The Eve of the Maelstrom

12 Blue Intrigues

The blue dragon could not smell the giant scorpions, and this bothered him. Gale could hear them with little effort. Their mandibles were clacking together for no apparent reason, their feet skittering over the stone floor of Khellendros’s lair. He could sense the magic in them, hear their heartbeats whenever he concentrated—the identical rhythms never varied.

The sentries obeyed Gale to the letter, giving him no cause to doubt them. But the blind dragon did not like them, and he especially did not like the fact that they were created by Fissure, the huldre.

When Khellendros became sole consort to the reborn Malystryx—the new Takhisis as she dared call herself—when this lair and this realm became Gale’s, the giant scorpions would die. Gale relished this thought, just as he eagerly anticipated banishing the dark faerie. If Khellendros managed to open the portal, the huldre would be left on Krynn—of this Gale had no doubt. But the faerie would not be left in the Northern Wastes. The lesser blue dragon would not tolerate the presence of a creature he could not bring himself to trust. Spawn would guard Gale’s lair, loyal only to him.

The blue dragon stretched out on Khellendros’s desert sand, the scorpions behind him at the lair’s entrance, still clacking and skittering. Four barbarian women stood in front of him. Gale smelled the sweetness of the persistent evening rain, fouled by the scent of the wet animal skins the humans wore. Above all, the dragon smelled their fear. One human had actually soiled herself. Gale smiled grimly. He imagined what they looked like: muscular humans, skin baked from the sun, their hair a mass of tangles. In his mind’s eye, he saw their eyes, wide and staring, afraid to blink or to look away from him. Their legs must be aching, Gale thought smugly. He had not permitted them to sit for hours.

He detested them.

The humans reminded him of Dhamon Grimwulf—the man who had stolen his sight, who in years past tricked the dragon into thinking the pair could be allies. Dhamon had deceived him into believing a human could befriend a dragon.

He hated them with all his soul.

Gale had been busy, raiding the smallest of the barbarian villages that dotted the Northern Wastes. He relied on his hearing to select those individuals with the strongest heartbeats, the youngest, healthiest, and most suitable to become spawn. These humans would make superior spawn to the ones Khellendros had captured. The Storm Over Krynn had decided a female body was necessary for Kitiara. The overlord could transform these women into spawn and select one of them for the ultimate transformation.

Gale intended to pay very close attention. When the Northern Wastes was his, and he was an overlord, he would create his own spawn army.

The blue wished Dhamon Grimwulf were here. What would Dhamon’s fear smell like as he was turned into a spawn, as his human shell melted away to be replaced by scales? But first Gale wished he could blind Dhamon, stealing the most precious of his former partner’s senses.

The rain fell harder as Gale studied the barbarian women. It was coming in driving sheets now. The wind had picked up, too, howling to announce the approach of the blue dragon overlord. Gale imagined the lightning flicker, smelled the trace of heat in the air. He knew almost precisely when the thunder would boom, coaxed by the violent change in the temperature of the air.

The thunder came quicker and louder, and now he could barely hear the flap of the overlord’s wings.

“Khellendros,” Gale said, nodding his head as the blue overlord landed.

The Storm Over Krynn studied the four humans. Their fear had grown measurably since the larger dragon arrived.

“You have done well,” the overlord announced after several moments. “These are fine shells.”

“Fine enough for your Kitiara?”

Khellendros narrowed his eyes, as his gaze drifted from one specimen to the next. Four women, all muscular, young and strong. “The females,” the Storm said. “Prepare them.”

Gale herded the four into the lair, the giant scorpions skittering out of his way. The barbarians’ fear had reached a fever pitch, and the lesser blue dragon found the scent intoxicating.

Khellendros remained just beyond the entrance, concentrating on the storm, demanding the wind keen louder.

These women were the best human subjects he had seen. Kitiara would approve, he decided.

He stared into the driving rain, picturing her again. Blue-scaled armor, cloak falling about her ankles, black curls whipping in the wind, eyes wide and staring into his. He recalled what he felt when he first lost her: immeasurably empty, though in truth no emptier than he felt now. He’d been bitter, and had felt ineffectual, as he had not been able to prevent her death. With her passing, he had lacked the motivation to do anything important—except to keep his pledge to her.

He remembered what he felt like when he searched for her spirit beyond Krynn’s portals. For centuries he had pursued her, though only a few decades passed on Krynn. Toward the end, he gave up hope, resigning himself to living as though incomplete. But as he turned toward Ansalon, passing through the Gray—the realm between realms where faeries lived and men’s spirits drifted—he sensed her anew. Her spirit welcomed his, embracing it. The dragon made it clear he would return for her when he had a proper form. Her spirit seemed pleased.

“Soon,” Khellendros hissed. “The time shall be soon.” He closed his great eyes and felt the rain strike his scales. Energy from the lighting flowed into him.

Malystryx would not understand his ties to this human, he knew. She would be furious to discover that he harbored artifacts he intended to use to regain Kitiara. He had no plans to give the precious items to the Red for her transformation into godhood. Let the other overlords relinquish their treasures.

Malystryx would not understand that he could love a human more than he could possibly love her. The Storm had to admit that Malys’s offer was tempting. To rule Krynn at her side as consort to a dragon goddess would mean untold power. But that power would not fill his emptiness.

“Ah, Kitiara,” Khellendros breathed. An idea tickled the back of his mind. He nurtured it, as his jowls edged upward into a sly grin. “You would have made a better mate than Malys.” He drew a claw through the sand, watched the rain quickly fill the depression. “Perhaps the gods dealt you a cruel hand, Kitiara uth Matar, in making you a human. But perhaps The Storm Over Krynn can deal you a more merciful one.”

He cast his head toward the heavens and opened his maw, feeling the energy inside him build and then erupt into lightning. The sky thundered in response.

“I shall place your spirit in Malys’s form, dear Kit. You shall ascend to godhood and be Krynn’s sole goddess. And I shall rule at your side. Now it is all a matter of timing.”

He turned and slipped into the darkness of his lair.