don’t know,” one ogre stammered. “Muglor said the Blue wants more spawn things.”

  “Spawn?”

  “Don’t know!” shouted the original spokesman.

  Jasper tugged on Dhamon’s sword belt. “You got any idea what spawn is?”

  “We’ll tell you later,” Feril said. She and Rig had come up behind them.

  “Get out of here!” Dhamon screamed at the ogres. “Before I change my mind and decide to finish off each and every one of you anyway.”

  The ogres turned and ran, too frightened to look back.

  Meanwhile, Palin h
ad climbed down from the large, flat rock. His face was flushed, his breathing labored. The few spells he’d cast were potent and took quite a bit of energy out of him. “Let’s get out of here,” the sorcerer said softly. He turned and headed toward the men who waited among the rocks. Dhamon was the only one who lingered, praying briefly over the bodies of those who had died.

  *

  They traveled only a few miles, just far enough to put some distance between them and the camp. There were nearly six dozen freed prisoners. Only half of the men were sailors who had been taken from ships in the Palanthas harbor. The rest were farmers, traveling merchants, and visitors to the city – all who had been attacked before they reached the city gates.

  They were ravenously hungry, and Feril, who had been healed by a spell from Jasper, had all she could do to scrounge up enough food to take the edge off their hunger. Dhamon occupied himself talking to Palin about the dragons and spawn, and what their next step ought to be in combating the menace.

  The sorcerer rubbed his chin. A short, though uneven, beard had sprouted from his face, making him look almost distinguished. “We’ll assemble the lance and talk with Goldmoon before we decide on a course of action. I trust her counsel, but I suspect the decision will be to go after the Blue that’s nearby.”

  Across their makeshift camp, Rig was rubbing the Kagonesti’s shoulders. “I thought I was done for,” the mariner admitted. “It’s funny. I can remember only one other time in my life when I really feared for myself...”

  Feril turned her head and glanced up, her eyes encouraging him to continue.

  “Shaon and I once sailed on a ship called the Sanguine Lady in the Blood Sea. There’d been a mutiny. It was supposed to be bloodless, and I was designated the new first mate. I had a lot of respect for the captain, and I thought the others did, too. We agreed to set him ashore with a few coins and enough food to last him until another ship came by. I myself went in the longboat with the captain and a handful of others.

  After we landed, I watched as the others fell on him, cutting and beating him until long after he was dead. I couldn’t do anything – not unless I wanted to die with him. We rowed back to the boat in silence, I never told Shaon what really happened. And the next time the Lady made port, I grabbed Shaon and we disappeared. We kept low for a while, and I’m sure she was curious why. But she knew better than to press me. Eventually we found our way to New Ports.”

  “You must really care about her,” Feril said. “It’s obvious she cares for you.”

  The mariner’s hands lingered on Feril’s shoulders. “We’re good friends,” he said.

  Dhamon was looking for the Kagonesti and spotted her across the camp. Rig was hovering closely, touching Feril. Dhamon felt a surge of jealousy. He’d thought Feril had been showing interest in him. She’d only been teasing, he decided. Dhamon balled his hands into fists, but didn’t budge from Palin’s side, where their discussion continued.

  Chapter 32

  FISSURE’S GRIM TIDINGS

  Khellendros stretched as comfortably as the confines of his underground lair allowed, his muscles rippling, his tail twitching like a contented cat’s. He’d slept the better part of eight days, replenishing his energies, and now was ready to devote himself to creating more blue spawn. The ingredients should be arriving soon, herded across the desert to their doom. After that, he intended to enlarge his lair – to give himself more room to relax and to provide an underground barracks for his growing army.

  The dragon flexed his claws and rumbled happily, the sound growing loud enough to vibrate the cavern’s walls. The regiment of blue spawn that stood behind him looked warily toward the ceiling and at the sand that spilled down through the cracks. The floor was covered with more than an inch of fine, white sand now, for the dragon’s agitation had continually weakened the lair.

  The dragon eased forward. It was time to bask a bit in the sun, luxuriate in his sparkling, pale desert. He’d lie on the hot sand while he waited for the new arrivals. Two or three days at the most, he suspected, and they’d be here. He moved ahead slowly, extended his neck and rubbed it against the ceiling to ease an itch. Then he paused. His vast nostrils quivered uncomfortably.

  “Show yourself!” his voice boomed. More sand trickled down through the cracks in the ceiling.

  A lone ogre shuffled into the mouth of the cave. The dragon shot a claw out, intending to smash this insolent creature who dared to defile the sanctity of his lair. Then Khellendros paused. Perhaps this was a messenger from the Strongfist Tribe, announcing the arrival of the ingredients. But even as he entertained this thought, the ogre’s form shimmered and melted away, replaced by the tiny body of the shapeshifting huldrefolk.

