The vibrations stopped and Fissure glanced at his hands. A scorpion sat in each palm—each lifelike, though unmoving, and each roughly eight inches long. Smiling at his constructs, he gingerly placed them on the sand in front of him, a few yards apart, then scooted a safe distance away.
“You’ll do. I think you’ll do nicely,” he said to himself. He pushed his palms against the desert floor and rocked back and forth. “Now, let’s make you suitable for the Storm.” His fingers glowed blue and the light raced to the tiny statues and engulfed them, surrounding them like halos. “That’s it,” he encouraged, “more now.” The glow brightened and spread outward in a sphere shape, and the scorpions began to move slightly within their prisons of blue light. Their tails twitched, their lobsterlike pincers opened and closed, and their heads turned so they could better see their creator. Then the twin glowing spheres folded in on themselves, and the scorpions absorbed the arcane energy and began to grow.
Fissure watched with satisfaction as they doubled in size, then doubled again and kept growing. “A little larger,” he commanded, and the scorpions seemed to comply. Their mandibles rose above his diminutive form, and they kept growing until he could see the underside of their glossy, segmented abdomens. “There. That should do it.” He stood and scrutinized his creations. Each was four feet tall from the ground to its chitinous back, and each was a little more than twice that long. Their tails curved upward and writhed like snakes, and the huldrefolk smugly noted a trace of venom on each point.
“Almost perfect,” he judged. “Now, unfortunately, for the finishing touch.” He shuffled forward, stepping between the two. He tugged on his right hand until it came loose from his wrist, and then worked the hand like clay, forming a ball that he thrust into one of the creature’s mouths. Fissure repeated the process with his left hand and the other scorpion, then looked down at his marred stumps. Already the hands were growing back. He could shape his body like a sculptor shaped clay, although now there would be a little less clay to work with next time.
“Can you understand me?” The huldrefolk stroked the underside of one of the scorpions.
The construct clacked its mandibles and its black eyes fixed on the huldrefolk. “I underssstand,” it hissed.
“You are of my flesh,” Fissure stated. “You share my memories, and I will share yours. You will know my thoughts when I desire it, and I will know yours.”
“Your flesh,” it repeated.
“Your flesh,” the other echoed. “Your thoughtsss.”
“You will do exactly as I say. And you will unerringly serve the Storm Over Krynn—for as long as I command it.”
“We ssserve the Ssstorm,” they hissed hi unison.
The huldrefolk had used a similar process to create the wyvern sentries. They weren’t very bright, but still he shared their memories. He knew exactly what happened when Palin and his associates came upon Khellendros’s lair, knew that the secret of the Storm’s desert stronghold had been unwittingly revealed. Fissure had elected not to pass that information onto the Blue.
He had given the wyverns little more than a thumb’s worth of himself. His greater sacrifice had been to the scorpions; constructs that had a far greater intelligence and, he suspected, a greater malevolence. Creating them cost Fissure a little of his own magic, and some of his spirit But such a sacrifice would be worth it if he could again access The Gray and once more feel the mists wrap around him.
“Search my memory, your memories,” he ordered the scorpions. “Picture the lair of Khellendros.”
“The Ssstorm” one of the scorpions hissed.
“Home,” the other added. “We know thisss place.”
“Go there,” the huldrefolk said. “Go there and follow the Storm’s bidding.”
Chapter 7
Stronghold
“Palin…” The voice, soft and harmonious, gently roused the sorcerer from a sound slumber. His legs and chest ached; his neck was still sore. However, his wounds were healing, and he had to admit that he felt much better than he had last night—even though he’d only managed to get a few hours of rest.
“Palin?” The same voice again, though not audible. At first he thought he’d dreamt a woman calling to him, his wife Usha. He remembered dreaming of her last night. But he was wide awake now, and the voice persisted. He blinked and stared at the face of the rock several feet away. The air swirled in front of it, and the grains of white sand the magical wind picked up twinkled like miniature stars in the early morning light.
Feril slept only inches away, curled up like a dog, Blister next to her. The mariner was deep in sleep, too, oblivious to the voice in Palin’s head or to the magical breeze. Though they’d found a crevice in which to pass what was left of the night, and though it protected them from the brunt of the storm that sprang up from seemingly out of nowhere, it didn’t entirely shelter them—or keep them dry. But being damp was better than being swelteringly hot, Palin thought. The heat would come soon enough.
“Palin...”
“Goldmoon,” he whispered. The sands fell away to reveal the translucent image of a woman. Long blonde hair wreathed her slender shoulders, and the hem of her pale cloak swirled like a cloud at her feet. Her startling blue eyes bore into his. He was glad to see her, even if what he saw was only an image borne by her spell. It had been weeks since they’d last communicated.
“1 was worried about you,” the healer began. She was one of the original Heroes of the Lance, responsible for bringing clerical magic back to Krynn roughly six decades ago, and she remained a close friend to Palin’s family. Though human and more than eighty years old, she wore her age remarkably well, and remained exceptionally vital. Goldmoon had managed to hang onto her faith through the years—despite the departure of the gods, and despite the death of her beloved husband, Riverwind. She’d taken many pupils to her side along the way. Among them was Jasper Fireforge, the dwarf who waited on Flint’s Anvil. Palin greatly admired her and often sought her counsel on matters of the heart.
“I was thinking about the dragons last night,” she said. “A vision came to me. I saw the Blue—Side—and you were in his clutches.”
Palin quickly related how he, Rig, Blister, and Feril had escaped from Khellendros’s cave several hours ago, then spoke of spawn and how he believed they were being created. “We are heading toward one of Skie’s strongholds now,” he added. “We must try to free his prisoners, prevent more people from being transformed into spawn. Then we will try to topple an overlord, the White—”
“And Dhamon?”
Palin lowered his head. “I’m sorry. A lesser blue dragon. One that…”
Goldmoon’s image faltered at the news, and Palin watched as she bowed her head and offered a silent prayer. “I thought he was the one,” she said softly. “I believed Dhamon Grimwulf to be a leader of men. I contacted him at the Tomb of the Last Heroes, brought him into all of this, to you. He was to use the lance….”
“Rig has the lance now,” Palin said. “I have faith in him.”
Goldmoon looked at the sleeping mariner. “He is brave,” she admitted. “But he is also reckless and overconfident. Be careful, my friend. See that he doesn’t lead you into a fight you cannot hope to win. We will speak later.”
Goldmoon turned away from Palin and away from the topmost window in the Citadel of Light, severing her mystical connection with the sorcerer in the desert.
Hundreds of miles from the Northern Wastes, on the island of Schallsea, she now paced across the marble floor. “I was so certain he was the one,” the healer said. “My visions, my divinations, they all pointed to Dhamon Grimwulf. I know so little of this Rig Mer-Krel. What’s that you say?” She tilted her head to the side, as if listening to someone, though she was alone in the room. “Trust Palin? Of course I trust Palin, you know that. I have always trusted the Majeres. Yes, I agree, Palin is a good judge of character. And if he has faith in this sea barbarian, I should too. It’s just that there is so much at stake— the fate of Krynn.” Her shoulders slumped and she walked to a narrow, high-backed chair, easing her slight frame into it.