Jean Rabe - The Day of the Tempest

It was perhaps those thoughts, he told Khellendros, that kept him alive. Gale stayed at the bottom of the lake for hours, the air stored in his great lungs keeping hint from drowning. He had sensed two humans and an elf standing on the shore of the lake, and he hadn’t wanted to crawl out while they were there and he was weak and at their mercy. So he waited until he was sure they were gone, then slowly made his way into the hills around Palanthas.

Gale spent months there, nursing his wounds and recovering his strength, sleeping for several weeks at a time and learning how to exist by his heightened senses of hearing and smell. Even now traces of the battle lingered. His eyes were fixed and pale. A scar stretched nearly two feet along the side of his neck. The cut had been deep, and the wound festered. No scales grew along the wound, and never would again. There were other scars, one near the base of his neck, another on his side where Dhamon had buried his sword up to its hilt and used it as a mountain climber would, lodging a piton in rock to haul himself up the creature’s back.

Khellendros was relieved his lieutenant had survived the ordeal. The dragon was as loyal as any dragon could be, though Khellendros would never completely trust him—or anyone. The Storm Over Krynn had not killed him during the Dragon Purge, and had in fact kept other dragons from killing him, too.

“My purpose now is to serve you, and slay Dhamon Grimwulf,” Gale growled, the deep sounds reverberating off the cavern walls. Sand trickled down through the cracks in the rocks.

“His death shall come in time,” the Storm answered. “For now, I would have you watch my desert I have something to attend to.”

The spot Sageth had selected, a few miles north of the Citadel of Light, had once been the courtyard of a castle. The afternoon sunlight revealed bits of high crenelated walls that girded what was decades ago an octagonal white stone tower. The little ruins that remained hinted that the castle must have been impressive in its time.

Jasper choked back a sob, and inspected the wide bandage that was wrapped around his chest. Somehow, with Feril’s help, he had managed to heal himself—though he would never be quite the same. Walking was now a chore. His lung was punctured, and his chest ached.

“I should’ve saved her … like she saved me.” His frame shuddered as he thought about the healer, whose body was wrapped in a shroud in a small dome in the Citadel of Light. She would be buried as soon as Palin and Usha arrived.

Rig stood near the dwarf, looking out to sea. “We’re stranded,* he said. “Dhamon sank the ship.” He was responsible for Shaon dying, he added to himself. He was responsible for ail the bad things that had happened since they joined forces with him. “I intend to kill him.”

“You don’t mean that,” Feril said.

“I think he does mean that,” Jasper said. “And if I’m feeling up to it, IT! help him.”

The Kagonesti walked toward the pair. “I want to know what happened, what came over him. I believe it was that dragon scale. Something possessed him.”

“Maybe it was nothing,” the mariner replied. His dark eyes flashed at her. “Maybe he was just biding his time, playing us all for fools and waiting for the best tune to strike. Maybe he even orchestrated the blue dragon’s attack on die Anvil , purposefully caused Shaon’s death. If that blue dragon’s alive somewhere, you’ll know for certain that Dhamon was in cahoots with it, that this was all part of some grand stinking scheme of his. If Palin doesn’t come soon, I’m leaving. Til find passage in the port of Schallsea. It might take a while, but I’ll hunt him down. That glaive can’t cleave weapons Dhamon doesn’t see coming.” For emphasis, he rubbed the pommel of a dagger that stuck out of his boot

The Kagonesti was silent, listening to Rig’s tirade and watching Groller and Sageth pace off the clearing. Fiona Quinti stood apart from everyone else, and looked around cautiously, occasionally meeting the Kagonesti’s gaze.

Feril felt a tear edge over her left cheek.

“Lady elf,” Sageth called, as he checked his tablet and hobbled toward her. “We can’t wait much longer for Palin Majere. Should have destroyed the artifacts last night—despite the havoc in the Citadel. The moon was low, perfect. We must do it tonight. We’ll not have a better time for at least a month.”

“We don’t have enough artifacts,” she answered.

“But we do.” His rheumy eyes sparkled. “We’ve Huma’s lance, and the Fist of E’li you retrieved from the forest” He nodded toward the leather sack at the dwarf’s feet. “Then there’s Goldmoon’s two medallions.”

“Two?” the Kagonesti asked.

“That’s right.” Blister came forward. “The one she gave me, and the one that’s still around her neck. I can go get it if you want.”

“No,” Jasper answered. “Let me.” It was an effort to stand, an effort to take a few steps. And he knew it would be a great chore to walk the few miles to the Citadel and climb the steps again. But he wasn’t going to have anyone else remove Gold-moon’s medallion. “I’ll be back here by nightfall.”

The half-ogre spotted Blister fingering the medallion around her neck and guessed what they were talking about. He retrieved Huma’s lance, and padded toward them, Fury at his heels.

“So, you see, we have four after all,” Sageth concluded. “Tonight, when the last bit of sunlight fades, we shall change the course of Ansalon s future.”

Palin had spent several days meditating alone at the Tower of Wayreth, while the Master concluded his research on the ancient artifacts. The Shadow Sorcerer was helping him, temporarily putting aside his studies of the overlords. In that time, Palin and Usha had tried to discern how the dragons could bring back Takhisis. His colleagues were skeptical. If the dark goddess could return, would the other gods follow?

Usha urged Palin to focus on the matter at hand, one even more pressing than speculating on the return of Takhisis.

“Dhamon and the others,” she began, “they’re waiting for us—and the ring you said you could get”

Palin climbed the tower steps. The Master was in the room where all of Par-Salian’s journals were stored. He was hunched over a thick volume written by the former head of the Conclave of Wizards. The book was bound in dark green lizard hide. Palin cleared his throat to get the man’s attention.

“It could work,” the Master said. The wind was blowing strongly outside the room’s lone window, and Palin had to strain to hear his colleague’s unusually soft voice. “Magic from the Age of Dreams was created by the gods, as is all magic. Destroying the items should release an incredible amount of energy.”

“Enough to permeate Krynn?”

“I do not know if it will be enough to heighten the level of magic,” the Master continued, “but according to Par-Salian’s journals on the Age of Dreams, the artifacts are so saturated with arcane power that they should be able to at least increase the general level of magic in a good-sized area.”

“The Shadow Sorcerer claims you are Raistlin.”

The Master pushed himself away from the table and faced Palin. “So you believe the Shadow Sorcerer’s assumption? Just because I am so familiar with your uncle’s works? And just because there is something familiar about my presence?”

“You do seem familiar.”

Beneath his hood, he smiled, but offered no reply.

“If you’re not Raistlin, then just who are you?”

“It took you all these years to ask me,” the Master said.

“I respected your privacy, the secrecy you seemed to enjoy.”