The Eve of the Maelstrom

13 Pitfalls and Revelations

Jasper was tired, his feet were sore, his stomach growling, and he was in desperate need of a bath. But he didn’t complain—at least not so anyone could hear him. The boar in the village would have been delicious, he knew, and staying to help eat it wouldn’t have slowed them down all that much. It would have let him spend a few more hours with Garta Stonejaw—that was the name of the village leader. It had been more than a year since he’d spent any time with another dwarf.

The dwarf ran his stubby fingers over the limestone walls. He liked the feel of the rock; he always had. As a youth he had learned to appreciate stone when he visited Thorbardin. He liked the smell of it.

He moved through the passage slowly, in part because he was enjoying his surroundings, but mostly because he was fatigued. He knew he probably should have rested with the others near the cave entrance; it would have been the sensible thing to do. But this passage was... inviting.

Behind him, he heard the crunch of pebbles under Groller’s heavy boots. From somewhere overhead came the squeals of cave bats. They were music to his ears. It had been far too long since he was inside the earth. He sorely missed those trips to Thorbardin.

Fury was nearby, and the dwarf heard the wolf softly panting. Jasper hadn’t asked Groller and Fury to come, though he hadn’t objected when they followed. After that incident with Feril and the snake, the dwarf suspected, the half-ogre didn’t want anyone wandering off alone.

The passage narrowed and twisted downward. They were now so far from the entrance that no light reached them. The dwarf’s eyes picked through the blackness. He glanced over his shoulder. Groller was feeling his way, his long fingers running along the right-hand wall. His left hand dangled down to brush Fury’s head.

Water ran in thin rivulets down the wall, hinting there was a mountain stream somewhere above them. Jasper brought the water to his lips and smiled. It tasted sweet. “We’ll not go too much farther,” the dwarf said to himself. “Just around this corner.” His hands stretched out to touch the rock, which was much smoother here. Judging by the way the passage twisted and dipped, he guessed it had been formed long ago by an underground river.

“Lifetimes ago,” he whispered. “Maybe before the dragons. I wonder how far down this tunnel goes? We should go back. Yes, we should go back. Wait. What’s this?”

The passage forked, one side heading steeply upward and drastically narrowing, the other continuing to spiral down. The passage walls were shot through with minerals. Jasper noted the marks of picks along the wall. So this passage was mined, he thought. Maybe mined by dwarves. I wonder when.

A layer of slate cut through the rock. The dwarf chipped a piece away with his thumb and stuck the rock in his mouth to suck on.

“Just a little farther,” Jasper said to Groller, tugging on the half-ogre’s ragged tunic to let him know which direction he intended to take.

“You’re going too fur,” Groller said.

The dwarf felt for Groller’s hands. He cupped them and brought them together in front of the half-ogre, then slowly drew them apart. It was the gesture Groller had taught him for more. Then he drew Groller’s hands close together, the sign for small.

“Just a little more,” Jasper said to himself.

Groller got the idea. “Not much mer, Jaz-pear. Furl be worried.”

The dwarf moved ahead, prodding here and there with his fingers, trying to determine how long ago this passage was worked. “Hmm. The floor is slate here. Smooth. Gotta watch my step. A little slippery.” He hoped Groller could tell that he was being more cautious. He reached to his belt, where the leather sack containing the Fist of E’li dangled. He didn’t want the sack to come loose.

“No, no. We won’t go too much farther. Just a little bit, a few more feet. Rig’ll probably be worried, too. Just down this corridor, around this corner, and...” He heard the crack of the stone beneath his feet, then felt himself falling.

He let out a shout of surprise, lost on Groller. The wolf howled as Jasper fell. The dwarf’s arms and legs churned, his fingers struck rock, and his knees were badly scraped. He shifted himself and dropped his right hand to his waist, holding the sack tight.

Then he slammed into a small shelf and lay still. He tried to stand, but sharp pains shot upward from his right leg. “Broken,” he muttered. He ran his fingers along the wall, then started crawling. How far did I fall? he wondered. His head had begun to throb, too. Gotta find a way back, he thought. Then, once again, he felt the ground give way.

