Fizban shook hands. Then he turned to Raistlin. “Well, are you coming? I don’t have all day, you know. Got to go build another world. Let’s see. How did that go? You take a bit of dirt and mix in some bat guano …”
“Good-bye, Palin. Take good care of your parents.” Raistlin turned to Usha. “Farewell, Child of the Irda. You not only avenged your people, you redeemed them.” He glanced at the dejected Palin. “Have you told him the truth yet? It will cheer him considerably, I think.”
“Not yet, but I will,” Usha answered. “I promise, Uncle,” she added shyly.
Raistlin smiled. “Good-bye,” he said again.
Leaning on the staff, he and Fizban turned and walked across the field, where lay the dead.
“Uncle!” Palin called desperately. “The gods are gone! What will we do now that we are alone?”
Raistlin paused, glanced back. His skin gleamed pale gold in the light of the strange stars; his golden eyes burned.
“You are not alone, Nephew. Steel Brightblade said it for you. You have each other.”
Palin and Usha stood alone, together, in the field near the town of Solace, a field that would afterward be held sacred.
In this field, the people of Ansalon came together to build a tomb made of stone brought all the way from Thorbardin by an army of dwarves. The tomb was simple, elegant, built of white marble and black obsidian. Around the tomb the humans planted trees, brought from Qualinesti and Silvanesti by the elves, led by their king, Gilthas.
The bodies of the Knights of Solamnia were placed within the tomb, side by side with the bodies of the Knights of Takhisis.
In the center Steel Brightblade rested on a bier made of rare black marble. He was clad in his black armor. He held his father’s sword in his hands. On another bier, carved of white marble, lay the body of Tanis Half-Elven. He was clad in green, in leather armor. At his side lay a blue crystal staff, placed there by the children of Riverwind and Goldmoon.
The vault was shut and sealed with double doors made of silver and of gold. The Knights of Solamnia carved on one side of the door a rose, on the other side of the door a lily. They engraved the names of the knights on the blocks of stone.
But over the door they put only one name, in memory of one of Ansalon’s most renowned heroes.
Tasslehoff Burrfoot.
Beneath his name, they carved a hoopak.
The Last Heroes tomb, it was called, and it commemorated all those who had died during the battle at the end of that terrible summer.
Far from being a solemn place, the tomb became a rather merry one (much to the discomfiture of the knights). Kender from all over Ansalon made pilgrimages to this site. They brought their children and held picnic lunches on the grounds. While eating, the kender would tell stories of their famous hero.
It was not long—within a generation, at least—that eventually every kender you came across would show you some interesting object—a silver spoon, perhaps—and swear to you on his topknot that it possessed all sorts of wonderful powers.
And that it had been given to him by his “Uncle Tas.”
Epilogue
lint Fireforge paced, back and forth, back and forth, beneath the tree. He had to keep moving, for the forge fire had gone out, and the old dwarf was chilled to the bone. He clapped his hands to warm his fingers, stomped his feet to warm his toes, and grumbled and complained to warm his blood.
“Where is that dratted kender? Said he’d be here. I’ve waited and waited. Tanis and Sturm and the rest left eons ago. I can imagine where they are, now, too. Probably sitting in some nice, cozy inn, having a glass or two of hot, mulled wine, talking of the old days, and where am I?”
The dwarf snorted. “Nowhere, that’s where. Underneath a dying tree, next to a cold forge, waiting for that doorknob of a kender. And what’s he up to? Ah, I’ll tell you!” Flint huffed until he was red in the face. “He’s likely in jail. Or maybe some minotaur’s strung him up by his topknot. Or some irate mage has turned him into a lizard. Or he’s tumbled into a well, like he did that one time, trying to grab hold of his own reflection, and it was up to me to haul him out, except that he pulled me in, too. If it hadn’t been for Tanis—”
Flint grumbled, paced, clapped, and stomped. So intent was he on grumbling, pacing, clapping, and stomping that he never noticed he’d gained a partner.
