She paused and took a step closer. “We can only watch and believe the future will brighten. This is your world now, your time. We bested the dragons once. Perhaps they can be bested again. The gods are gone, and the threat of the dragons is greater than ever before. And you’re looking for a cause, Dhamon Grimwulf, though you may not realize it. You’re looking for something to lighten your heart. It seems a cause has found you.”
She touched his shoulder. “Now is an age when men must gaze into their hearts and find the strength and faith to overcome the obstacles placed before them. They cannot look to the gods anymore for worldly salvation. They can only look to themselves. I’ve stared into your heart, Dhamon, and it’s much stronger than you believe it to be.”
“But what can I do?” Dhamon stared at the old woman. “Can one man really make a difference?”
“Not just one,” Goldmoon replied. “Jasper will go with you. And others will eventually follow. I will continue contacting visitors to the tomb.”
The dwarf scowled and shook his head. He shuffled toward Dhamon. “Flint Fireforge was my uncle. I promised him once that I’d help Goldmoon whenever she asked.” Under his breath he added “I just never thought she’d ask.”
“It might be exciting,” Raph whispered. “We might get to see a dragon. And I’ve never seen one of them before.”
“I think we should stay out of this,” Blister calmly returned. “This isn’t our concern. We only tagged along. This is Dhamon’s business, not ours.”
“So we’ll tag along again.”
“No, we won’t,” Blister scolded.
“Well, I will.”
“No, you won’t.”
Dhamon ignored the chatter behind him. “What do you want me to do?” he asked Goldmoon.
“You must travel north to Palanthas. Evil breeds there, and it must be stopped. It will be a long journey, but a necessary one. I have friends nearby. The sorcerer Palin Majere will meet you in a place called the Lonely Refuge. It’s in the Northern Wastes. Jasper can tell you how to get there. Palin will help. You must give him this.” She reached into the folds of her robe and produced a tattered piece of blue and yellow silk.
“A piece of cloth?”
Goldmoon pressed it into his hand and motioned for the kender and Jasper to leave. The dwarf’s grumbles were heard above the kender’s banter, and Goldmoon waited until they were situated in front of one of the Citadel’s large fountains.
“The cloth is a banner that was tied to a dragonlance. Palin has the lance’s handle, or haft. When you’ve joined these two pieces, Palin will tell you where the lance rests. Unite the weapon’s parts, Dhamon Grimwulf. It was one of the original dragonlances, rumored to be the most powerful of all. It might be our only hope against the dragon overlords.”
“One weapon?”
“A single weapon maybe, but, more importantly, a symbol. Something to give the people of Ansalon hope. Something they can stand behind, be united by. There are a few other original lances left, but most of them are inaccessible to us right now. What you will join together will be a start. Perhaps subsequent visitors to the tomb who answer my summons can retrieve the other weapons.”
Dhamon took a deep breath. Should he go to Palanthas and the Lonely Refuge, or travel wherever he wanted? Was she giving him a choice? Or was she giving him an order?
Could he walk away and take his life elsewhere? Or had he already decided at the tomb in Solace to let this woman chart his destiny, help him cleanse his heart?
“There are many ships in New Ports. I’ll see if one will take us to Palanthas,” he said.
“Hurry,” Goldmoon urged.
15
A Growing Evil
“It was my idea to come here,” the creature snarled. “I said we should do it. It was me! Do you hear?”
The young goblin, a manlike thing less than four feet tall, had a flat face and a broad nose that looked as if it had been smashed with a hard object. His dark mouth was wide, and small yellow fangs peeked out from below his thin upper lip. His forehead sloped back, giving his bright red eyes more prominence, and his hairy arms almost dangled down to his knees, making him look apelike. He was a fine specimen of his race.
The sun that was starting to drop toward the horizon was only a shade lighter than the goblin’s burnt orange skin. He squinted into the offensive light as he ranted. “I should get the credit for the idea! Do you hear?”
His fellows appeared roughly the same type, though they were older, less muscular, and had skin tones ranging from dirty yellow to deep vermilion. All of them were wearing crude leather boots and mismatched pieces of armor that had been pathetically fastened together. Most of the armor had been stolen from the graves of kender and elven warriors. Only a few pieces had been claimed in fair fights. And to the goblins, a fair fight usually meant a carefully planned ambush or a well-constructed pit trap laden with sharp spikes.
Several carried crude shields fashioned from boards and bearing designs of clenched fists or bashed heads. A few had impressive metal shields looted from fallen foes. Their weapons included primitive stone axes, clubs with metal spikes pounded into them, and maces.
“It was not your idea,” the largest of the goblins barked. He carried a dented metal shield that bore the emblem of three roses— two buds and one full bloom— indicating it had at one time belonged to a knight from the Order of the Rose. “We were summoned.”
The large goblin was called M’rgash, and he was the chieftain of the three dozen who were slowly picking their way through what was left of the forest. At one time the dense forest covered about half of Kendermore and bordered on Balifor. But a mountain range had sprung up where the two countries met and had obliterated a considerable number of trees.
M’rgash’s entire tribe numbered more than four hundred, and they laired in tunnels deep beneath Wendle Woods to the south in kender territory. These three dozen were among his favorite and most loyal warriors. He handpicked them for this journey, and they’d set out five days ago.
The goblins stopped at the base of a rocky embankment that formed the base of the mountain ridge and looked up. It hadn’t been there a few months ago.
“We might have been summoned, M’rgash,” the orangeskinned goblin retorted. “But it was my idea to answer the call.” He was called Dorgth, and he was M’rgash’s lieutenant.
M’rgash growled and slapped Dorgth’s face with enough force to send the young lieutenant reeling. It was necessary for M’rgash to show a little force every now and then in order to keep his lofty position. “It was my decision. You merely agreed with me.”
M’rgash was an old goblin, having seen nearly forty summers, and he knew goblin protocol better than any in the tribe. He cast a baneful look at Dorgth, who had risen in the ranks only because of his brashness and fearlessness. Then he motioned the entourage to follow him. Dorgth, properly chastised, took up the rear.
The goblins wound their way ever higher, quickly clawing their way up the sheer surface until they found what amounted to a path. M’rgash knelt and traced a footprint in a small patch of dirt. “Hobgoblins,” he muttered. “I suspect our large cousins were summoned, too. But why?” He stepped onto the path and glanced to his right. The path snaked around the far side of the mountain. To his left it curved upward, leading to a large crevice. The spiky rocks at the very top were dark, indicating the sun had sunk lower. It would be blessed twilight within several minutes. M’rgash had timed the journey well.