Jean Rabe - The Lake of Death

The last image the sivak recalled was near Dhamon’s cavern lair deep in the swamp, with the hoary shaggy-bark nearby, and the king snake that was often wrapped around the base of a thin cypress. That was Dhamon’s favorite stretch of water, filled with giant alligators and gar, the one most recently visited by Sable’s minions. Not far from it were fetid, stagnant pools and endless swarms of insects.

“Damnable swamp,” he muttered, before finally drifting off to sleep.

This time they flew. Grannaluured sat between Feril and Ragh, thick arms wrapped around one of Dhamon’s back spines. The dwarf’s stubby legs were clamped as tight as she could, her eyes fixed intensely on Feril’s back.

Ragh allowed himself to be slightly cheerful. He’d never fancied the company of dwarves before—though he’d taken the shapes of the dozens of dwarves he’d killed to infiltrate various communities and gain information for Sable. This dwarf was different than most, however. She was thoroughly pragmatic, good-natured and amusing, certainly daring, and above all of that, an excellent cook. He decided he’d get to know her better when they landed.

He felt the air streaking past his ears, the whistling wondrous music that coaxed a few tears down his cheeks. Squeezing his legs to make sure he had a solid perch, he raised his arms to his sides and spread his fingers wide. He dreamed he was flying. He looked down after several minutes. They were well beyond the Kharolis foothills and just south of the ruin of Skullcap, flying low and fast over a stretch of plains that were still green. They passed a farm, and Ragh made out three large wagons being filled with the last of the harvest. He thought he could smell the cut grain, though smelling anything other than the sharp scent of the dwarf and the ghastly odor of Dhamon was likely his imagination. By the Dark Queen’s heads, the female dwarf needed a bath and Dhamon needed…needed…to be a human again!

Hours passed. The sun was straight overhead. Its warmth bathed his shoulders and cut any bite of the wind. The sky was cloudless, a brilliant blue that reminded him of…what? The color of Nalis Aren, he decided. He shook the memory of the lake from his mind and continued to daydream as the land slipped by below.

He noticed a herd of what at first glance he thought were horses, but as Dhamon dipped lower, Ragh made them out as centaurs, perhaps a nomad band from the Plains of Dust in search of more hospitable territory and better hunting grounds. Miles later he spotted a smattering of small farms, a village, and a herd of sheep that moved like a wave of white across a pasture when Dhamon flew too close and frightened them.

Hours later, he caught a glimpse of another blue to the north, the shore of the New Sea. As the sun was starting to set, the edge of the swamp came into view. Ragh’s heart began to sink.

“Home,” Ragh thought he heard the dragon murmur.

The draconian shuddered.

Dhamon dived toward the marsh that marked the outer perimeter of Sable’s realm. He wasn’t a bit tired; he relished the sensation of flying. Years past, when he was a young Dark Knight, he had blond hair and smooth skin not yet scarred by battles. He had been determined and persistent, climbing fast in the ranks and distinguishing himself first as a battlefield medic, then as a commander of men. He was decorated with medals and ribbons, then he was given a far greater honor—he was partnered with a blue dragon. He and the dragon, whose name was Gale, had formed a fast bond and led various campaigns into Solamnic lands.

Yes, he had long blond hair then, he thought, clearly remembering his youthful face and blue eyes. He nearly had died during one campaign, when he was trapped on foot and some distance from Gale. He would have died, too, had not an aging Solamnic Knight taken him in and nursed him back to health, all the while turning his mind away from the precepts of the Dark Knights. Then he met Goldmoon; she had convinced him of right and goodness, and for a time he became her champion. Once again a leader of men, he had guided Feril, Rig, Fiona, and the others against the dragon overlords, and he still had his blond hair.

A scale changed all that; one of Malys’s puppets had branded him with it, attaching it to his thigh. At first unbeknownst to him, the scale had controlled him, though it gave him pain and he raged against it. Had it not been for a silver dragon named Silvara and the shadow dragon that cursed him, he likely would have remained under Malys’s control until one of them died. Lying in the cave of the shadow dragon, lying in a pool of its black blood, Dhamon’s hair had turned black, his eyes also black. His soul started to blacken, too, thanks to the insidious magic the shadow dragon secretly had worked upon him.

The dragons that had manipulated him were responsible for much of the bad fortune that swept across Krynn. Did he really want to be human again and risk running afoul of the dragons? Human, he was powerless against them…he knew that truth from his stint as Goldmoon’s champion. Oh, you could have minor victories against dragons, but nothing that made a real difference in the world.

Did Dhamon really want to give up all his strength and power? He clenched and unclenched his talons, feeling his leg muscles ripple. He spread his wings and glided down toward the marsh, enjoying the rush of air. He wondered if his passengers, the three riding on his back, were enjoying the flight. Puny as they were, compared to his great size and power, he could barely feel them back there.

Had Gale been able to feel him?

He landed on the soft earth, his clawed feet sinking into the ooze of the marsh. Dhamon stretched his front legs. His tail twitched as he drew a deep breath into his lungs. Myriad scents struck him—the loamy soil, the broad blooms clinging to vines, stagnant water all around. Nothing was truly unpleasant; the complex mix was heady and somehow comforting because it smelled of home.

“Home,” he rumbled softly, his voice carrying now to the ears of his companions. Had he actually missed the swamp? Had he come to enjoy its damp and fetid embrace? Dhamon moved forward into a stand of trees as his companions slipped from his back and followed him.

He breathed deep and pulled his wings in close, reached with his neck and rubbed against a thick cypress. As a dragon he could live a very long time, and he was powerful enough that he could claim his own territory, perhaps someday returning to challenge Sable for the swamp. If he became human, he would not live many more years, and he would be trapped in a frail body. If he stayed a dragon, he could build a treasure hoard that would be beyond the dreams of any human.

The Kagonesti came up to his snout, tugging on a barbel. He lowered his head to see her anxious expression. “What’s wrong, Dhamon?”

“I don’t know if I really want to be a man again, Feril. Maybe it would be better to remain a dragon. I just don’t know what I want. I don’t know why I brought you here.”

“By the grace of Habbakuk, Dhamon, we’ve gone through so much already on your behalf. I’ve gone through…so much. We’re not turning back now.”

He stared at her long and hard, ignoring the chatter of Ragh and Grannaluured, who were busy examining their packs to make certain nothing had been lost during the flight. For the first time he noticed the faint lines around Feril’s green eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Her hair had white streaks now, too. Had this experience taken its toll? Had something happened to her in the Lake of Death? Had the ghosts cursed her somehow? Was she aging before his eyes?

He knew that the Dark Knights told tales about the dead Qualinesti, and maybe those tales were true after all.