But I shall find a way to overcome that obstacle, he thought. I shall find a way to transform any human, regardless of its nature.
At the end of a month he had a dozen suitable candidates for the process, and an angry captive sivak draconian that would fuel their transformation. But the dragon’s tears wouldn’t come, and he needed a tear—a bit of himself—to complete the transformation of each of his offspring.
The dragon paced in his expansive underground lair. He concentrated on Kitiara, thought about her body’s death, about how he had failed her. A great sense of sadness overcame him, but at the back of his mind he couldn’t deny that a trace of hope, of bringing her back and giving her the body of a spawn, still remained. And that trace of hope kept him from producing that vital tear.
The Blue’s curses reverberated like thunder in the cavern, causing the walls to shake and crack. The ominous rumble in his belly began, and only the gasps of his human prisoners kept him from releasing a lightning bolt.
His great claws pounded over the stone floor and carried him out into the desert. It was night. The stars winked down at him as if they were mocking him. The sand was cool beneath his feet, signaling that it was late, that the ground had been given hours to cast off its heat. Khellendros had lost track of time, and he howled in frustration. He sent a bolt of lightning skyward and roared deafeningly.
“No!” he screamed. “I shall not be defeated!” He spit another bolt of lightning, this time toward the horizon, blasting a patch of offending scrub grass. He thrust his claws into the sand, digging and scratching to vent his anger. The grains flew all about him, as if tossed by a violent wind. Suddenly he stopped his tirade and stared at the hole he created.
“The sand,” he whispered. “The blessed sand.”
Khellendros opened his eyes wide and shoved his head into the hole. The coarse grains of sand worked their way beneath his eyelids, rubbing, irritating, causing tears to well up. He pushed his head in deeper, ground his eyes and nostrils against the desert floor until the sensation was overwhelming and he could scarcely breathe. Then at last he pulled back, raised his face to the sky, and turned toward his lair. The sand forced his eyes to water, forced the tears he so desperately needed for his spawn.
He hurried into his underground chamber and began muttering the words to the enchantment he had learned in the portals beyond Krynn. His teardrops splashed onto the rocky floor and shimmered.
The dozen blue spawn that stood before Khellendros were his first successful ones. Corrupted before their metamorphosis, their eyes gleamed evilly in the dark chamber beneath the desert. Diminutive bolts of lightning crackled around their jet black claws, and their sapphire wings fluttered gently. The spawns’ scales were tiny, looking like dark blue chainmail that had been oiled and well cared for. Their forms were manlike, with broad-chested torsos, long legs, and muscular arms. But their heads looked more like the snouts of lizards, and each had a jagged ridge that ran from between their eyes down to the tips of their stubby tails. Their feet were webbed and clawed, resembling Khellendros’s, but in miniature. Their noses flared as they alertly sniffed their surroundings.
Khellendros sat back against the far wall of his lair and intently studied them. He was as proud of them as any father would be of his young children. But these children were not soft and cuddly, they were warriors, and they would do the Blue’s bidding without argument or question. One of them would be chosen to become Kitiara’s body, perhaps the one that distinguished itself most in battle.
“Soon there shall be more of you,” Khellendros gushed to his attentive pupils. “Many more. You shall be an impressive force, and you shall ravage the desert and, after that, the sweet countryside of Palanthas. Together we shall steal the humans’ precious magical items—their scrolls and swords, anything that pulses with enchantment. We shall somehow find enough magic to force open a portal. And no one shall stop us. Your very appearance shall so frighten every living creature that—”
As one, the spawns’ eyes flashed to the right, toward the entrance of the lair. Khellendros growled and padded past them, curious to see what or who might have wandered into his cavern, hoping it wasn’t Malystryx. He had not intended to share news of his creation with her, and it was critical that she not learn about his plans to open a portal and bring Kitiara back to life.
“Hello?” a small voice called.
Not Malys, Khellendros realized. But who? He peered into the darkness, his acute vision seeing only shadows and a hint of light.
“May I join you?” One of the shadows separated from the wall, or rather a portion of the wall split off. The small block of rock shuffled forward, changing its shape as it neared Khellendros. “Remember me?” the rock queried as it continued its transformation. “I know it’s been almost thirty years since we met, but I like to think that I’m hard to forget.”
“Fissure,” the Blue growled. It was the huldrefolk, the one he saw at the circle of stones portal, the one who explained why Khellendros could not return to The Gray. The Blue rumbled, hostilely preparing to blast the creature who so arrogantly strolled into his lair.
“Wait!” Fissure cried, sensing the dragon’s intent. “I came here to help you.”
The rumble caught in Khellendros’s throat, the energy remained poised, ready to be released.
“I was listening in. Bad habit of mine,” Fissure babbled. “I heard that you still want access to the portals—even after all this time. Well, I suppose it’s really no time at all to you.”
“Insolent creature!” Khellendros spat.
“Yes, maybe I am,” Fissure continued. “But I still want access to the portals, too. You’ve got the right idea about gathering magic to force one open. But not just any magic will do. I have an idea...”
The rumble died, and Khellendros moved aside, allowing the huldrefolk to step deeper into his lair.
10
The Calling
The tomb stood in a field near Solace. It was built a few decades past by the people of Ansalon. A stark building, simple in design, it was nonetheless impressive and elegant, made of fine black obsidian and polished white marble that had been hauled by dwarven artisans from the kingdom of Thorbardin.
Inside it lay the bodies of the Knights of Solamnia and the Knights of Takhisis who fought and fell in the Abyss. Their names were engraved on the blocks that made up the tomb’s outer walls, as were the names of knights whose bodies could not be recovered. Tanis Half-Elven also rested here.
The tomb had two exquisitely crafted doors. One was gold and carried the image of a rose; the other was silver and had an etching of a lily in the center. Above the sealed doors the name Tasslehoff Burrfoot had been painstakingly carved. But the kender’s body was not inside—it had vanished in the Abyss after Tas nicked Chaos and drew the necessary drop of blood to save Krynn. A hoopak, the kender’s favorite possession, was chiseled beneath his name.
All around the tomb grew trees that had been brought by elves from the Silvanesti and Qualinesti forests. They were saplings when the tomb’s construction began. Now they were tall and could stand against unpredictable weather and shade the shrine’s frequent visitors.
On the tomb’s low steps a bouquet of flowers had begun to wilt in the warm, still air. There were always flowers at the tomb because there were always pilgrims to bring them. The pilgrims consisted of elves, dwarves, kender, gnomes, humans, and an occasional centaur. And though they were respectful, the visitors were rarely grim. The tomb wasn’t a place of sadness and grief, it was a place of reflection and introspection. It honored life. It was also sometimes the site of family gatherings, particularly when the families involved were kender.