A kender, dressed in bright yellow pants with a jaunty red-and-green plaid jacket, hung all over with bulging pouches, had crept up behind Flint and, stifling his giggles, was mimicking the dwarf.
The kender paced, clapped, and stomped on Flint’s very heels, until the dwarf—stopping in mid-grumble to light a pipe—reached into his leaf pouch and discovered another hand there already. A quick count bringing the number of hands up to three, the dwarf roared and spun around.
“Gotcha!” Flint grabbed the thief.
The thief grabbed Flint.
Tasslehoff flung his arms around his friend. “Flint! It’s me!”
“Well! About time!” Flint humpfed. “You doorknob! See what you did? Made me drop my pipe. There, Lad, there. Don’t take on so. I didn’t mean to yell at you. You startled me, that’s all.”
Tas tried laughing and sobbing at the same time, only to discover that the laugh and the sob got all tangled up in the throat, which made breathing a bit difficult. Flint pounded his friend on the back.
Recovering his breath, thanks to Flint beating it back into him, Tas was able to talk.
“I finally made it. I bet you missed me, didn’t you?”
Ignoring Flint’s resounding “NO!” Tas prattled on. “I missed you. I had the most wonderful adventure. I’ll have to tell you.”
The kender divested himself of his pouches, spread them around him, settled down to sit beneath the tree. “Where shall I begin? I know. The Kender Spoon of Turning. It was given to me by—”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Flint demanded. Hands on his hips, he glared at the kender.
“Resting here underneath your tree,” Tas returned. “Why? What do you think I’m doing?” He looked interested. “Is it something different from what I think I’m doing? Because if it is—”
“Confound you!” Flint growled. “It’s not what you’re doing or what you think I think you’re doing, it’s what you’re not doing!”
Tas eyed the dwarf severely. “You’re not making any sense. If you think I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing, and if I think I am doing what I’m not supposed to be doing, then—”
“Shut up!” Flint groaned, clutched at his head.
“Is something the matter, Flint?”
“You’re giving me a headache! That’s what’s the matter. Now, where was I?”
“Well, I wasn’t doing—”
“Stop!” The dwarf was breathing heavily. “I didn’t mean that. And get back up. We don’t have time to laze around. We’re due to meet Tanis and the others up there aways.” He waved his hand vaguely.
“Maybe in a little while,” Tas said, settling himself even more comfortably. “I’m awfully tired. I think I’d like to rest right here, if you don’t mind. This is an awfully nice tree. Or it would be if it wasn’t all brown and sad-looking. I think the tree’s shivering. It is chilly here. I’m cold. Aren’t you cold, Flint?”
“Cold! Of course I’m cold! I’m nearly frozen stiff. If you had come when you were supposed to—”
Tas wasn’t listening. He was assessing the situation.
“You know, Flint, I think the reason that you’re cold and I’m cold and the tree’s cold (I really do think that’s what’s wrong with it), is that there’s no fire in that forge.”
“I know there’s no fire in the forge!” Flint howled, so infuriated that he started to splutter. “I … But … You …”
“Well, it’s a good thing I came back,” Tas said resolutely. “Look where you’d be without me! We’ll catch up with Tanis and the others later. By that time, they will have gotten themselves into no end
of trouble, and you and I’ll have to rescue them. Just like the old days. Now, why don’t you light the fire, and I’ll sit here under this nice tree and tell you stories. Oh, and by the way, I’ve got this for us.” Tas rummaged through one of his pouches, came up with a silver flask, which he exhibited proudly. “Caramon’s finest!”
Flint stared at the tree. He stared at the forge. He stared at the kender. Then Flint stared at the flask.
Especially at the flask.
The dwarf scratched his head.
“By Reorx,” he muttered, “it wouldn’t hurt to have a nip. Just to warm myself, mind you. I suppose you paid Caramon for it?”
Flint took hold of the flask, popped off the cork, sniffed at it eagerly.
“I will,” Tas said, leaning back, his head on his pouch. “The next time I’m there. Now. Where was I? Oh, yes. The famous Kender Spoon of Turning. Well, there was this specter, you see, and …”
The kender prattled on. Flint tasted the brandy, found it to his liking, took several swigs, tucked the flask in a hip pocket.
