Jean Rabe - The Day of the Tempest

“Show him in—and not a word of this to him, to anyone.”

The sorcerer slipped out and hurried away as the big man entered. Gleaming black plate covered his large chest, and a black cloak, the shoulders of which were festooned with medals and bars, hung in thick folds behind him. His steely eyes fixed on Mirielle as he bowed slightly.

“Governor-General, our forces have taken four more ogre villages. We suffered considerable losses during our last advance. The village was large, and they were ready for us. Still, I believe Sanction will be ours before the year is out.”

Mirielle nodded. “Anything else?”

“You asked for a report on our recruits, Governor-General. Youths from cities in Neraka and Teyr are flocking to the Order, and we are recruiting good numbers from Solamnia and Abanasinia. Our measures of persuasion are yielding a good harvest this year. Would that Takhisis were here to note our progress.”

“We are stronger than ever before.” Mirielle rose and glided toward Breen. “Select a dozen of your best men from the city and send them to me. I have an errand of considerable importance.”

Lord Knight Breen cast her a brief, curious look, and opened his mouth to question this mission.

“Dismissed,” Mirielle said.

The dragon was huge* black and featureless, as if it were a silhouette cut from a piece of velvet and hung in the early evening sky. It hovered several yards above the twisted body of a green dragon, studying it. Then, like a child growing bored with a plaything, it banked away until it was but a tiny spot on the horizon. Then the spot vanished altogether from view.

“What do you make of it?” The voice was the Master’s. He stared at the dead green dragon, at the blood that formed a spreading, dark pool about the body, and at the olive-colored scales that were scattered like fallen leaves over the ground.

The Shadow Sorcerer stirred the water in the large bowl in front of him. Instantly the dragon’s corpse and the scene that had played out on the water’s surface disappeared. “In the Dragon Purge, the dragons killed each other and absorbed their essences, grew more powerful. This dragon is most likely doing the same.”

“The dragon is black, but it is not a black dragon,” the Master commented. “It did not breathe acid upon the young green. Its breath was like a suffocating shadow, a cloud of darkness we couldn’t see through. I believe it to be a shadow dragon.”

His colleague nodded. “They are rare on Krynn, but not unheard of. I first sighted it several weeks ago. I watched it kill a young red. I have noticed other dragon corpses—a white and two blacks, and I am wondering if this shadow dragon is responsible.”

“Perhaps, though we will likely never know for certain,” the Master replied. “It has no scales, no talons. It claims no land like the dragon overlords. I would deign to study it longer, as it has captured my curiosity, but I must continue my research on these ancient artifacts—and quickly. I agree with Palin that time is urgent Perhaps I erred by taking even these few moments to spy on this creature.”

“I would like to study this dragon as well, but I must devote my energies to Malystryx. The Red amasses a larger army of goblins each day. However, this shadow dragon seems not to threaten people, and so study of it can be postponed.”

“But not indefinitely”

“No.”

“Then let us agree that when our respective investigations are done, we will give this shadow dragon our attention.” The Master moved away from the bowl and over to a bookshelf that covered an entire wall in the room in which they now stood, a chamber high in the Tower of Wayreth. The shelves stretched from floor to ceiling and were filled with thick tomes and yellowed scrolls. “These are Raistlin’s notes and journals. I have been looking through copies of them, trying to gain information about magic from the Age of Dreams.”

“Raistlin again,” the Shadow Sorcerer whispered. From beneath the mage’s hood, smoldering eyes took in the Master’s every move. “You know your way through the sorcerer’s writings very well.”

The Master stopped before a section of black leather-bound books, turned his back on the Shadow Sorcerer and gazed up at the tomes. “I have read his words often.” He reached up and tugged at a thick volume in the center of a high shelf. It resisted his first few attempts, but finally fell into his hands. “Yes, this is the book.”

“You know certain passages by heart. I have heard you recite them.”

“Some of his works greatly interest me.” The Master held the book in front of him and ran his fingers over the cover, tracing the gold-inlaid letters. He opened it to the middle and studied a passage, his index finger out tracing the lines of text and his lips moving silently as he read the words.

“Yes, I am certain of it.”

“Certain of what?” The Master closed the tome, and turned to face the Shadow Sorcerer.

“You are Raistlin,”

The Master softly laughed. “I knew Raistlin Majere, knew him very well—perhaps better than even his own brother knew him. But I also knew a number of Krynn’s greatest sorcerers. Justarius of the Red Robes, Dalamar, Par-Salian, Rieve, Gadar, Ladonna, and more. Raistlin was perhaps the greatest. You flatter me by your accusations.”

“Do you deny it?”

“If I was Raistlin, what would I be doing in this tower with you and Palin Majere? Raistlin is gone. And for one thing, he always preferred solitude.”

“There is solitude here. And Raistlin Majere would be interested enough in his nephew to—”

“Do I look like Raistlin? I am not so frail as he.”

The Shadow Sorcerer took a step closer. “You cleverly mask your appearance.”

“As you mask yours.” The Master turned back to the shelf and replaced the tome. He selected the one next to it and tugged it down.

Beneath his metallic mask, the Shadow Sorcerer smiled. “I take my leave of you to study the Red Terror—as the kender are calling Malystryx. Alert me if you find something of significance in Raistlin’s notes.” The Shadow Sorcerer glided from the room, quietly adding, “ Your notes, I think, my colleague. You did not deny my charge.”

The Master opened the volume to the last section, searched for a well-remembered heading, and began reading.

The blue dragon plummeted, taking Damon Grimwulf down in its deadly descent. Blood and scales fell, and Dhamon’s sword tumbled quietly tike a silver needle, small and insignificant. Dhamon looked like a discarded doll The storm howled all about, hammering savagely against the plunging bodies and against Feril, who stared helplessly at the grim scene. The dragon and Dhamon struck the take, sending a great shower of water up into the air. The two disappeared below the surface. There were ripples and bubbles at first, signs of life and hope. The Kagonesti’s heart beat wildly in sync with the thunder. “Dhamon!” she cried. But then the bubbles disappeared, and the storm stopped, and she woke up sweating.

The same dream again—night after night. The only time she couldn’t remember having the nightmare was when she was in the desert with Palin and Rig. There’d been so much to do and think about then that when sleep came, it had been from sheer exhaustion.

The Kagonesti lay in her bunk, listening to the waves lap against the hull, the gentle scraping sound the ship was making against the dock, and the gulls crying in the distance. She heard feet slapping against the deck above, someone hi a hurry to go some place. She glanced out the porthole. The sky was rosy, but filled with low, gray clouds. It was nearly dawn. She heard more feet scurrying above.