He fell, bouncing against the walls, and then striking the hard floor many feet below. Mercifully he lost consciousness.

Above, Groller had seen Jasper disappear. The wolf brushed by the half-ogre and peered over the ledge.

“Jaz-pear!” Groller called. “Jaz-pear!” He reached down to Fury, feeling for the wolf’s head. “Jaz-pear!” Maybe Jasper couldn’t talk, Groller thought. Maybe Jasper had hurt himself. “Fuhree. Find Jaz-pear.”

Groller nudged the wolf forward and reached a hand up to either side of the tunnel, groping his way along. The half-ogre dropped to his knees and felt with his hands. He cursed himself for not arguing with the dwarf. Jasper was weak from the blow Dhamon had dealt him, tired from climbing the mountain. He should have rested, Groller thought. He’s probably passed out from exhaustion.

Instead of the dwarf, however, Groller found a jagged hole in the floor. “Jaz-pear!” he called. The wolf pawed nervously at the edge of the hole.

“Jaz-pear fell,” Groller said. He glanced over his shoulder, back the way they had come, debating whether he should retrace his steps and get the others to help.

But Jasper and he had been walking for quite some time and had covered a good bit of distance. If the dwarf was hurt—if he wasn’t already dead—going back might lose precious minutes. Groller couldn’t risk it.

“Fuhree! Go ged Rig!” Groller called. The wolf retreated down the tunnel, while Groller tested the edges of the hole. He found a secure hold where the slate was firm and lowered himself over the side. He swung his feet around. Nothing to stand on immediately below. He swung his legs in widening circles until they connected with something solid several feet away: another rock wall. Keeping one hand firmly on the ledge above, he began to feel about in the chamber below for another hold.

His fingers wedged themselves into a crack. Then he released his hand on the ledge above and repeated the process, finding cracks and working himself downward as a spider might. At last, his feet brushed against something to stand on, a narrow horizontal ledge that seemed sturdy enough to support his considerable weight.

Jasper must have fallen straight down, Groller guessed. And that’s where the half-ogre was going, too, hand over hand, cautiously but at a steady pace. He suspected he must have descended at least ten feet by the time his groping hands found a wide crack in the wall. He braced himself against the sides and moved farther down.

It was eerie, seeing nothing, unable to hear anything, unable to tell for certain what distance he had descended. All he could smell was musty air and something foul—bat droppings he guessed, when his fingers encountered a sticky mass on an outcropping.

Groller found another ledge and paused a moment to catch his breath. His aching fingers were scratched and bleeding from the rocks. He glanced around, seeing nothing except darkness. Nothing but an eternal sheet of gray. Nothing but... his eyes peered down and saw a bit of lighter gray. “Jaz-pear?” The light gray area didn’t move.

The ledge widened, angling down after a while, and he took this course. It seemed to drop steeply now, going right toward where he wanted to go. He hurried, moving quickly, almost falling a few times. His feet scrabbled across loose rock, and he fought to keep his balance.

He was getting closer now. Just another moment and then... The ledge beneath the half-ogre gave out and he fell. He bumped repeatedly against the cavern wall. The rock scratched his face and knees and arms, as he flailed madly to find a hold. From out of nowhere a spike of rock struck his chest.

Groller groaned and felt a greater impact: the floor of the cavern. His head struck hard, and the dark gray all around him turned to black.

The half-ogre stood in a farming village in Kern, not far from the shores of the Blood Sea. His wife was by his side, a plain-looking human woman to whom he was passionately devoted. He held her small hands in his large, calloused ones and looked over her shoulder toward their home, made of stone and thatch. They’d recently built it themselves, built it in the shade of a pair of large oaks. There was a vegetable garden behind the home, and by craning his neck, Groller could see the crops coming up—beans, carrots, and a row of turnips. Their daughter was playing at the side of the home, chattering to a cloth doll and straightening its flower-dotted dress. Groller intended to build an addition to the home, now that his wife was pregnant with their second child. The baby would be a boy, he hoped; someone to carry on the name of Dagmar.

Groller was accepted in this village—more than accepted, he was considered a vital part of the community. He was strong and able to help with the toughest of tasks. Amiable and caring, he was liked by everyone. The village suited him, and he was happy.