There would be time enough to join Tanis and the others. An eternity, if you wanted to get right down to it.
“I might just build that fire after all,” Flint decided. “Anything to keep from listening to the chatter of that rattle-brained kender.”
Flint gathered up wood, stoked the forge, lit a spark. He began to pull on the bellows, and their breath fanned the spark into a flame.
The forge fire soon burned bright, warmed the dwarf, the kender, and the tree.
Flint sat down, decided he’d taste the brandy again, to see if it was as good as he’d thought it was the first time.
It was.
He handed the flask to Tas, who tried it and handed the flask back to the dwarf.
The forge fire glowed hotter and brighter.
And in the night sky over Ansalon there burns a new star—a red star—which will remain forever fixed and unchanging, a sign that, even in the Age of Mortals, mankind is not alone.
Chapter 1
Night of Blood
okun Es-Kalin, first cousin of the emperor, Ship Master of the House of Kalin’s merchant fleet …
They found Zokun at his estate on the wooded, northern edge of the imperial capital of Nethosak. He was fast asleep in his plush, down-filled bed. Although in command of a mighty fleet of some two hundred ships, he himself had not gone to sea for years and had no desire to do so. Zokun preferred the rewards of power to the work, and many of his tasks were handled by well-trained subordinates who knew their proper place in the imperium.
A bottle of rich and heady briarberry wine, one of the finest produced in the empire and coveted even by the lesser races beyond, stood empty next to three others previously drained. A slim, brown form beside the fat, snoring minotaur turned over in her sleep. This was not his mate, Hila, but a younger female who hoped soon to take Hila’s place.
And so she did, dying along with the Ship Master. The helmed assassins dispatched her with one stroke—compared to the four needed to gut her drunken lover. Both perished swiftly.
No servants heard them cry out. None of Zokun’s family came to his aid. Most of the former had been rounded up and taken away. The latter, including Hila, had been slain at exactly the same time as the venerable Ship Master and his mistress.
The feminine hand took the long quill pen, dipped it in a rich, red ink, and drew a line through Zokun’s name. The wielder of the quill took care not to spill any of the ink on her silky gold and sable robes. She moved the pen to another name—
Grisov Es-Neros, councilor to the emperor and patriarch of the house most closely allied with that of Kalin …
Grisov was a scarred, thin minotaur whose fur was almost snow white. His snout had a wrinkled, deflated appearance, and over the years his brow had enveloped his eyes. Despite his grizzled countenance, the patriarch was hardly infirm. His reflexes were still those of the young champion of the Great Circus he had been years before the bloody war against the aquatic Magori. His well-schooled, well-paid healers encouraged him to sleep at a proper hour, but Grisov continued to take his late-night walks, a cherished tradition to him and others in this area of Nethosak. Grisov liked to survey his fiefdom, reminding himself that as long as Chot was kept in power, the children of Neros would profit. He had no qualms about what part he had played over the years in propping up the emperor; the strongest and most cunning always triumphed.
The street did not seem as well tended as when he was young. Grisov recalled immaculate streets of white marble with nary a sign of refuse. These days, all sorts of trash littered the avenues. Bits and pieces of old food, broken ale bottles, and rotting vegetation offended the patriarch’s sensibility. One large piece of trash, a snoring, drunken sailor, snuggled against the high, spiked wall of the abode of one Grisov’s nephews, a wastrel who lived off the hard work of his uncle.
It was all the fault of the young generation. The young could be blamed for everything. They had never learned the discipline of their elders.
Two able warriors clad in thigh-length, leather-padded metal kilts, colored sea-blue and green—the official clan colors—accompanied the robed minotaur. Each carried a long, double-edged axe shined to a mirror finish and etched with the Neros symbol—a savage wave washing over rocks—in the center of the head. Grisov thought the guards a nuisance, but at least this pair knew not to speak unless spoken to. The guards knew his routine well, knew what stops their master would make, knew what comments he would murmur and how they ought to respond.
