Jean Rabe - The Day of the Tempest

Malys looked through the man’s eyes now, seeing polished wood beams several feet above him, a swinging wrought iron candle holder, and the top of a bookcase against a far wall. The man was laying on a bunk below the deck of a ship, his bed swaying with the motion of the waves. She had tried to peer through his eyes many times before, but without success. The link was far from perfect; still, with repeated efforts and great patience, she was certain she could make it work. Propped against the wall, at the edge of the man’s vision, was the glaive, its sharp edge beckoning to her in the afternoon light that spilled in through the porthole.

“That weapon will be mine.”

The man closed his eyes, and Malystryx saw darkness. She turned her attention inward, looking into the man’s mind in an attempt to fathom his spirit. What are you about? she entreated. Resting, his mind was not so active, his defenses down. She slipped beyond them.

Dhamon Grimwulf tossed fitfully in his bunk, just as Flint’s Anvil tossed on the frigid seas. In his dreams he wore his Knights of Takhisis mail and stood on a battlefield, fallen enemies all around him. He walked from the field, his feet passing directly through the bodies and floating over the pools of drying blood as if he were as insubstantial as a wraith. The blood couldn’t touch him. Death couldn’t reach him.

The Dhamon-wraith walked toward an old cabin, well tended and nestled against the side of the hill. He glided to the door, which somehow swung open for him, and he spotted a familiar figure inside, a tall, aging Solamnic Knight bent over a bed on which rested a young Knight of Takhisis. Dhamon realized he was staring at himself.

The man Dhamon knew as Sir Geoffrey Quick placed cool cloths on the young knight’s head. He painstakingly gathered a mixture of herbs to make a poultice that he spread on strips of linen and applied to the deep wound in the young knight’s abdomen. Rags dark with blood lay on the floor, staining the polished wood. The thin, quiet Solamnic paid them no heed.

The young Knight of Takhisis wanted to die, prayed not to be healed at the hands of his enemy, concentrated on the pain and beseeched it to take him beyond the man’s control. But the Solamnic was stubborn and refused to give up. The wraith floated closer and watched the older man intently as he changed the bandage. Quick’s long fingers worked deftly. Strands of his dark hair fell forward into his face, and he tucked them behind his ears. His large brown eyes scanned the bandage repeatedly and then he nodded, apparently satisfied with his work.

Sir Geoffrey Quick filled young Dhamon’s mind with rousing tales of the Solamnic Order, of courage and sacrifice, and of noble deeds so unlike those committed by his Takhisis brethren. Most of all, he spoke of simple kindness.

Lies , Malys hissed. The man speaks falsehoods. His words are deceptive .

The Dhamon-wraith shook his insubstantial head, and the dragon’s voice dropped to an unintelligible growl. At the same time, the younger man on the bed tried to ignore the Solamnic’s words, and fought to recite the Blood Oath in his head over and over in order to block out the older knight’s voice. But eventually he listened. And eventually he realized Quick spoke the truth.

Malys felt her link weakening.

The Dhamon-wraith watched his younger self leave the cottage and bury the black armor of his former Order beneath an old oak. The sword given to him by his previous commander was laid there, too. But his past could not be completely buried, his spirit still bore the scars of dozens of battles and he felt the lingering ties of friendship to his blue dragon partner.

The Solamnic gave him another weapon—the first sword the older knight had used in battle—to replace Dhamon’s discarded sword. That precious sword, it was all Dhamon had with which to remember the Solamnic—Geoffrey Quick— who was later killed by Knights of Takhisis.

Dhamon hadn’t been there that day, else he would have given his life defending the man. But he had heard of the man’s fate, and despite his best attempts, he had not been able to discover who killed him.

The years melted, and now Dhamon stood on a peak south of Palanthas. The wraith watched an older version of himself fall into the lake, the precious sword slipping from his fingers even as he slid from Gale’s blood-slick back. He watched himself struggle in the water, sensed himself being dragged under the surface by a massive bronze claw. Feril stopped searching for him along the shore, gave him up for dead, and he imagined her turning to the mariner for comfort.

Then suddenly the water in the lake disappeared, replaced by fire. Dhamon panicked at first, thrashing as he sank down into the flames, gasping for air, again trying to wake up.

Malys concentrated, and the link grew stronger.

Breathe, a voice hissed to him. Breathe in the fire. And suddenly he realized that the flames weren’t burning him; he was no longer drowning. The fire was in fact soothing. Its fiery tendrils wrapped around his arms and legs, teasing his face and nuzzling his chest. The scale on Dhamon’s leg pulsed, and sent waves of calm through his body. The scale quietly throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

The Dhamon-wraith heard faint words. The Peak. Come to me.

“No.” The wraith spoke. “Feril. I must stay with Feril.”

The words dosed the link between Dhamon and the Red. Malystryx snarled as again she saw the streams of lava winding their way down from the peaks of her precious volcanoes. The man’s spirit was strong—stronger than Gistere’s had been, stronger than her other pawns scattered throughout Ansalon.

She could try to impose her will again, she knew, but she didn’t want to push him too much—not yet.

“No longer does someone from the Tower of Wayreth scry upon us, my queen.” The speaker interrupted Malys’s thoughts. A growl started in her throat, but she quickly suppressed it and looked admiringly at the creature that emerged from between two volcanoes. It walked through the lava and across the heated plateau without flinching.

“You have done well, spawn,” Malys hissed.

The Red appreciatively eyed her firstborn. It stood little more than five feet tall, with rippling muscles covered by tiny red scales that glittered in the bright rays of the late afternoon sun. When the creature moved, its legs looked like twin columns of writhing flames. Its hands and feet bore impossibly sharp ruby-colored talons. And its tail, viciously barbed, undulated slowly about its ankles like a hypnotically swaying snake.

The creature’s face was nearly human, but covered with a thick red hide dotted here and there with crimson scales. Its eyes were orange, the shade of glowing coals, and a rough ridge ran above them, lengthening into a spiky growth that started at the top of its shiny pate and continued to the base of its tail. The spawn’s wings swept outward from its back, batlike and as dark as dried blood. They flapped slightly as the creature walked, giving it a buoyancy so that it almost floated toward Malys. The creature did not want its claws to mar its queen’s throne room.

“You have something else for me to do, my queen?”

“The kender,” Malystryx replied. “My informants in the villages say they have found a hiding place within my realm. Find it.”

“Yes, my queen.” The spawn bowed deeply, paying proper homage to its creator and master, then it flapped its wings harder and rose from the plateau, disappearing in the steam that continued to curl upward from Malystryx’s nostrils.

Ulin stretched out on his makeshift bed of hide in the Hall of Lances. It felt good to be out of the cumbersome clothing, and even better to be inside of a building. He was exhausted, but he was having trouble falling asleep.