Jean Rabe - The Day of the Tempest

This would be a fair place to live, Dhamon thought to himself. Perhaps he and Feril could find a measure of happiness in a cozy stone cottage in a town like this, he mused—after they made their stand against the dragons. And if they lived through such foolhardiness.

Spaced evenly along the city’s shore and along its southeastern boundary were numerous towers, atop which stood men with spyglasses pressed to their eyes. Some scanned across the water to Southern Ergoth, Frost’s realm. Others looked to the far south where Beryl held sway. So far the White had stayed put on his icy domain, and Beryl’s forest hadn’t grown any farther north in the past decade, hinting that the Green was content to lord over the Qualinesti homeland.

Rig said he’d heard from sailors in the last port that seers here were constantly asked to consult their bones and tea leaves in an effort to learn what the dragons were doing, and that occasionally patrols were sent to Ankatavaka and the forest beyond to learn what the Green was up to. The patrols never went too deep into the forest—at least not the ones that were lucky enough to come back.

Zaradene’s waterfront businesses looked like they were thriving. Most were one- and two-level stone buildings with gaily painted trim and placards advertising the specials of the day. A few were made of wood with thatched roofs, and these appeared to be of newer construction. One sizeable wood building, painted light brown with ivory and pale blue trim, had a large glass window. It caught Dhamon’s eye. He squinted to make out a few dresses on display.

“I bet you’re thinking they’d look pretty on Feril,” Blister said, following Dhamon’s gaze. “But I don’t think she likes long skirts. I could help you pick something out for her. She seems to favor green. Maybe she’d wear a dress if it was green and—”

“I don’t have enough steel left,” he replied. He’d spent most of the coins the mariner gave him on clothes and boots for himself.

“Well, I’ve a few coins, and an old friend’s collection of silver spoons,” she offered. “We could guess at her size and…”

He shook his head.

“So you’re not going into town with me and Rig?”

“Not this time.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re worried about her, I bet.” Blister fussed with her braid. She had on a pair of pale blue gloves this morning that matched her shirt and the trim on her dark blue leggings. She was wearing the gloves because she was going into town and didn’t want strangers staring at her scarred hands. The kender hadn’t been wearing any on the ship, and had explained to everyone at least three times that a vision of Goldmoon made her realize she could move her fingers without pain. “I guess I’d worry too if I was in love with—”

“No reason to worry. Feril can take care of herself.” The voice was Rig Mer-Krel’s. He’d turned the wheel over to one of his mates and had moved silently up behind the pair. He laughed and patted the top of Blister’s head. His eyes narrowed when he looked at Dhamon. “Feril will probably end up taking care of Palin and Usha—and Jasper, too.”

The kender smiled. “You never worry about anything, Rig”

“That’s not true,” he said. The ship eased up to the dock, and he frowned when the hull scraped softly against a piling. “I worry about the Anvil . And I worry about the dragonlance. Dhamon said I could keep it for now, and I went and loaned it to that elf. Gilthanas better bring it back to me—without a scratch on it.”

While Blister and Rig busied themselves in port, Dhamon turned his attention to Sageth. Sitting by the capstan and earnestly consulting his tablet, the old man clucked to himself.

“I’ve decided,” he said when he finally acknowledged Dhamon’s presence.

“Decided what?” Dhamon knelt next to him and tried to make some sense of the scratchings on the clay.

The old man rubbed his bald head and seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he drummed a finger in the center of the tablet. “See, it’s very clear,” he said. “The ancient magic. The best time to destroy the items would be at night— with the one moon in full view, low on the horizon. And in a barren place. The earth could well shake as the deed is done. Don’t want people to get hurt. Or buildings.”

Dhamon followed the man’s ringer across the scratches. He could read well enough, but not whatever language was on the clay. “Why at night? Why does it make a difference?”

“It might not,” the old man tsk-tsked. “But then again it might. Don’t you understand? It’s probably not the night, it’s probably the moon. It was left by the gods—in place of the three we used to have, Lunitari, Nuitari, and Solinari. So there is a bit of god magic in the single moon, as there is still a bit of god magic in Krynn. But until the ancient artifacts are destroyed and their magic released, well… perhaps even the three moons will return. Oh, to bring such magic back to Ansalon.” Sageth pursed his lips, staring into Dhamon’s eyes. “I know you don’t understand all this magic prattle. Most warriors don’t. But your elf lady does. She knows magic. She knows it’s important.”

“I know it’s important,” Dhamon replied testily. “With more magic, the sorcerers would have a better chance against the overlords.” He rubbed his leg, feeling the hardness of the scale beneath his pants and shivering involuntarily.

“So it’s all up to your friends,” Sageth continued. “I certainly hope they’re successful, and can gain the pieces before the dragons can. Now, this medallion we seek, on Schallsea?”

“Goldmoon’s.”

“Yes. Well, it won’t be enough. Must have four, I think. Four should do it. See my notes here? Three might do it, might. But four to be certain. We must be certain because there might not be time for a second attempt.”

“My friends will be successful,” Dhamon said. “Or they will die trying.”

The yellow eyes blinked, then separated from the darkness, edging toward the faint light spilling in through the doorway and revealing the tower’s occupant. An Aurak, one of the rarest and most powerful of the draconians, stood before Palin. The creature was gold, though in the scant light he looked more ochre. He was wingless and had a pronounced, lizardlike snout filled with an abundance of pointed teeth. His taloned hands flexed slowly, and the claws of his feet clicked harshly against the stone floor. Tiny scales covered every inch of him, including his stubby tail, which undulated slowly. Palin guessed the Aurak must be nearly eight feet tall, remarkably large and powerful for a draconian. The creature’s muscles were thick, its chest broad.

The Aurak extended a scaly arm and crooked a long talon at the sorcerer, as if beckoning him,

“I’m not going in there,” Jasper announced, peeking from behind Palin’s leg. The dwarf glanced over his shoulder at the Kagonesti as he contemplated a route of escape.

“Draconians are creatures of evil,” Feril said in a hushed voice. “I think we should—”

“Enter, of course, since we’ve been invited.” The sorcerer glided inside, leaving the door open so Jasper and Feril could follow. “What we’re looking for is somewhere in here. And we have to get it, or Usha is lost.”

The dwarf offered a silent prayer to Reorx, a god favored by dwarves who was long-since absent from Krynn. Then he followed after Palin. Feril was the last to step beyond the doorway.

Inside, where the heady scents of the plants and the earth were subdued, another smell assaulted the trio. The odor of death and the coppery scent of blood hung heavy in the air, even overpowering the musty dampness of the stone and rotting wood. The dwarf’s hair stood up along the back of his neck, and his stubby fingers drifted to the haft of the warhammer hooked in his belt. Feril’s fingers rested on her bag, and the Kagonesti mentally went over the items inside— clay, arrowheads, stones, things she could focus her magic on to use against the scaly creature.