Yet, there was one change in the routine this night. Grisov had no intention of letting drunkards invade his domain.
“Kelto, see that piece of garbage on his way. I’ll not have him sully this street!”
“Aye, patriarch.” With a look of resignation, the young warrior headed toward the snoring sailor.
A whistling sound made the patriarch’s ears stiffen. Recognition of what that sound presaged dawned just a second later—a second too late.
A gurgling noise made the elder warrior turn to see his guard transfixed, a wooden shaft piercing his throat.
As the hapless warrior fell, Grisov turned to Kelto—only to find him sprawled on the ground, his blood already pooling on the street.
Peering around, the elder minotaur discovered that the drunken sailor had vanished.
A decoy.
Grisov reached for his sword and cried, “Villains! Cowards! Come to me, you dishonorable—”
Two bolts struck him from opposite directions, one piercing a lung, the other sinking deep into his back. Blood spilled over his luxurious blue robe, overwhelming the green Neros symbol on his chest.
With a short gasp, the patriarch dropped his blade and collapsed beside his guards.
A young minotaur, clad in plain, ankle-length robes of white trimmed with red, approached the senior priestess, bringing a silver flask of wine for the empty chalice sitting next to the pile of parchments. The priestess looked up briefly, then flicked her eyes toward the half-melted candle by which she checked her lists. The servant glanced that way but saw nothing. The servant finished refilling the goblet then quickly backed away.
“Tyra de-Proul?” asked the senior priestess. She was a chestnut-colored female, still attractive in the eyes of her kind. Her words were whispered to the open air. She fixed her gaze in the general direction of a lengthy silk tapestry depicting a white, almost ghostlike bird ascending to the starry heavens. “You are certain?” the priestess asked the emptiness.
A moment later, her ears twitched in clear satisfaction. She nodded, then looked over the lists. Many lines were already crossed out, but she soon located the one she desired.
A smile crossed her visage as she brought the quill down. “Another page complete.”
On the island of Kothas, sister realm to Mithas and a two-day journey from the capital, Tyra de-Proul stirred from sleep. Her mate had been due to return this evening from his voyage to Sargonath, a minor minotaur colony
located on the northeastern peninsula of Ansalon, but he had not yet arrived. Feeling pensive, Tyra pushed back her thick, gray mane and rose.
Jolar’s ship might just be late. That shouldn’t bother her at all, yet some vague dread insisted on disturbing her asleep.
The tall, athletic female poured some water. As appointed administrator of the emperor’s interests, Tyra made constant sea trips between the imperial capital and this island’s principal city of Morthosak. Jolar’s lateness could readily be attributed to any number of innocent causes, even foul weather.
A muffled sound beyond her door brought her to full attention. At this hour, no one in the house other than the sentries should be awake, and the sentries knew to make their rounds without causing clamor of any sort.
Tyra seized her sword and scabbard, then headed toward the door. Weapon drawn, she opened it—
And was stunned to see a frantic struggle taking place between Jolar and three helmed minotaurs at the foot of the steps.
One of the intruders had a hand over her mate’s muzzle, but Jolar twisted free and shouted, “Flee, Tyra! The house is under siege! There is no—”
He gasped, a dagger in his side. Jolar fell to the floor.
Like all minotaurs, Tyra had been trained from childhood first and foremost as a warrior. As a young female, she had helped fight back the vile Magori when the crustaceans rose from the sand and surf, the destruction of all minotaurs their sole desire. Never in her life had she turned from a battle, whether on the field or in the political arena.
With a savage cry, Tyra threw herself down the steps, her sword cutting the air as she descended.
The nearest foe stumbled against her mate’s corpse. Tyra thrust the blade through the helmed assassin’s unprotected throat. Before he had even dropped to the floor, she did battle with the second, a young female who moved with the haughtiness of one who thought that before her stood merely a decrepit elder. Tyra caught the intruder’s blade and twisted it to the side. She kicked at her opponent and watched with satisfaction as the latter went flying back into a nearby wall, knocked unconscious.
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