  “I was with the ogres,” Fissure began.

  “As I ordered,” the dragon returned. “My ingredients?”

  The huldrefolk seemed uncharacteristically nervous, and the dragon could smell the faerie’s apprehension. Something had gone wrong, and this displeased The Storm Over Krynn.

  “Well...” Fissure started over.

  “Well...” Khellendros pressed, his displeasure mounting and made the worse for the bother of coaxing bad news from his ally.

  “The humans the ogres captured... well, they were rescued.”

  “Rescued!” The dragon’s voice filled the underground chamber, the waves of sound hurling the huldrefolk back several paces. More sand filtered down.

  Fissure feigned bravery and was quick to describe the unexpected assault on the ogre camp and to recount in detail the incident – giving special attention to the gray-haired mage in the tunic and leggings who cast spells and cut down the brutes and Dark Knights.

  “Palin Majere,” Khellendros hissed, fixating right away on the huldrefolk’s description of the sorcerer. “I underestimated him and his fellows. But I shall not do so again. And... I shall make them pay for this affront.”

  “I guess some of the captives must have been friends of this Palin,” Fissure mumbled. “I guess he thought he had to —” “Majere.” The word rolled like thunder, a curse slipping off the dragon’s tongue. “Kitiara’s brothers. The Majeres were a bane to Kitiara. And their offspring has become a bane to me.”

  “Well you still have all of your Dark Knights and brutes and I can find more ogres —”

  “Silence!”

  The blue spawn pressed back into a shadowy recess, avoiding the savagely flicking tail of their master.

  “Palin Majere must be punished. I must hurt him,” the dragon mused. “And the best way to hurt him is to hurt those he cares about.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Fissure whispered.

  “I’ll tend to Palin Majere. Revenge will be mine, and it will be sweet. Kitiara will be pleased.”

  The huldrefolk hurriedly vanished into the floor, a raised line in the sand the only hint of his incarnation.

  “Yes, I shall tend to...”

  A shimmering in the air interrupted the dragon’s retaliatory reverie. The shimmering spot grew to form a large circle that practically filled the chamber, floor to ceiling, then it sparked red and coalesced into a near-transparent visage of a red dragon – and a very angry red dragon indeed.

  “Malys,” Khellendros said. His anger doubled. The Red had never contacted him here before. It was a violation of his privacy.

  “Traitor!” the image ranted. “You make a creature – secretly – one sleek and powerful.” Malystryx’s apparition spat and hissed, flames writhing like serpents from its nostrils. “Blue spawn, you call it. But you don’t tell me!”

  The Red’s image continued to fume and berate the Blue, and all the while Khellendros’s mind schemed. Words came to him, and he mentally rehearsed them, waiting for a break in the tirade. The apparition could do nothing to him, and he was not afraid of Malys. But he respected her power, and he knew he could not afford to have her as an enemy. Dealing with an enemy like her would keep him away from his true work.

  “I demand to know why you kept this secre
t from me!” the Malys image hissed.

  “Pity you discovered it so soon,” Khellendros purred. “And pity that you felt you had to spy on me and ruin my so carefully planned surprise. I thought we trusted each other, Malys. I had intended to present the spawn to you as a gift. I’ve been working hard perfecting the creatures, wanting to make sure they were a suitable present for the most powerful dragon overlord, the dragon who perpetually occupies my waking thoughts.”

  The Malys image quavered. “A gift?”

  “For the dragon I most revere on this world,” he silkily continued. He was speaking the truth in that respect. He did admire Malys, her brawn and ambition, her ability to manipulate the other dragons and the humanoids in her region. “Though I am not yet satisfied with the spawn, I shall share my secret now – if that is your wish, Malys. Anything I have is yours, of course. Anything.”

  The image nodded, accepting Khellendros’s flattery. The Blue knew reds basked in adulation, and Malys was not an exception. The Storm Over Krynn proceeded to explain the grisly process for creating spawn – the draconian, human, and dragon essence required. The Malys image was rapt with attention.

  “You must shed a tear?” Maly’s voice was filled with curiosity. “That must be hard for you. It would be impossible for me.” The image deepened, becoming a dark haughty crimson, and the phantom flames rose higher, until they dissipated against the cavern ceiling. “I shall use blood to birth my spawn. Blood is more powerful than water. And together, we shall create armies. Then, when the time is right, and when our forces are great, we shall spill this secret to the other overlords. Though they shall never have as many spawn as us – nor ones as powerful.”

  “As you wish.” Khellendros bowed, then the image of the Red disappeared.

  Cursing, the Blue moved out of his lair and into the blessed sun. That Malys knew of his spawn was an unforseen complication. She would have found out eventually, he knew, when he sent his forces out to conquer something, to gather magical items. He decided her learning the secret early was better. He raised a blue snout in the approximation of a smile.