Jean Rabe - Redemption

He felt he couldn’t approach them again, unless invited. Twice he caught Frendal looking toward the willow, and he suspected the Knight might have spotted him, in spite of his precautions and silence.

Let them figure out I’m here, he thought, that I’m interested. The more Dhamon thought about it, the more he knew he wanted to join the Order. He didn’t want to wait until next spring or the spring after that to become a Solamnic Knight. He no longer wanted to become a Solamnic anyway.

The drumming started again, and again the men lined up to spar. This time the attackers were using a variety of weapons—spears, flails, maces, even some crude and unusual-looking hatchets and polearms, perhaps of goblin make.

“Maybe they’re going to fight a hobgoblin army and they want to practice how to defend against their weapons,” he mused. “Glorious!” The thought of such a battle ignited a passion in him that he hadn’t known existed. He felt his face flush. Frendal had said they were heading deep into Nightlund, and it was common knowledge that there were goblins, hobgoblins, ogres, and trolls there. “Maybe Frendal will tell me what they’re planning if I sneak up and catch his eye….”

That hope died in a sharp breeze that swelled up out of nowhere, cutting the heat and flattening the grass. The shadows stretched to their limits and whipped about in the growing wind.

“What in…”

A heartbeat later his question was answered. A shadow cut across the setting sun, and Dhamon felt his throat constrict. He could scarcely catch his breath, and there was a rushing sound in his ears. It was a dragon coming in from the northwest, and the mere sight of it caused Dhamon to shake uncontrollably.

He didn’t know at the time that dragons wore an aura of fear the way a soldier wears a uniform. A dragon can cause entire towns to flee in terror. A dragon can also control its fear-magic, as the one landing was doing now, so the Dark Knights could stand unaffected in its imperious presence.

Yet Dhamon continued to shiver, and tears spilled from his eyes. He parted the grass so he could see what was going on. He was amazed and frightened all in the same instant, so frightened he couldn’t budge, though his mind told him he should, ordered his legs to run as fast as they could to take him as far away from here as possible. Dhamon slammed his mouth shut to keep his teeth from clattering, and his fingers nervously worked into the dirt.

The dragon was blue. In the sunlight its color looked like the surface of a wind-tossed lake, scales shimmering a vibrant hue and appearing to be constantly in motion. The creature tucked its wings to its sides and thumped its tail against the ground once, the force sending two nearby Knights to their knees.

Its huge equine-shaped head was all planes and angles yet somehow beautifully elegant. Its eyes were catlike slits of brightest yellow inside black orbs, filled with cunning and intelligence.

One rider sat on the dragon, dressed in a full suit of plate armor and wearing a heavily lined wool cloak that was out of place in the summer weather. As the rider slid from the dragon’s back, he was quick to remove the cloak and helmet. Dhamon guessed the man was in his early twenties—so young, and riding a dragon! He passed a trio of bound scroll tubes to the Knight Commander. Dhamon noted that the dragon tipped its head to the commander—a dragon offering a human a measure of respect!

“I will be a Dark Knight,” Dhamon whispered to himself, “and someday I will ride a dragon, too.”

He’d heard tales of the Knights of Takhisis dragon-riders, and all his life he’d heard about the dragons of Krynn, but never had he actually seen one. This grand creature yielded to these men—to these Knights. He recalled that his father said he’d seen a dragon once, a bronze one when he was a young man traveling with friends in the Vingaard Mountains just north of Brasdel. His father said he’d never been more frightened, yet he somehow couldn’t run away. He simply watched with fascination as the creature rode the air currents above the highest mountains, searching for… something, he could tell.

“Seeing your first dragon, son, is something you will never, ever forget,” he said. And Dhamon knew he wouldn’t forget, he’d lock away this time in his memory and tell his own children about what he’d witnessed, someday.

The commander and the courier talked for several minutes. Straining to hear what was said, Dhamon picked out mention of Nightlund and Throtl. He heard clearly that the men would break camp at dawn.

Eventually the courier left, the great blue dragon knocking the Knights to their knees with the force it created as its wings beat to carry it high into the darkening sky. Dhamon watched the dragon depart, still trembling, still crying from fright, more determined than ever now to join these men.

The dragon circled the camp once, then banked to the north, wings spread wide and gliding with the wind. Dhamon’s eyes never left the dragon until it became a speck of ink in the sky and then disappeared entirely from view. He imagined it was heading to the northern desert. He’d heard blue dragons relished the sand and heat. He was able to pick himself up from the ground then, as the trembling finally subsided.

He washed in the creek, discovering that he’d soiled himself in his fear. He returned home a few hours after the sun had set, climbing through the window and into the small bedroom he shared with his brother.

He would never be a Solamnic Knight like his friend Trenken Hagenson. He would become a Dark Knight! And he wasn’t about to wait another year for it to happen. Silent as a cat, he gathered a few changes of clothes in a canvas sack and thrust two steel pieces he’d saved into his pocket. He wanted to tell his brother good-bye, but he didn’t dare wake him—then risk having his parents wake, too. They’d only stop him, or try to. He crept into the kitchen, looking for some peaches—he’d skipped dinner watching the Knights, and his stomach was rumbling. One last look around the home, which held mostly pleasant memories, then he quietly closed the door behind him.

Dhamon hadn’t made it much past the tool shed when he sensed he was being watched. He stopped but kept his eyes trained north.

“Don’t stop me, father. I have to do this. You know this life isn’t for me. I will never be a farmer.”

There was the crunch of boots over the dry earth, the sound of hands smoothing at clothes, the clearing of his father’s throat. His father stood only a few feet behind him. “Dhamon, the Dark Knights are despicable,” he repeated. “You’re a good son, and you’ll be a good man. This path you want to head down, it’s not for you.”

“The Dark Knights aren’t evil. I’ve been watching them, father. They are admirable, honorable men.”

Dhamon turned. In the twilight, with the stars just starting to appear, his father’s face was indistinct, but he could sense that it was etched with sadness and concern.

“I have to choose my own path, father, like you did. And I want to do this now. No. I have to do this.”

Dhamon was going to say other things; that his father might succeed in stopping him now, but maybe not the next time and certainly could not hold him here forever. That he had no desire to be a Solamnic Knight come next spring or the spring after that. He wanted to go with the Knights now. But Dhamon didn’t say anything else, he simply watched as his father drew his hands up to the back of his neck and unfastened the clasp of a chain.

“I was only a year older than you when I went off on my own,” his father said, the resignation heavy in his voice, “and your mother would cry if she knew I was letting you go now. But I wager if I stop you now, I’ll only be keeping you here for a little while longer. Still, I’ve a hope you’ll see this all as a foolish notion and come back sooner or later.”