Jean Rabe - The Eve of the Maelstrom

The dwarf pulled back on the Fist of E’li, thinking now only of the dragon’s death, and swung it even harder. “My faith will protect me!”

The dragon roared again, lashing out with her other claw. This time she aimed not for the dwarf, but for the silver-and gold-haired woman who had also struck her. The woman’s goodness sickened Onysablet; it was a purity that threatened the black dragon’s perfect foulness and corruption.

The claw barely connected with Goldmoon; only a talon ripped at her tunic. Onysablet howled again, anticipating victory. The black dragon gave all her attention to the healer.

The dwarf would come second. One more thrust and the woman of goodness would be gone.

Behind her, the ceremony in the center of the plateau continued. Onysablet could feel the energy pulsing from the magic items, could sense the electricity in the air. Her black heart pounded in rhythm with the thunder Khellendros was summoning in the skies overhead. It would take her but a moment to kill this woman, then the dwarf would follow. Then she would watch Malystryx as a dragon goddess was reborn.

Khellendros edged closer to the treasure, his claw clutched around the burning lance once wielded by Huma.

Malystryx had weathered a second blast of water from the Kagonesti’s crown, which had pushed her farther away from the magical treasure. The red dragon had not been hurt, merely thrown off balance. Malystryx launched another fiery breath at Feril. This time the elf dodged it on her own and continued to fight at the side of Dhamon Grimwulf, the human who had been Malystryx’s most promising pawn. The only pawn to defy her.

The red overlord snarled, flames wreathing her head. “Dhamon Grimwulf,” she hissed in her deep, inhuman voice, as she slouched toward him. “I intended to slay you after I became a goddess, to punish you then for your foolish insolence. But I will do so now, taking from you the glory of watching me ascend. I shall destroy you and the accursed elf.”

Malys moved closer, snaking her head forward, her malevolent eyes narrowed to gleaming slits.

Behind her, Khellendros’s claws touched the mound of treasure. He now stood where Malystryx had been standing. The blue overlord looked to the sky, where small forms—black, green, blue and silver, gold, and more—dove and swooped. His keen eyes separated the shapes, saw blasts of quicksilver pelt the greens, and watched clouds of acid strike the gold dragon in the lead. The gold dragon had a rider, as did many of the silvers. And that human element made both of those dragons more curious, more threatening.

Three of the blacks were attacking the silver with the elf upon her back. Khellendros watched as the blacks breathed streams of acid. The silver slipped away at the last possible moment, saving herself and her rider.

As Khellendros wished he could have saved Kitiara’s life those long years ago.

“Ah, Kitiara,” he breathed. “My queen. Malystryx’s form is not good enough for you. It is tainted. I shall choose another.”

Fissure was pressed against The Storm’s leg, hiding in his shadow, adding to the magical essence, and thinking of The Gray.

“Khellendros!” Malystryx keened. She had cast a glance over her shoulder, spotted Khellendros in her place. “Move aside! The ceremony is mine! Move away from my treasure!”

The Storm Over Krynn watched Malystryx turn more toward him now, fury etched across her massive red face, flames licking out to burn him. But the fire burned only faintly now. It hurt less than the lance he grasped. The magical energy pulsing into him from the treasure beneath his claws, and the strength the lightning gave him as it raced down from the clouds and pulsed through his scales, was keeping him safe, making him stronger.

Khellendros watched Gale and Hollintress glide toward Palin Majere and a silver-haired woman with golden eyes.

He saw Beryl, the green overlord, claw at a big half-ogre, saw a red-haired wolf dash in front of the Green’s talons and save the big man—as he wished he had saved Kitiara. As Beryl’s claw connected, the wolf seemed to explode in a golden flash of energy, leaving nothing but a stunned half-ogre and an angry green dragon with a sore claw. Khellendros sensed that the wolf, or whatever it truly was, was still nearby, reforming itself.

Then Khellendros watched as Goldmoon, a woman he recognized as the mistress of the Citadel of Light, narrowly dodged Onysablet’s jaws. Acid rained down on her deerskin tunic, sizzling and popping as the dwarf’s skin had done minutes ago.

“Goldmoon!” the dwarf was yelling. “Get out of the way!”

“My faith will protect me!” she called back. There was a deep sadness in her voice and in her eyes. Her fingers trembled as she brought the staff up to strike Onysablet’s descending claw. “My faith.” She sobbed openly, her tears spilling over her cheeks and down her neck to wash over the Medallion of Faith that hung there.

The Medallion! The Storm finally realized Goldmoon, not Fissure, had taken the second medallion from his pile of treasure. Back from the dead to claim her cherished possession. Back from the dead, as Kitiara should be.

“My faith!” she exulted.

Onysablet’s claw bounced harmlessly away from the healer, knocked back by her simple wooden staff. But a second claw was moving in, talons razor sharp and gleaming. Talons aimed at Goldmoon’s heart.

The Storm Over Krynn heard the dwarf calling out, watched the dwarf wield the magical scepter, throwing off Onysablet’s aim.

The Storm watched as the dwarf gathered his strength and leaped to interpose himself between Goldmoon and the claw, while at the same time bringing his own weapon down hard against it.

The talon pierced the dwarf’s heart instead of the healer’s.

But light blossomed forth from the Fist of E’li, scorching Onysablet and hurling the black dragon back into the path of a series of well-aimed blows from the man with the glaive and a red-haired woman. Before them was a small kender, who was also raining jabs against the dragon. They could not kill Onysablet, Khellendros knew. But they could distract the Black for some time.

Goldmoon knelt over the fallen dwarf, tears falling from her face onto his body. “My faith,” she whispered. “ You were supposed to die, Jasper, on Schallsea Island. Not me. You were to die that day, my dear, precious friend. I have students to teach. And while I, alone, can do nothing against the dragons, all of my students—and others who will come to me in the future—can do something. That is why I had to come back.”

Nearby, Khellendros watched Dhamon Grimwulf step forward, the black-haired man intent on Malystryx, the elf equally intent at his side. She was using the magic of the coral crown again. Water shot from the band a third time, striking Malystryx as she opened her mouth, creating steam instead of fire. It did not hurt the great red overlord. Dhamon and the elf did not have the power, The Storm knew that. Nor did the attack deter her; instead, it succeeded only in angering her. Dhamon and the elf were less than gnats to Malystryx. Unless...

“Khellendros!” Malystryx cried. “Move away from the treasure! The ceremony is mine! Mine!”

The Storm Over Krynn gave one last look at the tumultuous scene before him. And then the blue dragon saw, seated upon a distant peak, sitting calmly, patiently, the dark form of another wyrm. It was not black; rather, it seemed cloaked in shadow. As he spied it, Khellendros felt, for the briefest of moments, a chill of doubt, as though he beheld a power vast and terrible, hidden behind a cold, inscrutable mask.

“Kitiara,” The Storm repeated to himself. The moment of weakness as gone, and his course lay plain before him. Squarely behind the altar now, Khellendros felt the earth tremble beneath the pile of magical treasure, felt energy flow into his claws and up his legs, down into his belly, across his back. He threw back his head and shot a thick bolt of lightning into the sky, felt a myriad of tiny bolts race down to caress him, to fuel him, to increase his power. The ceremony was working its magical wonders on him.