And then the ground splits apart! Columns rise from the blackened, blasted soil, spiraling into the air! A great darkness comes forth and I feel a horrible, burning pain in my chest....
“Berem!”
Maquesta stood on the foredeck, glaring at her helmsman.
“Berem, I told you. A gale’s brewing. I want the ship battened down. What are you doing? Standing there, staring out to sea. What are you practicing to be—a monument? Get moving, you lubber! I don’t pay good wages to statues!”
Berem started. His face paled and he cringed before Maquesta’s irritation in such a pitiful manner that the captain of the Perechon felt as if she were taking out her anger on a helpless child.
That’s all he is, she reminded herself wearily. Even though he must be fifty or sixty years old, even though he was one of the best helmsmen she had ever sailed with—mentally, he was still a child.
“I’m sorry, Berem,” Maq said, sighing. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. It’s just the storm ... it makes me nervous. There, there. Don’t look at me like that. How I wish you could talk! I wish I knew what was going on in that head of yours—if there is anything! Well, never mind. Attend to your duties, then go below. Better get used to lying in your berth for a few days until the gale blows itself out.”
Berem smiled at her—the simple, guileless smile of a child.
Maquesta smiled back, shaking her head. Then she hurried away, her thoughts busy with getting her beloved ship prepared to ride out the gale. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Berem shuffle below, then promptly forgot about him when her first mate came aboard to report that he had found most of the crew and only about one-third of them were so drunk as to be useless...
Berem lay in the hammock slung in the crew’s quarters of the Perechon. The hammock swung back and forth violently as the first winds of the gale struck the Perechon as it rode at anchor in the harbor of Flotsam on the Blood Sea of Istar. Putting his hands—the hands that looked too young on the body of a fifty-year-old human—beneath his head, Berem stared up at the lamp swinging from the wooden planks above him.
“Why, look, Berem. Here’s a path... How strange! All the times we’ve been hunting in these woods and we’ve never seen it.”
“It’s not so strange. The fire burned off some of the brush, that’s all. Probably just an animal trail.”
“Let’s follow it. If it is an animal trail, maybe we’ll find a deer. We’ve been hunting all day with nothing to show for it. I hate to go home empty-handed.”
Without waiting for my reply, she turns onto the trail. Shrugging, I follow her. It is pleasant being outdoors today— the first warm day after the bitter chill of winter. The sun is warm on my neck and shoulders. Walking through the fire-ravaged woods is easy. No vines to snag you. No brush to tear at your clothing. Lightning, probably that thunderstorm which struck late last fall...
BOOK 1
1
Flight from darkness into darkness.
The dragonarmy officer slowly descended the stairs from the second floor of the Saltbreeze Inn. It was past midnight. Most of the inn’s patrons had long since gone to bed. The only sound the officer could hear was the crashing of waves of Blood Bay on the rocks below.
The officer paused a moment on the landing, casting a quick, sharp glance around the Common Room that lay spread out below him. It was empty, except for a draconian sprawled across a table, snoring loudly in a drunken stupor. The dragon-man’s wings shivered with each snort. The wooden table creaked and swayed beneath it.
The officer smiled bitterly then continued down the stairs. He was dressed in the steel dragonscale armor copied from the real dragonscale armor of the Dragon Highlords. His helm covered his head and face, making it difficult to see his features. All that was visible beneath the shadow cast by the helm was a reddish brown beard that marked him—racially—as human. At the bottom of the stairs, the officer came to a sudden halt, apparently nonplussed at the sight of the innkeeper, still awake and yawning over his account books. After a slight nod, the dragon officer seemed about to go on out of the inn without speaking, but the innkeeper stopped him with a question.
“You expecting the Highlord tonight?”
The officer halted and half-turned. Keeping his face averted, he pulled out a pair of gloves and began putting them on. The weather was bitterly chill. The sea city of Flotsam was in the grip of a winter storm the like of which it had not experienced in its three hundred years of existence on the shores of Blood Bay.
“In this weather?” The dragonarmy officer snorted. “Not likely! Not even dragons can outfly these gale winds!”
“True. It’s not a fit night out for man or beast,” the innkeeper agreed. He eyed the dragon officer shrewdly. “What business do you have, then, that takes you out in this storm?”
The dragonarmy officer regarded the innkeeper coldly. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business where I go or what I do.”
“No offense,” the innkeeper said quickly, raising his hands as if to ward off a blow. “It’s just that if the Highlord comes back and happens to miss you, I’d be glad to tell her where you could be found.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the officer muttered. “I—I’ve left her a note. . . explaining my absence. Besides, I’ll be back before morning. I—I just need a breath of air. That’s all.”
“I don’t doubt that!” The innkeeper sniggered. “You haven’t left her room for three days! Or should I say three nights! Now—don’t get mad"—this on seeing the officer flush angrily beneath the helm—“I admire the man can keep her satisfied that long! Where was she bound for?”
“The Highlord was called to deal with a problem in the east, somewhere near Solamnia,” the officer replied, scowling. “I wouldn’t inquire any further into her affairs if I were you.”
“No, no,” replied the innkeeper hastily. “Certainly not. Well, I bid you good evening—what was your name? She introduced us, but I failed to catch it.”
“Tanis,” the officer said, his voice muffled. “Tanis Half-Elven. And a good evening to you.”
Nodding coldly, the officer gave his gloves a final sharp tug, then, pulling his cloak around him, he opened the door to the inn and stepped out into the storm. The bitter wind swept into the room, blowing out candles and swirling the innkeeper’s papers around. For a moment, the officer struggled with the heavy door while the innkeeper cursed fluently and grabbed for his scattered accounts. Finally the officer succeeded in slamming the door shut behind him, leaving the inn peaceful, quiet, and warm once more.
Staring out after him, the innkeeper saw the officer walk past the front window, his head bent down against the wind, his cloak billowing out behind him.
One other figure watched the officer as well. The instant the door shut, the drunken draconian raised its head, its black, reptilian eyes glittering. Stealthily it rose from the table, its steps quick and certain. Padding lightly on its clawed feet, it crept to the window and peered outside. For a few moments, the draconian waited, then it too flung open the door and disappeared into the storm.
Through the window, the innkeeper saw the draconian head in the same direction as the dragonarmy officer. Walking over, the innkeeper peered out through the glass. It was wild and dark outside, the tall iron braziers of flaming pitch that lit the night streets sputtering and flickering in the wind and the driving rain. But the innkeeper thought he saw the dragonarmy officer turn down a street leading to the main part of town. Creeping along behind him, keeping to the shadows, came the draconian. Shaking his head, the innkeeper woke the night clerk, who was dozing in a chair behind the desk.