The Eve of the Maelstrom

1 After the Storm

Pain raced up the dragon overlord’s claw and into his massive blue body.

“This damnable lance,” he hissed in a zephyr-like voice. He threw back his great, horned head, opened his maw, and spewed a bolt of lightning into the belly of a thick cloud high above. The sky thundered its response, and what had begun as a steady rain deepened into a driving storm. The night was intermittently brightened by the lightning that danced down to his indigo-scaled back, a sensation he normally found pleasing. The wind keened fiercely, and the rain hammered obligingly against his thick hide. But no element of the storm was enough to assuage his suffering.

The powerful lance burned the dragon, was continuing to burn him with every beat of his enormous wings, with each mile that he crossed. He had been carrying it for the past several hours, ever since he claimed it from the heroes he slew. Yet he refused to let it go, refused to let Fissure, his dark huldrefolk ally, carry it for him. No doubt the goodness of the lance would harm Fissure, too, the dragon thought. It would burn anything evil.

Khellendros clutched the lance in one claw—Huma’s lance, which the pitiful associates of the sorcerer Palin Majere had worked so hard to retrieve from the frigid realm of Gellidus, the great white dragon who ruled Southern Ergoth. Hooked about a talon was Goldmoon’s Medallion of Faith, also filled with the energy of righteousness, but not so powerful as the lance. Fissure was gingerly grasped in Khellendros’s other claw. A second medallion, a seeming twin of the first, was about the huldre’s neck. Three artifacts from the Age of Dreams. Three the dragon had acquired. There was one more at his lair, a ring of crystal keys. Four should be enough, he remembered Fissure saying.

“The lance is filled with god-magic! That’s why it burns you so!” the gray-skinned huldre offered, shouting above the gale. “It was crafted to slay dragons, after all!” The tiny man, drenched, hairless, and looking as if he were freshly-sculpted from smooth clay, craned his bald head around so he could look into Khellendros’s flashing eyes. “That lance is the most powerful of these three artifacts—and certainly more powerful than the keys the Knights of Takhisis gained for you.”

The most powerful and the most painful, Khellendros thought. The dragon growled and tried futilely to thrust the pain to the back of his mind. The lance could do more than simply cause him discomfort. It would scar him certainly. But it could not kill him—probably not even if it plunged into his flesh. He was, after all, a supreme overlord, one of a handful of Krynn’s most awesome dragons, and he would use this hurtful, hateful lance—and the other three artifacts—to open a portal to The Gray.

The spirit of Kitiara, his long-ago partner in the Dark Queen’s army, wandered somewhere in that dusky dimension. And he would snare her spirit, as he had snared this lance, and by that act return Kitiara to Krynn. Four artifacts ought to be enough.

But first he had to craft a new body for her spirit.

He had one, a fine blue spawn—muscular, elegant, perfect. It had been birthed in part from one of his rare tears. But Palin and his conspirators had unknowingly killed the blue spawn, along with dozens of others, when they destroyed his favorite lair in the desert of the Northern Wastes. That he had slaughtered Palin and his companions less than an hour ago was some small consolation. He should have seen to that task earlier, not so much out of revenge—a human motivation that was beneath him—but as a tribute to Kitiara, who in life had been vexed by Palin’s father and uncle, Caramon and Raistlin Majere. The Majeres had plagued her life, and now they haunted her in death.

For a time, Palin and his fellows had proved useful to Khellendros. On the advice of one of the dragon’s planted spies, an old sycophant who had managed to pass himself off as a scholar, the wizard’s party had unwittingly gathered these artifacts for him.

On a stretch of ground on the island of Schallsea, not far from the Citadel of Light, they had placed the artifacts. The fake scholar had advised shattering them, claiming that the energy released would increase the level of magic in the world. They had had no idea that it was all a ruse, that Khellendros had been alerted and intended to steal their precious artifacts.

Their usefulness was at an end. Palin and the others had realized too late that the blue dragon overlord had cornered them. As Khellendros slew them, Fissure killed the sycophant to tidy up loose ends.

However, Khellendros hadn’t known that holding this damnable lance would be so agonizing. Still, any amount of pain was worth bearing if it meant Kitiara could be welcomed back to Krynn. She had to return, had to be made whole. Khellendros had made a pledge to her—out of loyalty and respect—long ago when she was his partner. He had promised that he would keep her safe. Then one day, when she strayed from his side, she was slain. A grieving Khellendros searched and searched for her spirit, eventually finding it in The Gray. He would keep his pledge by rescuing her from that faraway dimension. There was no one to stop him—Palin and his friends were now dead. And, best of all, Malystryx the Red and the other overlords were oblivious to his ultimate goal.

He and Kitiara would be reunited. Soon. But first Khellendros had to endure this hellish pain all the way back to his lair.

“Khellendros thinks we’re dead,” Rig said. The dark-skinned mariner glanced up, peering in the direction in which the great blue overlord had disappeared. He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and breathed a sigh of relief.

