Jean Rabe - The Lake of Death

Ragh claimed to know the safest route, one that would keep them away from bakali villages and the numerous nests of spawn and abomination that were absolutely loyal to the overlord. This route was also the slowest and involved skirting quicksand bogs that stretched as far across as a lake and cutting through sections of mangrove that boasted treacherous animals. The presence of a dragon would be unusual, so Feril and Ragh urged Dhamon to keep his shadow form.

They stopped near a stagnant pond and Feril called Obelia out of his flask. The ghost was paler than before, his voice weaker, and his eyes empty sockets.

“Elf-fish. I’ve not seen you for days. I heard such a ruckus.”

Feril and Ragh huddled close to the image to hear his weak voice. Indeed, the Qualinesti spirit looked sickly. Their faces showed their concern.

“Yes, I fade,” he informed them. “I knew I would, eventually, this far away from Beryl’s corpse. I knew as much from the beginning, though I did not care to tell you. Believe me, I did not know it would happen so fast, my elf-fish. I had hoped to help you, then see my sister again, so we could be united. I wanted to tell her that she was right. In life, I never conceded anything to her. I never treated her as lovingly as I should. I wanted her to know she was right about Qualinost, that everyone should have fled. I wanted to say that to her before I faded.”

“I’m sure she must realize your good intentions,” Feril told the specter, “but it can happen still—you and I will find your sister. We near our goal for Dhamon, and when we are finished with that, all of us will look for Elalage.”

Ragh kept quiet, turning his attention to the surface of the pond, which was swirling, more slowly than previous times, with the Qualinesti ghost’s magic.

“You’ll see,” the Kagonesti continued. “We will find your sister together. We’ll use our magic to search for her, just like we’ve searched for the scales. We’ll find Qualinesti elves who fled the forest and pinpoint where she might be.”

Obelia’s image seemed to brighten, then it flickered and wavered. “My magic is ready now. Use it, my elf-fish. Let’s help your friend Dhamon.”

Together, they concentrated on images of discarded dragon scales. Ragh watched the scrying intently. Curiously, there seemed to be more scales than when they’d scryed this area before—Sable was moving recklessly through her realm, no doubt, and shedding a few. Ragh noted one not far from Dhamon’s lair.

“Damn Sable has found our hiding place,” Ragh muttered to himself. “Well, fine, fine. It was inevitable. Probably plundered our hoard already. Probably had her damnable bakali haul out every last piece of steel. All that work, all our dreams of treasure, all our pain and risk—all for nothing.”

“The air is different here than in the mountains,” Feril was telling Obelia, soothing the anxious Qualinesti spirit. “It is heavy and wet and brings so many smells to me. Flowers mostly, so much sweeter than the ones in the forest, but there is also a musky smell underneath everything, of plants rotting and of the earth. It is not…unpleasant, but it cuts the sweetness. Too, I can smell wild boar. One passed this way not long ago. Something else I can smell, but cannot name, stalks the boar. This land teems with life. This land is glorious.”

Feril was a talker. Ragh yawned. The draconian took the opportunity of taking out one of the magic scrolls and carefully unrolling it. He could speak far more languages than he could read, but he was able to make out most of these words—an old Elvish dialect from before the time of the War of the Lance. He’d studied under wizards a long time ago, long before he’d come under Sable’s command. This particular spell didn’t look terribly complicated, as it was meant to break magic, not create some spectacular effect or cause any destruction.

“Hmmm,” said Ragh, half to himself, as he continued reading. “I think I’m beginning to understand what your ghost friend has in mind. The combination of spells, along with the dragon scale—it might work. It might actually work.”

Feril and Obelia weren’t paying any attention to him. The elf was continuing to tell Obelia about the swamp, how the rich earth felt between her toes, how unpleasant the pool smelled when she leaned close. “Something rots nearby,” she said. “Something small, recently dead. I love this teeming land.”

“Perhaps you are right and we will indeed find my sister,” Obelia said in a soft voice, “but I am so tired, elf-fish. I did not know specters could grow weary.” He weakly retreated into the flask as the image on the water’s surface faded.

“Feril…” Ragh finally commanded her attention. “That ghost is worse than tired. He isn’t looking too healthy…I mean, for a dead elf.”

She glared at him.

He softened his tone. “Do you think there’s anything for us…after this?”

“After what?”

“This. After this life. I’ve heard there are places where spirits dwell, a place beyond Krynn yet close enough that we can almost touch our old haunts. When Obelia’s spirit is finally freed, will he go there? Or will he fade to nothingness, as though he never existed? Do you think there really is a place for the dead?”

“Or is this all there is?” she mused sadly. “I wish I knew, Ragh.”

He raised a scaly eyebrow. It was the first time she’d called him by his name.

“Maybe there is nothing after this life,” she said. “Maybe this…what we have here and now…is all there ever really is, but does it really matter?”

Ragh got to his feet, putting the pack on his back. He had transferred everything to the one satchel; there was plenty of room for all the items, considering that Grannaluured had destroyed so many of the magic artifacts.

“If this is all there ever is, if when we die, we die forever…what’s the point…of all our struggles, of all the…”

“Maybe it’s all pointless.” Feril walked away from the pond, stopping and staring at a massive black walnut with tangled roots. “Sometimes I wonder.”

Ragh hadn’t expected that. Such talk, coming from the Kagonesti, really worried the sivak. “Hey, don’t get downhearted,” the sivak said clumsily. “We’re doing our best. We’re doing it for Dhamon, right? If this life is all he has, he should have the chance to live it as a human—if that’s what he really wants.” Ragh took a last look at the stagnant pond. “Even if Sable has found all our treasure,” he added with forced cheerfulness, “Dhamon and I can always get more.”

Feril looked up, caught his eye, and offered a nod that said more than any words.

It was late afternoon by the time they approached the largest river in the swamp. “The blood of the swamp,” Ragh remembered Sable calling the water. He could hear the foul water sloshing and the buzz of the insects that perpetually made life unbearable around the river. “I hate this damnable, stinking swamp.”

Feril tilted her head back and stretched a hand up to touch a hanging vine. “I find it beautiful, and I find you puzzling. From what Dhamon’s told me, you and he fared well here. Since leaving the swamp and searching for me, you have been tortured by goblins, attacked by dwarves, and nearly squashed by a mountain quake. I’d think you’d be happy to be back in this glorious place. It seems safe by comparison.”

Ragh swatted at a cloud of gnats that had found him. He glowered at her. “In case you didn’t hear me the first hundred times, I don’t like this place, Feril. I don’t like the black dragon that made it, and I don’t like the foul creatures that crawl across the swamp’s earthy bosom.” He touched her on the shoulder and pointed south, past a black willow and to a tributary of the river.