He was working in the garden late one morning when the green dragon came. The beast skimmed twice over the village, watching as the people shouted and ran for cover, like scurrying ants. Then the beast banked away, and Groller prayed it was gone, that it had found nothing to interest it in this small place. He grabbed his hoe and headed toward the house, where his wife and daughter were.

But the dragon hadn’t left. It was merely biding its time, selecting the best vantage for its attack. It returned just as Groller reached the front door, flying low, jaws open, breathing a cloud of noxious sticky liquid that coated everything.

Those people still outside who were caught in the cloud began screaming. They grabbed their faces and pitched forward, twisting on the ground. Groller yelled to his wife and daughter to stay inside, and he darted out into the center of the village, hoe held high.

The dragon landed, its tail lashing out at the smallest homes, the ones made only of wood. Its wings whipped up the air and blew the thatch off buildings. Several people were snatched up in the creature’s claws or smothered by its noxious, lethal breath.

The screams filled Groller’s senses. They wouldn’t stop; they rose to a fever pitch as the dragon continued its terrible assault. The half-ogre watched his friends die. He swung his hoe at the dragon, but it bounced off the thick green scales. The dragon glanced amusedly at him; or perhaps it was looking beyond him, not seeing him at all. Then it pushed off from the ground. The air from its wings knocked Groller over as well as the handful of others who’d dared to make a stand.

The dragon flew from one home to the next, crushing each building and pulling out the people. It ate most, swallowing them whole. Others it simply killed and tossed aside.

“Maethrel!” Groller shouted. His wife was in the doorway. Then suddenly there was no doorway, no home. The dragon had landed atop it, turning it to rubble, then vaulted away to demolish another building.

Groller’s legs pumped over the ground, which was still sticky from the green dragon’s caustic breath. His hands tore at the thatch and stones until his fingers were bloody from the effort, until they located Maethrel. She was dead, crushed. Groller’s daughter too was slain.

Tears streamed down the half-ogre’s face, and he screamed in sadness and rage. His screams mixed with the cries of those few still alive. Only half-aware of his actions, he grabbed his hoe and ran toward the dragon, crying with anger, trying to get the dragon’s attention. “Fight me!” he yelled. But the dragon seemed uninterested. It was tearing at the building that used to be the village hall.

The air was saturated with the cries of the dying, the screams of the few survivors. The cries rose louder than the dragon’s snarls, than the whoosh of its horrible breath. They were all Groller heard.

“Make the noise stop,” Groller prayed as he raced toward the dragon. “Please make the screams stop.”

He was only a few yards away from the dragon when it lifted from the ground again and banked toward the east. It flew out over the Blood Sea, finished with the village. All around Groller, the moans continued.

He fell to his knees, dropping the hoe and cupping his bloody hands over his ears. “Please make it stop.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a tiny man, gnome-sized and golden, with golden eyes. The man was watching him. Then the creature nodded to him, and suddenly the screaming stopped.

Groller looked around. The little gold man was gone, as were all the noises. He stumbled back toward his ruined home, glancing at the survivors, wondering why a handful had been spared. They were talking to him, yelling at him perhaps. He saw their mouths move, tears streaming from their eyes, but he could no longer hear them.

He couldn’t hear anything.

“Maethrel,” he cried. He couldn’t even hear his own words. He sat beside her, placing his bloody hand over her heart, and wept.

He buried his wife and daughter that night and slept by their graves.

He awoke to the sensation of something rough and wet running across his cheek. He lay on his back, blinking. He thought he saw the small gold-skinned man again. The one with the golden eyes. He blinked again, and reached his fingers up, entwining them in Fury’s long red hair. No little man. Only the wolf. Somehow the wolf was with him. Somehow the beast had found a way down into the cavern. Fury continued to lap at Groller’s face.

“Rig?” Groller asked, hoping the wolf had somehow brought the mariner down too. “Furl? Fee-oh-na?”