“I certainly hope he thinks that. Otherwise he’ll come back and try again. And I wouldn’t want him to try again ’cause I don’t think there’d be any trying about it.” The strained, high-pitched voice belonged to Blister, a middle-aged kender who was ambling toward the mariner. “Nope. No trying to it at all in my opinion.” Her gnarled hands were busy—one tugging at Jasper’s sleeve, the other fiddling with her frazzled blonde braid. “Y’see, if he did come back and try again... well... I just have this feeling that he’d be pretty darn successful. I’m kind of surprised to be living and breathing. He’s certainly a very big dragon. I never saw one so big. Did you see his teeth? Big teeth, too.” She paused, her face contorting into a puzzled expression. “So what happened? How’d we escape?”

“Palin,” Rig supplied the answer.

“Oh. What did you do?” Blister turned her attention on Palin Majere.

The sorcerer brushed a long strand of graying hair out of his eyes. “A spell,” he said softly. He hadn’t the energy to speak louder. His shoulders stooped, he leaned against Rig, and sucked a deep breath of damp air into his lungs. The climactic enchantment had taken the last of his resources. He was the most powerful sorcerer on Krynn and one of the few survivors of the Battle of the Rift in the Abyss. But at the moment he felt far from mighty. He was weak, vulnerable, his spirit as ravaged as his mud-stained tunic and torn leggings.

“An amazing spell,” Blister said. “Very effective. Wouldn’t you say so, Jasper?”

The dwarf clutched his side, nodding in agreement. A wheeze escaped his thick lips. Though the wound Dhamon had inflicted on Jasper was mending—thanks to Feril’s ministrations—the dwarf would never be the same. His lung had been punctured. Though in earlier times he might have used his own clerical magic to heal himself, such power was now beyond his reach. His faith had died with Goldmoon, and with it had died his healing abilities. He offered Blister a slight smile.

“Amazing. Yes, Jasper thinks so, too. A very impressive spell,” she clucked. “You made us all invisible?”

“Not exactly,” Palin returned.

“You spirited us away to some other place?”

“Not precisely.”

“Then what?”

“For a few brief minutes, I disguised us, made us blend into the landscape. Then I created a magical illusion of us a short distance from where we were hiding. Khellendros slew the illusion. And, fortunately, he appeared to be in a hurry and left without examining his handiwork. Had he lingered a moment longer, his keen senses would have ferreted us out.”

“Wow. So how did you create this illusion?” the kender persisted in asking.

“It’s not important,” Jasper cut in. He glanced back at Groller, his deaf half-ogre friend. Fiona Quinti, the young Solamnic knight who recently joined their number, was using rudimentary sign language to translate what was being said, so Groller could understand. The dwarf turned to face Blister and pawed at a clump of mud stuck to his red-brown hair. “It’s not important at all. What is important Blister, is that...”

“Couldn’t Palin use some of his magic to find Dhamon? I want to go after Dhamon, find out why he went all crazy, hurt Jasper, and killed Goldmoon. We could...”

The mariner set a hand on the kender’s head, leveling his gaze at Palin. “We could kill him is what we could do. It was indirectly because of Dhamon that Shaon died. Now Goldmoon—there was nothing indirect about that. He almost killed Jasper, too. And he sank my ship.”

“Flint’s Anvil,” Jasper whispered. The dwarf had purchased the carrack many months ago, and his beloved vessel had taken them from Schallsea far north to Palanthas, then back again. It had been their means of transportation and their home.

“We should kill him before he causes any more harm,” Rig finished. The mariner motioned for the rest to gather around—Feril, the Kagonesti; Groller and his wolf, Fury; Fiona; Gilthanas, the lanky elven sorcerer whom they had rescued from a Knights of Takhisis stronghold; and Ulin, Palin’s son.

Swirling high above them were two dragons, a gold and a silver—Sunrise and Silvara—who had carried Ulin and Gilthanas to Schallsea and who had been instrumental in distracting Khellendros in order for Palin to cast his spell. The dragons and their riders had just returned from the Dragon Isles, where they had informed the good dragons there of what was transpiring across the face of Ansalon.

“Rig...” Feril cleared her throat to get the mariner’s attention. A breeze whipped her wild tangle of auburn hair about her face. “We need to find Dhamon. Help him fight the scale’s influence. We must have faith....”

“Faith?” Jasper looked up at her, fixed his eyes on the oak-leaf tattoo on her tanned cheek. His ruddy face was uncharacteristically grim. “He killed Goldmoon. We haven’t even had time to grieve for her, or to bury her properly. She preached faith—breathed faith. And forgiveness. But right now I have no faith and little forgiveness. Right now I’m siding with Rig.”

Feril closed her eyes and let out a long breath. “I’m angry, too, Jasper. Maybe I won’t ever be able to forgive him. But I have to know what happened and why.”

“It’s pretty obvious what happened,” Rig cut in. “He told us he once was a Knight of Takhisis. I’m betting he still is. Fooled us, like the scholar fooled us into collecting the damned artifacts. No ship. No Goldmoon. No Huma’s lance.”

