Jean Rabe - The Lake of Death

Dhamon lowered his head until the barbels that hung from his chin brushed against the ground. He cringed to see Feril wrinkle her nose at his odor. “What about your allies, Feril? Who is helping you fight the knights and the bandits?”

She put on a defiant look. “No one.” After a deep breath, she added, “Nature is helping me, Dhamon. You saw how many knights I managed to take down on my own. I’ve become more proficient with magic since you knew me.”

He opened his great mouth and canted his head to the side. “I shouldn’t have come here, Feril. I should have stayed in the swamp. It’s my home now. I shouldn’t have tried to reach back into the past.” He paused, glancing beyond her to the draconian. “My friend over there wanted to fly for a bit, so I obliged him.”

“How did you find me?”

He drew his head close to his neck and something sparkled in his eyes. “That wasn’t so easy,” he said. “It was mostly Ragh’s doing. Some time ago he was a spy for Sable, and he still has some old contacts in the swamp, including ones who worked for the Knights of Neraka. It took more than a month and the liberal spreading around of steel pieces and pearls that I really had no other use for anyway. Eventually, one of Ragh’s contacts told us that a wild elf was waging war in the Qualinesti forest of Wayreth. The description didn’t closely match, but Ragh wanted badly to explore, and I wanted badly to…”

She raised a hand to the side of her head. “I look different. I have cut my hair,” she said.

“And the tattoos?”

“Well, I live a different life now.” She looked over her shoulder at the sivak, who was trying to look casual while eavesdropping on their conversation. “It seems you have a remarkably different life, too.” Taking a few steps forward, she stretched out her fingers and tickled his lower jaw. “You’re an impressive-looking dragon, Dhamon Grimwulf. I’d almost say the scales suit you.”

For an instant, pain registered in his eyes. “I’ve come to appreciate being powerful, Feril. I enjoy flying. I can see and hear better than any man, and I…”

Ragh cleared his throat. “Oh, don’t listen to him. He’s not the least bit happy, elf. The scales don’t suit him at all.” The sivak came closer to the pair. “Did you bury all of them, Dhamon?”

A nod.

“ All of them?”

“Yes.” There was an irritated rumble beneath the word.

“Damn.” Ragh pounded the ball of his foot against the ground. “I wasn’t thinking, wasn’t thinking at all. Did you…”

Dhamon shook his head. “No. I did not keep their coin purses.”

“Damn. Damn. Damn.” The sivak sidestepped the dragon and squinted back in the direction of the mass grave, seeing little in the growing darkness. “We don’t have a single steel piece left. We didn’t bring enough from your lair. You should have grabbed those purses. Maybe we can still find some of those swords…”

“Let them stay right where they are,” Dhamon said.

“Fine,” Ragh said. “Fine. Fine. Fine. Now we can’t even take the steel and swords we earned.” He walked away, muttering, kicking at stones.

Dhamon focused his immense eyes only on Feril. He shook his head, his shadowy horns rustling the leaves of the branches above him. “I couldn’t stop the transformation, Feril. Not even an old Black Robe sorceress in Shrentak could find a way to keep me human. Not the shadow dragon, not…”

“If it’s magic that made you a dragon…” she began. “Well, now there’s plenty of magic in Krynn again. Perhaps some of that magic can restore you, Dhamon—bring back your humanity.”

For an instant she thought she saw a flicker of hope in the dragon’s midnight eyes, then nothing.

“There isn’t enough magic in the world, Feril.”

She shifted back and forth on the balls of her feet. “Maybe not, but you came looking for me for a reason,” she said, “and I think it was because you think there is a chance. Ragh is right. You are unhappy. You want to be human again.”

“Yes, I wish to be human.”

“I know you, Dhamon. You have some plan, don’t you?”

Ragh had come back, standing silently nearby, listening. He recalled Dhamon studying the crystal ball in his lair, asking it questions and cocking his ear for hours on end.

“Yes,” Dhamon answered, “and I need your help.”

“Why? How can I help you?” She searched hard for the human reflection in the dragon’s immense, stoic eyes but found only darkness. . “You can come with me to Nalis Aren.”

“Just who is that?” Ragh cut in, tugging on Dhamon’s dew claw.

“Not a who,” Feril supplied the answer, as Dhamon lowered his eyes. “Those are Qualinesti words for Lake of Death.”

One hundred and seventeen grape-sized rubies were arrayed on a pedestal beneath a delicate silver candelabrum. The light made the stones shine like drops of fresh blood that had been magically captured in perfect-faceted form.

The light stretched yards away to illuminate a long marble table where diamonds filled rose-colored crystal vases and sapphires were heaped in etched platinum bowls. There were also emeralds, amethysts, jacinths, tourmalines, and more, all of these sorted by size and quality and displayed in polished mahogany chests that rested side-by-side beneath the table.

Against the far wall, gilded urns were crammed with rare black pearls. A small ceramic pot sat on a thin ivory pedestal. There was a silvery liquid inside it—a special presentation from one of the black dragon’s most valuable spies, who promised there would be more goodies to come. Rings and bracelets overflowed an old sea trunk that had been captured from a three-masted merchant ship in the New Sea. Necklaces and gem-encrusted scepters crowned mounds of steel pieces stretching deep into the shadows. There were plenty of gold pieces, too, bearing the faces of famous men from centuries past. The common steel pieces in circulation today served as a carpet beneath all the remarkable treasure.

A massive ebony chair that once must have been used as some ruler’s throne was one of the centerpieces of the chamber. It was intricately carved with images of centaurs and walrus-men and had a thick green satin cushion embroidered with vines and flowers. On either side of it were life-size priceless sculptures of sea elves that had been recovered from the bottom of the Maelstrom.

There was much more strewn around the treasure chamber—decorative suits of armor, shields, and weapons; paintings so numerous they were stacked rows across and a dozen deep; tapestries from the Blood Sea Isles; ancient books mysteriously preserved and precisely alphabetized on cherrywood shelves; numerous crystal balls, magic wands, and attractive enchanted baubles crafted by the most renowned of Krynn’s sorcerers and whose functions had not yet been discovered by their current owner. This was only one of several treasure chambers that was regularly added to and visited by the black dragon.

Sable lounged at the wide end of this underground cavern, staring as the light from the delicate candelabrum flickered and caused the rubies beneath it to sparkle like fat crimson fireflies. The great dragon knew precisely how many steel pieces, gems, and other trinkets were in her favorite lair deep beneath the foul city of Shrentak. She watched with mild interest as more was added to the pile.

A Knight of Neraka commander was directing a quartet of bakali to deposit sacks of steel pieces in the center of the cavern, where they could he inventoried under the overlord’s supervision. More precious stones and ornaments were placed near the coins. The weapons and pieces of plate armor that had been gathered would be left outside until an armorer could be summoned to inspect them and determine what was suitable to add to the hoard and what should be discarded.