Groller tried to push himself up, but his legs wouldn’t move and his waist wouldn’t bend. Panic rose in his chest. He couldn’t feel his legs. He struggled to move his arms, his long fingers prodding the back of his head. Blood, and a growing bump. He gingerly felt the rest of his body. His chest felt on fire and his arms and head ached. He touched his thighs. His sensitive fingertips registered the feel of the fabric, the warm wetness of the blood, the give of the flesh. But his legs felt nothing.

“Fuhree?”

Groller turned his head this way and that, trying to see through the darkness. Where were Rig and Feril? He glanced about again, his eyes coming to rest on the lumpy form of the dwarf. “Jaz-pear!” Groller called. “Jaz-pear!” Shouting hurt his chest.

Groller couldn’t tell if the dwarf was alive. The grayness was unmoving. His own chest hurt, and breathing was painful. “Maethrel,” Groller breathed. Perhaps he would see his wife again when he died. That would not be so bad. But he didn’t want to die yet. Rig and Palin needed his help against the dragons. “Jaz-pear!”

Jasper heard his name. It was a whisper, hard to make out, indistinct. Goldmoon? he thought. It sounded as if she were calling to him from a distance. It was as if he was on the Walk on Schallsea Island and she was in the Citadel of Light, calling him to come to another lesson. Her body was in the Citadel of Light, he knew, in a crystal coffin that magically preserved her so the mystic missionaries could travel to the island and bid their final farewells.

“Jasper,” he thought he heard Goldmoon call again. If it is her, he thought, I’m dead.

“Jasper.” Definitely Goldmoon’s voice, he decided. The dwarf searched for her face, but all he could see was the darkness. “Jasper. Have faith.”

He imagined her, full of life, gold hair tumbling to her shoulders and spilling down her back. Her eyes were pensive and expressive. When he’d given serious thought to going to Thorbardin before the dwarves sealed the kingdom, those eyes had talked him out of it. Goldmoon wanted him to stay with her, to learn more of the healing arts and of mysticism. He hadn’t been able to say no to those eyes.

The shifting bands of gray became paler, and tendrils of hair framed a smooth face. “Goldmoon,” Jasper whispered. “It is you.”

“Jaz-pear!”

The dwarf’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked, focused on a lighter patch close to the floor of the cave. No Goldmoon. Only his imagination.

“Jaz-pear!”

“Groller?”

The half-ogre saw Jasper move. “Jaz-pear! Wuz fraid you dead.”

“I thought I was too, my friend. In fact.. Jasper let his words trail off. “I might as well be talking to myself. You can’t hear me. Ouch!” The dwarf tried to pull himself closer to Groller, but his broken leg hurt too much. He saw the half-ogre lying next to him, a trickle of blood on his forehead. Groller must have fallen, too. “We’ll wait for Rig,” the dwarf decided. “Rig’ll miss us, eventually find us. He’ll get us out of here.”

“Jaz-pear. Hurd bad.”

Yes, I am, the dwarf answered to himself. My leg’s broken. I’m one big bruise. I’m surprised I’m alive.

“Jaz-pear. I cand feel by legs. Cand move.”

The dwarf cursed himself for not thinking first of Groller. Goldmoon would have never thought of herself first.

He gritted his teeth and inched forward, relying on his good leg. The floor was slick with guano. He gasped. The air was foul, stale and heavy. The dwarf gagged on the scent, felt what little he’d eaten today rise into his throat.

“Almost there,” he said. “A few more yards.” Might as well be miles, he thought. And once I get to Groller—if I can get to Groller—I won’t be able to do anything for him. “Rig! Feril! Fiona!” the dwarf bellowed. He heard his voice echo off the walls, paused and listened for a response. After several heartbeats the echos died. The dwarf sighed and fought to blot out the pain in his leg and chest.

He wasn’t sure how long it took him to reach Groller, maybe several minutes, though it felt like hours. His chest burned from his fall and from the exertion.

“Jaz-pear,” the half-ogre said when he felt the dwarf’s stubby fingers. “Jaz-pear all ride?”

Jasper’s fingers found Groller’s hand. “No,” the dwarf coughed. “I’m not all right.” The dwarf grimaced. He coughed again and tasted blood in his mouth, a bad sign. Perhaps his good lung had been punctured as well.

Groller peered through the darkness, making out the dwarf’s face. “Jaz-pear, fix by legs.”