“No medallions. Goldmoon’s medallion, and the second medallion I...” Jasper forced back a sob. “The one I took from her after she was dead. Both gone and in the hands of the dragon.”

“The only artifact we have left is the scepter,” the mariner said. He held it out. It was fashioned of wood and looked more like a mace, though it was bedecked with jewels.

“The Fist of E’li,” Feril whispered softly. “The Fist of Paladine.”

“What good’ll one lousy artifact do?” Blister asked as she looked up at the sorcerer. “We can’t increase the level of magic in the world with just one artifact.”

“The scholar tricked us into gathering artifacts for the dragon,” Palin said. “The dragon must want the ancient magic for an important reason. Maybe we should concentrate on finding other ancient artifacts. At the very least, we can keep them out of the dragon’s clutches. And at the most... somehow we might be able to use their energy to block Takhisis’s return to this world.”

“Father, Gellidus—Frost—claimed Takhisis’s return was imminent,” Ulin said. The younger Majere looked as Palin had, two decades earlier. He gestured to the silver and gold dragons circling above. “Sunrise and Silvara confirm what the white overlord boasted. Takhisis is coming back.”

“So where are we gonna get enough ancient magic to stop Takhisis?” Blister’s eyes widened.

“Dalamar’s ring,” Palin said. “That’s located in the Tower of Wayreth. The Master of the Tower said he would give it to me, but only when we knew how to use it and when we were safe from Khellendros.”

Ulin sniffed. “Safe! That will take a long time! Can you persuade the Master how important is our need for the ring?

Palin considered a moment, then nodded to his son. “Yes. Yes, I think I can.”

“With the Fist of E’li,” Blister said, pointing at the weapon in Rig’s hand, “That makes two artifacts.”

“I know of a third—the Crown of Tides,” Palin finished. “It rests in the realm of the Dimernesti, the sea elves, a long way from here.”

“Then we better get going,” the kender said.

“Wait a minute.” Rig scowled and shook his head. “I want nothing more than to take a stand against the dragons—even the Dark Queen herself if it comes to that. But there’s a little matter of justice that needs to be taken care of, too. I mean Dhamon.”

“Rig, please,” Feril appealed.

“We can’t let him wander around free—not with that weird glaive. No telling who or what else he’ll destroy.” The mariner’s eyes narrowed darkly.

“Rig!” The Kagonesti glared at him.

“Enough.” Palin eased himself away from Rig’s side. “Arguing won’t do us any good. Neither will revenge. But, yes, we also need to find Dhamon.”

The mariner grinned smugly.

“We especially need to find him because we need his weapon,” the sorcerer said.

“His weapon?.” Rig scowled.

“That glaive cuts metal like cloth. It must be some kind of artifact, perhaps as powerful as Huma’s lance,” Palin returned. “Even more powerful,” he added softly.

“So how are we gonna do both at the same time? Collect artifacts and find Dhamon?” Blister asked.

“I’ll need your help, Blister,” the sorcerer told the kender. “You and I will form one team and head to the Tower of Wayreth. My wife Usha is waiting for me there. We’ll use the resources in the tower to trace Dhamon.”

“And in the meantime, we’ll go after the crown,” Feril said excitedly.

“Great. How do we get off this island without a ship? Swim?” The mariner tucked the scepter into his belt and glanced to the west. It was too dark to see the Schallsea shore.

“We’ll help there,” Gilthanas offered. He pointed to the dragons. “We’ll take you to the edge of Onysablet’s realm. From there...”

“Let me guess. We’re on our own,” Rig grumbled.

Gilthanas nodded. The elf did not need to explain that the dragons would not prefer to venture into an overlord’s realm, at least one they were unfamiliar with.

At the edge of the gathering Fiona Quinti squared her shoulders. Though Groller towered over her, she looked tall and formidable, if haggard, in the silver plate of her Solamnic knighthood. Her mailed hands painted pictures in the air, as she did her best to explain to Groller what was about to transpire.

The half-ogre’s heavy brow knotted in thought. He looked up at the dragons, nodded, and swallowed hard.

It was the hazy hour before dawn, when the sky lightened just a little and the world seemed at its quietest. Usha stared out a window in the Tower of Wayreth. She drew her robe tight around her thin form, shivering from worry, not cold.

Blister was sleeping. Palin, too, had fallen asleep shortly after arriving a few hours ago. She hoped he would rest long enough to regain his energy.

She was exhausted, too, but couldn’t sleep. Her mind was too preoccupied with the Fist of E’li that Palin had told her about. She had traveled to the Qualinesti forest with Palin, Jasper, and Feril in search of the Fist. But she hadn’t accompanied them on the most dangerous part of the mission. When they had been caught by a band of distrustful, freedom-fighting elves, Usha had volunteered to stay with the elves as a hostage, insurance that her husband and the others were there for only one thing—the scepter—and proof that they were not spies for the green dragon overlord.

Something happened during her time with the elves. Something about the scepter. Something she was trying desperately to remember. Something, perhaps, that might help against the dragons.