Anthology - The Realms of the Dragons II

Burlmarr's head seemed to explode and the room spun like a child's toy. He crashed to the floor wretching.

"Burlmarr? Master Thintagast, something's wrong with Burlmarr!"

The voice sounded like Ambrythynn's, but it was very distant, and getting farther away. The pain in Burlmarr's head was unrelenting, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

When Burlmarr awoke, he found himself lying in a cot with Goodwife Thintagast seated at his side. Master Thintagast leaned over her shoulder, and all the apprentices crowded around behind him.

"Don't try to get up yet," Goodwife Thintagast said, gently pushing Burlmarr back down as he atempted to sit up. "You had a nasty fall, there. Fortunately, it seems your head was just as hard as the floor."

Several snickers escaped from some of the apprentices.

"All right, everyone back to the shop," Master Thintagast prodded. "Looks like young Burlmarr is going to live. As for you," he said turning back to Burlmarr, "why don't you head home for the day."

He smiled warmly and nodded before following the other apprentices.

Once he had proved to Goodwife Thintagast that he could stand on his own two feet for more than a few seconds, Burlmarr was sent on his way. He took the walk home slowly, stopping to sit when he felt out of breath or light-headed. It gave him time to consider what was happening to him.

The episodes had started almost a month ago, with increasing frequency as his fortieth birthday approached. For a moment, he wondered if it was some sort of family disease or curse, but all the relatives he could think of had lived long, healthy lives. He decided he would ask his mother, though, just to be sure.

As he neared his home, Burlmarr realized he'd never before fallen sick during the day. Most of the time it was at night, following particularly vivid dreams. Dreams about a dragon. About being a dragon.

Palarandusk hovered over the village green in the semisolid, invisible form that had kept him alive and active well past the years even dragons considered the twilight of life. That was, in part, a result of the many experiments he had been subjected to while enslaved to the Netherese sorcerer Mileirigath. But even that powerful magic was beginning to fail and he had, as of yet, been unable to recreate the combination of spells that originally altered him, his vast knowledge of the arcane, and the many tomes he had taken with him when the Empire of Netheril fell notwithstanding. Some stop-gap measures had been discovered, but most of those never worked more than once. One or two even had unexpected side effects. Well aware that any day may be his last, he remained diligent in his guardianship of the gnomes of Ieirithymbul.

The caravan had just arrived and the gnomes were gathering to help unload the provisions brought from Leilon. He was glad to see that everyone had made it back safely, though he regretted not having been able to escort them home. Unfortunately, some aggressive Forgebar dwarves had needed persuading that their intentions for Ieirithymbul and its mines were misguided. It would take the dwarves months to recover and find their way back to the surface.

By the time he made it back to the caravan, they were only a day out from the village. So Palarandusk returned to drift amongst his beloved children, eavesdropping on their plans, their dreams, and their quarrels. It made the sacrifices worthwhile to think he played a part in shaping their lives. Protecting the little village may not be as glorious as his days of defending Neverwinter, but the intimacy he had with the gnomes of Ieirithymbul was much more satisfying. He knew their names, watched many grow up, wept for their losses, and celebrated their successes alongside them.

It was the celebrations and feasts that he enjoyed the most. During those times, the normally taciturn gnomes opened themselves up to reveal their zest for life, and Palarandusk would bask in the energy like a lizard on a rock at highsun. For that reason, he was looking forward to the celebration that would take place the following night. He had listened in on the elders' plans. It would be a typical feast, like all the past ones the gnomes threw when the last caravan returned before the snows blocked the passes, but Palarandusk would enjoy himself no less. There would be plenty to see.

Burlmarr sat at the edge of the green, watching the dancers spin around the crackling bonfire in the center of the celebration area. He felt dizzy and flushed, though he hadn't touched a drop of the ale provided by Master Brimmloch for the festivities. It was likely the sickness. He had gotten his hopes up that he could make it through the party-there had been no episodes the day before-but he should have known better. He lowered his head into his hands, his temples throbbing. Perhaps it was time to go home.

He stood up, and suddenly he could see the entire village green, but from above, as though he was a bird flying overhead in the night sky. The sudden change in perspective overwhelmed Burlmarr and he lurched forward, stumbling a few steps before losing his balance and plopping to the ground.

Burlmarr squeezed his eyes shut. He could still see the green from above, but without the conflicting information from his own vantage, the vertigo quickly passed. He remained seated, however, rooted to the spot by fear and uncertainty.

What was happening to him? It was almost as if he were seeing through someone else's eyes.

In his mind, he watched as those eyes drifted across the green, pausing occasionally to focus on a pair dancing, or some animated discussion that Burlmarr couldn't hear. Then he watched as the eyes got closer and closer to a young gnome huddled on the ground, his hands covering his face. Burlmarr moved his hand to reach an itch, and the gnome in his mind's eye did the same.

Burlmarr gasped. The eyes were looking right at him. He was watching himself!

Struck by an impulse, Burlmarr rose unsteadily to his feet and swept his arm out in front and above him. He touched nothing, but the motion of his arm slowed momentarily at the arc of its swing, as though the air in that area was congealing. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he thought he heard someone grunt. Burlmarr sat back down, trembling.

"Who's there?"

"Can you see me, little one?" The question whispered in his ear like a gentle rumble.

"N-no. But I can see me. I mean, even though I have my eyes closed, I can still see, but it's like I'm seeing what somebody else sees." Excitement and terror had taken hold of Burlmarr's voice. The words rushed out like the waters of a swollen river over its banks. "Except now I'm not only seeing things, but I'm hearing voices, too. I'm starting to think I may be drunk, even though I didn't have any ale. Or maybe this is a fever dream. I've been really sick lately."

"No, little one, you are neither intoxicated nor ill. I can assure you that I am very real, but this would not be the appropriate place to prove that. Can you still see what I am seeing?"

Burlmarr nodded as the view shifted to look away from the green and out into the night.

"Good. Use my eyes to follow me. I would like to talk with you for a bit and learn more."

In his mind, Burlmarr moved between buildings, making his way toward the edge of the village, but he hadn't taken a step. The excitement that had been pumping through Burlmarr's veins suddenly crashed against a dam of caution. What was he doing, prepared to wander out of the village in the middle of the night after some disembodied voice? What if the voice belonged to some creature that was trying to lure him away so it could feast on his heart?

But Burlmarr knew it was no soul-sucking, flesh-eating monster he was being asked to follow. No, the whole thing was too much like his dreams. He didn't know how, but he was sure he was seeing through the eyes of a dragon. And in the back of his mind, the childhood stories the village elders told whispered to him a hope of who that dragon might be.