The dwarf shook his head. My faith isn’t so strong anymore, my friend, he said to himself. He knew the words were lost on Groller. I couldn’t heal Goldmoon. I couldn’t even heal myself after Dhamon struck me. The mystics at the Citadel couldn’t heal me either—my lack of faith prevented them. I can’t heal. We’ll have to wait for Rig.

“Jaz-pear, fix,” Groller repeated. “Fix by legs.”

The dwarf sighed and began to carefully prod Groller.

“Feel dat,” the half-ogre said. “Hurts bad. Real bad. Dat. Feel dat.”

Groller’s words stopped when the dwarf put pressure on his hips. Back’s broken, Jasper sadly noted. And several ribs. The half-ogre wouldn’t be leaving the cave. Even if Rig finds us, the dwarf thought, he’s not going to be able to get Groller out of here alive.

The dwarf coughed again, feeling blood trickle over his bottom lip. “Rig might not get here in time anyway,” he whispered. “I think I’m dying. But I have the Fist. Rig and Palin need the Fist.”

“Fix by legs,” Groller encouraged.

Jasper closed his eyes. The dwarf had only a little energy left, and it was quickly dissipating. The fall had left him all but incapacitated. The blood felt thick in his mouth.

“Code,” Groller whispered. “So code down here.” The half-ogre was shivering.

“Concentrate,” Jasper admonished himself. “Not for me. For Groller. Reorx, Mishakal, please.” He tried to focus, as Goldmoon had taught him, reaching inside himself for the inner strength she claimed everyone possessed. She had taught him how to apply that strength, to call it up and channel it into healing magic and other mystical spells. He looked for it now. But he couldn’t find it. The energy was gone.

“Jasper.” It was Goldmoon’s voice, the dwarf was certain of it.

“Goldmoon?”

“You must have faith.”

The dwarf smiled weakly. Her voice was real—he hadn’t imagined hearing her. Just as she, no doubt had really been speaking to Riverwind for all those years when she stood by the window in the Citadel of Light and carried on what the dwarf had thought was a one-sided conversation. Goldmoon hadn’t realized anyone was listening to her. Probably anyone else would have considered her mad. But Jasper had listened and wondered.

Maybe I’m the one who is mad now, he mused, to hear voices, to think I might be able to heal. But I have to try.

“Have faith.”

“Goldmoon.” He found it then, that tiny spark of inner strength buried deep inside him. It felt warm, and the more he concentrated on it, the brighter the spark glowed. “Faith,” he whispered. “Goldmoon, I must have faith again.”

A wave of warmth radiated down his arms to his fingers. He placed his hands on the half-ogre’s waist, working around until he touched the small of his back. The warmth felt invigorating. His fingers traveled up to Groller’s chest, to his neck and down his arms.

Jasper felt the half-ogre moving and used his hands to still him. “I’m not finished yet,” the dwarf said. His fingers found the gashes and bump on Groller’s head. He touched cuts and scrapes, raised spots where bruises were forming. Then his hands ranged down the half-ogre’s legs, which were twisted at odd angles.

“Shouldn’t have followed me in the cave,” Jasper grunted. The heat from his hands radiated out, mending the broken bones.

“Jaz-pear, you’re good healer,” Groller stated. “Feel by legs now. Can move now.”

Jasper’s hands tried to hold the half-ogre down, but Groller was too strong, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

“Jaz-pear, you’re hurd,” he observed.

“Have faith,” Goldmoon’s spirit whispered.

“Jaz-pear, fix y’zelf.”

“I’m trying, my friend.” The dwarf continued to concentrate on the warmth, coaxing it to flow. “Trying.”

“Faith,” Goldmoon repeated.

The warmth lingered in his chest and in his leg, spreading to his own back and dancing along his ribs. He felt as if he was floating, growing stronger. And yet at the same time he knew he was becoming weaker, as the magic sapped the last bit of his physical strength. His leg and chest tingled. The sensation reminded him of his studies with Goldmoon, and previous occasions in which he had healed himself from minor tumbles.

“Your faith is strong.”

