Jean Rabe - Dragons of a New Age

“Wait!” Fissure cried, sensing the dragon’s intent. “I came here to help you.”

The rumble caught in Khellendros’s throat, the energy remained poised, ready to be released.

“I was listening in. Bad habit of mine,” Fissure babbled. “I heard that you still want access to the portals—even after all this time. Well, I suppose it’s really no time at all to you.”

“Insolent creature!” Khellendros spat.

“Yes, maybe I am,” Fissure continued. “But I still want access to the portals, too. You’ve got the right idea about gathering magic to force one open. But not just any magic will do. I have an idea...”

The rumble died, and Khellendros moved aside, allowing the huldrefolk to step deeper into his lair.

The tomb stood in a field near Solace. It was built a few decades past by the people of Ansalon. A stark building, simple in design, it was nonetheless impressive and elegant, made of fine black obsidian and polished white marble that had been hauled by dwarven artisans from the kingdom of Thorbardin.

Inside it lay the bodies of the Knights of Solamnia and the Knights of Takhisis who fought and fell in the Abyss. Their names were engraved on the blocks that made up the tomb’s outer walls, as were the names of knights whose bodies could not be recovered. Tanis Half-Elven also rested here.

The tomb had two exquisitely crafted doors. One was gold and carried the image of a rose; the other was silver and had an etching of a lily in the center. Above the sealed doors the name Tasslehoff Burrfoot had been painstakingly carved. But the kender’s body was not inside—it had vanished in the Abyss after Tas nicked Chaos and drew the necessary drop of blood to save Krynn. A hoopak, the kender’s favorite possession, was chiseled beneath his name.

All around the tomb grew trees that had been brought by elves from the Silvanesti and Qualinesti forests. They were saplings when the tomb’s construction began. Now they were tall and could stand against unpredictable weather and shade the shrine’s frequent visitors.

On the tomb’s low steps a bouquet of flowers had begun to wilt in the warm, still air. There were always flowers at the tomb because there were always pilgrims to bring them. The pilgrims consisted of elves, dwarves, kender, gnomes, humans, and an occasional centaur. And though they were respectful, the visitors were rarely grim. The tomb wasn’t a place of sadness and grief, it was a place of reflection and introspection. It honored life. It was also sometimes the site of family gatherings, particularly when the families involved were kender.

Two kender stood outside the tomb now. They were not related. In fact, they had only just met. But they were quickly becoming friends, as kender had a tendency to do.

“See this spoon?” the smaller boasted. “It’s just like the one Tasslehoff had, the one he used to chase away undead. It’s a magical spoon of undead turning.”

“That’s a fine spoon. And quite valuable I suspect,” the taller replied. She was attempting to read the names on the stones, while at the same time trying to pay at least a modicum of attention to the young man. “I wish I had one like it.”

“Now you do!” he exclaimed, as he thrust the spoon toward her. “Consider it an early birthday present. Or a late one. Happy birthday, Blister!”

“Thank you.” Blister grinned and reached out a gloved hand. Her fingers slowly closed about the handle and she grimaced. It hurt to use her hands much—the result of an unfortunate accident of her youth that she preferred not to think about. She dropped the spoon in one of the many pouches at her side, and resumed reading the names of the honored dead.

“How old are you, anyway?” The small one asked as he fussed over a daisy.

“Old enough.”

“Older than me?”

“By quite a lot.”

“Thought so. You’ve got almost as much gray hair as you do blonde.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

His hair was red and was a snarled mess that was tied in a poor semblance of a topknot. Blister suspected his unruly mane was the source of half his name—Raph Tanglemop. Her topknot was neat, every hair in place. It took her a long time to arrange it, and she used modern methods to do so. No need to make her fingers ache when a gnomish invention would do the trick. Blister’s clothes were also a contrast to her newfound companion’s. His orange shirt seemed to collide with his bright green pants that had mismatched blue patches on the knees. And he wore a dark purple vest that had a half-dozen lighter purple pockets sewn on it with yellow thread. Blister wore tan leggings and a rose-colored tunic that hung a few inches above her knobby ankles. Her brown leather boots matched her pouches, and nearly complemented the wood of the hoopak she laid next to Raph’s flowers.

“I bet Tas had one just like that,” Raph said, as he closely admired her offering.

“No. I suspect his wasn’t broken.” Blister nodded toward a crack in the haft.

“So why are you leaving this one, if I may be so impertinent to ask?”

“This was my favorite,” she replied wistfully. “Besides, those inside have no need of weapons—functional or otherwise. This is just a token of respect.”

“Oh.” Raph’s attention drifted from the tomb to a tall man who was standing several yards away, under the branches of a shaggybark tree.

“Wonder what token that fellow’ll leave?” Raph speculated out loud. “Maybe a bag of seeds. I think he looks like a farmer.”

Blister glanced over her shoulder. “What he leaves, if anything, should be none of our business.”

Raph scowled. “Just curious,” he said.

“Let’s be polite.” Blister tugged the smaller kender away from the steps. She sat against the trunk of an Errow elm, the closest tree to the tomb. Raph slumped at her side.

“You’re pouting,” she observed.

“I never pout,” he said, his lower lip protruding noticeably.

The stranger glanced in their direction, then strode toward the tomb. He stopped a few feet from the doors and knelt. He could have been a farmer or a common laborer. His gray shirt was thin and worn at the elbows, and laced with a plain white cord. His black leather breeches also showed some age, and the heels of his boots were pitted. He wiggled his shoulders to free a canvas backpack, and let it fall to the ground behind him.

“Wonder who he is?” Raph whispered. “Wonder what’s in his pack?”

The stranger’s skin was tanned and slightly weathered from the sun, and his long blond hair was neatly tied at the base of his neck with a black leather thong. His shoulders were broad, and Blister saw muscles ripple beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He drew a long sword from a battered scabbard at his side and laid it on the ground in front of him.

Then he bowed his head, whispering.

“Do you think he’s going to leave that sword? It looks old. I bet it’s valua... er, sharp. And I bet it would be dangerous just to leave it there. Children could get hurt.”

“Shhh!”

“If he’s going to leave it, I’m going to go pick it up. Just to keep the children safe, of course.”

“It would be too big for you to carry,” Blister admonished.

“I could drag it.”

The man could hear the kender quibbling nearby, but pushed their voices aside and gazed up at the tomb. He had walked to the tomb from Crossing, a port city to the north. It had taken him more than a week to reach the site, and he’d pushed himself, especially in the foothills near Solace. He was tired and hot, and he intended to find an inn and rest right after he paid his respects. Then he’d come back again tomorrow.