Jean Rabe - Dragons of a New Age

“Do what?” the larger had asked.

“Do nothing,” the other had suggested.

The Blue’s ranting and raving had gone on for several minutes.

Now more than two dozen spawn watched and waited behind the wyverns. They looked past the dull-witted guards, watched their master, but kept wisely silent and did nothing as the sand continued to rain down.

“I shall not be bested!” Khellendros cursed. “Not by a handful of mortals. I shall send more spawn. I shall...” The dragon paused, sensing a third child in the barrens, one the humans had not killed. It was relatively uninjured, but it was frightened, and it was... trapped?

Through the eyes of his mud-encased spawn, Khellendros saw faces framed in green. A kender, one well into life and with thick streaks of gray in her hair. The man was there, too, looking down with his wheat-hair fluttering about his face. The man was saying something, but Khellendros couldn’t quite make it out. And the blue spawn was getting more frightened with each passing moment. The thunderous beating of its heart drowned out practically all else.

“Calm,” the dragon communicated to the creature. “Show no fear.”

The spawn relaxed, but only a little. With the dragon’s persistent coaxing, its heart slowed, quieted. Then Khellendros heard a word.

“... Palin’s,” a man said.

Palin? The dragon furrowed his brow. The name was vexingly familiar. A human name that had significance. Ah, yes. Palin Majere, a baby born to Caramon and Tika Majere, humans who meddled in dragon affairs and angered Kitiara—Heroes of the Lance, their brethren called them.

Kitiara’s nephew?

And the man was also called a hero himself for managing to survive the Chaos War and for founding the Academy of Sorcery. He was a recurring problem.

The dragon was curious, wanting to see this offspring, learn how his parents died—if they were dead. Caramon and Tika were often a bane to Kitiara, which meant they were a bane to Khellendros. He would learn what happened to them, share the news with Kitiara when he recovered her spirit. Perhaps he would kill them all, Caramon and Tika if they still lived, and their whelp—show Kitiara their bodies as a homecoming present.

“They think you a common draconian, my spawn,” Khellendros hissed conspiratorially. “They think you a simple creature, not a complex being born of a draconian and a human and given life by my essence. I am a part of you.” The dragon was immensely pleased with himself, relishing the prospect of seeing this Palin Majere—being taken to him via the blue spawn.

“A fine spy, you will be, my spawn,” Khellendros continued. He felt his creation’s heart beat with pride now, happy that it could satisfy its master.

The Blue instructed his spawn to test the prison. It was a strong net, but not truly magical. With only a minimal amount of effort, the creature could tear its way free. Its talons were sharp enough to slice through the seaweed. Its nails crackled with lightning, sparking against the tight weave and threatening to sunder it so it could fly free.

“Stop!” Khellendros ordered. “You must not free yourself—not yet.”

The spawn settled back, confused and trying to make itself comfortable. It feebly wrestled with the net now and then to make the bag jiggle and to keep up the illusion of captivity.

This kept its master happy.

Muglor was in the lead boat. Chieftain of the Strongfist Tribe of ogres in the hills near Palanthas, he’d chosen the largest longboat to ride in, as was his right. It was the boat that was most recently stolen and seemed the safest. Muglor didn’t care for the water, though he knew how to swim. The water only served to clean his hair and skin and chase away the smell of himself, of which he was quite fond and proud.

Muglor was a little larger than the ogres he commanded, his size being one of the reasons he had been put in charge. He was ten feet tall and weighed more than four hundred pounds. Like his fellows, his skin had a dull, dark yellow cast. It was inordinately warty, and sickly-looking violet patches dotted his shoulders, elbows, and fell across the backs of his big hands. His long, greasy hair was forest green, though it looked black this night, as the moon was hidden by clouds and obscured some of his more interesting features.

The darkness didn’t bother Muglor or his fellows. The ogres’ large, purple eyes were keen, easily taking in the peaceful Palanthas harbor and all the ships docked there—and the few men who strolled about on the decks.

Muglor motioned for the rowers to stop, to let the longboats drift in. Though it was late, and though nearly all of the sailors would be sleeping or carousing in town, the ogre chieftain didn’t want to take any chances that those few awake would sound an alarm and ruin their mission.

The ogre wasn’t so much worried about the townsfolk. He and his fellows could easily bash in the heads of those who might foolishly attack them. But he was concerned about the Blue.

The Storm Over Krynn wanted humans, and the Storm wanted the ogres to obtain them. Muglor had no desire to disappoint the dragon. Muglor wanted the Storm to be happy. And making the dragon happy would mean Muglor could continue to live and lord it over his tribe.

He knew the Dark Knights would help if it became necessary, but he wanted to do this job alone. They had already been insulted when they were instructed to bring the captured humans to a camp set up by brutes. Apparently the ogre camp was not good enough. The clannish brutes had moved right in on the ogres’ territory, accompanied by a few Knights of Takhisis. The tall skinny creatures were at the beck and call of the Dark Knights and even painted their skin blue. As if someone would mistake them for a blue dragon!

Muglor’s thoughts were disturbed as the lead longboat brushed up against a green-hulled carrack. There were words painted on the side, and Muglor strained to read them. Flint’s Anvil. He raised his greasy eyebrows. Had he read that right?

Flint was a piece of rock used to help start fires, and anvils sank. Of course he read it correctly—the humans simply chose a stupid name for their big boat. Muglor was also the rare chieftain who could read and who was intelligent—at least as far as ogres were concerned. He was the smartest member of the Strongfist Tribe.

With choreographed waves of his big shaggy arms, he directed the other longboats to different targets. Satisfied everyone was following his orders and being reasonably quiet, Muglor stood and tossed a net over one arm. He stuck a crude club, a carefully selected piece of hardwood he’d affixed spikes to, in his belt. Convinced it wouldn’t fall out and make a racket, he dug his claws into the side of the Anvil and started climbing. One ogre remained in the longboat to make sure it wouldn’t drift away. Three others accompanied Muglor. They were laden with nets and weapons and tried very hard not to make the slightest sound.

The dragon had asked for humans who were strangers to Palanthas, people whom the locals wouldn’t be attached to and wouldn’t be terribly concerned about if they happened to disappear. Muglor, being particularly smart, figured the best place to find such strangers would be at the port. The stupid people of Palanthas would think the missing sailors had drowned or left for work elsewhere—or were kidnapped by pirates, which they’d be afraid to pursue. No one would be the wiser if the ogres plucked up only a few, and the Blue—and Muglor—would be happy.

Muglor effortlessly vaulted the Anvil’s rail and landed with a thump on the deck. Squinting through the darkness, his eyes separating the shadows and locking onto objects that generated heat, he found a man. Sleeping? Must be, Muglor thought. He didn’t hear me. The chieftain and his fellows crept forward.