From nearby he heard Groller’s nasal words. “Jaz-pear, be bedder.” High above, he heard the soft squeals of bats, as he heard his heart beating stronger and heard Goldmoon’s voice drift to nothingness.

“Tired,” he murmured, as the warmth receded, the spell ended, and the last of his energy was sapped.

“Jaz-pear, you’re good healer,” Groller repeated.

The dwarf felt himself being lifted. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “I can walk.” The dwarf’s fingers fluttered to the sack at his belt, as Groller shufled along, carrying him.

Somehow the half-ogre found his way to a wall. Groller had looked around for the wolf, and found no trace. He wanted to know how Fury had gotten down here—no doubt it was an easier path than he had taken. Where had the wolf gone?

Groller tucked Jasper under one arm, felt along the wall, and began to use the other arm to climb.

Where were Rig and Feril, Fiona? Groller wondered. He’d sent the wolf to get them. Can’t wait for them, he decided. Can’t stay down here. Don’t want to stay down here. It stinks.

Groller twisted his fingers and feet into cracks, steadied himself, and then reached up with his hand. The going was slow, but Groller was persistent. He slid a few times but made progress and eventually reached a support ledge.

This one was narrower than the one he’d found when he was trying to climb down to Jasper. Groller inched his way along, wedging the fingers of his free hand into cracks here and there. Jasper tugged on the half-ogre’s tunic. They were near the opening through which the dwarf had fallen. Groller squinted in the darkness. Jasper patted his shoulder to let him know they had made it.

Now came the hard part. The half-ogre was going to need both of his hands. He balanced himself carefully on the ledge. “Jaz-pear, hode tight,” he said. The dwarf snaked his arms around Groller’s neck. The half-ogre found another handhold.

He climbed like a spider again, hanging from a rocky wall that tilted at a slant toward the opening. Groller’s fingers ached from the rocks, and from supporting the weight of the dwarf. He scrabbled for holds and swung his legs about desperately.

The frantic movements upset the bats nearby. Their squeals filled the air. Groller couldn’t hear the bats, but he felt them. The air was stirred by their wings, and a few of them struck him with their movements.

Finally Groller’s legs found a deep crack, and he was able to continue his climb. A few moments more, and the two were lying in the tunnel.

Jasper was the first to move, but then Groller took the lead again, using his sore fingers to guide them along the passage. He spotted Fury ahead of him in the tunnel. The beast pawed at the ground and then whirled away. The wolf was apparently alone and had not brought Rig or Feril with him. Perhaps something had happened to them, Groller thought. The half-ogre hurried along, twisting his head to make sure Jasper was following.

The passage coiled like a snake, just as he remembered, and he saw the wolf pawing at the ground again. Groller started to run. Fury turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

Groller sped around an outcropping and into the mouth of the cave. It was dark. For a moment the half-ogre suspected he’d made a wrong turn and found a different chamber. But then his eyes saw gray patches.

Jasper practically barreled into him, as the dwarf rounded the corner.

“Several hours, at least.” Jasper recognized Feril’s voice. “I’m exhausted,” she said. “We’re stuck here until I can get my strength back—unless you can find another way out of this cave.”

“It’s darker than night in here.” That was Rig’s voice. “Like a tomb.”

Jasper heard other sounds, an odd clicking-clacking that came from beyond the chamber.

“I wonder where Groller and Jasper are? They should have been back by now.”

“We are back, Fiona,” Jasper said.

“And just where have you two been?” Rig demanded. “We’ve been fighting spawn. They’re still out there. Feril sealed the cave off to keep ’em from killing us.”

“Whew! What’s that smell?” Fiona asked.

“Uh, bat droppings,” Jasper answered.

The dwarf tugged on Groller’s tunic, and the half-ogre followed him into the large chamber. Groller headed toward Feril and the wolf. Fury’s golden eyes greeted the half-ogre. Groller stared at them.

“Bat droppings. You find bat droppings, and we find spawn,” Rig said. “Where were you?”

“Exploring,” the dwarf said. Exploring this cave and myself, he silently added. Finding my faith. He took a deep breath and walked toward Rig. His lungs felt healed—both of them—and his faith was restored. A smile spread wide across his face. “Groller and I just did a little exploring.”