Fiona Quinti, the young Knight of Solamnia, sat cross-legged, her back rigid against the wall, her eyes wide.
“Can’t sleep?” Ulin whispered.
“I’m uneasy,” she softly replied.
“We’re safe in here,” said a voice equally soft, but masculine and unfamiliar.
Ulin tossed off his furs, leaping to his feet and glancing around to see where the unexpected words came from. Around him, his companions still slept. He crept to Fiona’s side and extended a hand to help her up.
“Show yourself!” Ulin exclaimed loud enough to rouse Gilthanas, the Knights of Takhisis, and Fury. Groller alone, oblivious to the commotion, continued to sleep.
“As you wish.” The speaker stepped out of a narrow alcove flanked by silver lances. He was thin and small, seemed no older than twelve or thirteen, and he was dressed in a simple white tunic that hung to his knees. His legs were bare, as were his arms and feet
Fury padded toward him, growling softly.
“What is a child doing here?” Gilthanas asked. The elf was alarmed, more so because of the wolf’s unease, and he gripped Rig’s lance tightly.
“Be careful. He’s more than he seems, or else he is not alone,” Ulin cautioned. “No child would be living here.”
“I am not a child, though I favor this form. I have spent more years upon this earth than you. Would this make you more comfortable?” The youth shimmered, and in the blink of an eye he grew taller. His skin paled to the hue of parchment, hanging on him in wrinkles. Age spots were spattered across his bald head, and his narrow shoulders sagged forward. “Or perhaps this?” He grew taller still, squarely broad-shouldered now and darkly tanned. A thick mane of blond hair cascaded to his shoulders. The muscles in his arms bunched, and veins stood out on them like cords.
“Who … what are you?” Gilthanas pressed. “Explain yourself.”
“I am the keeper of this place,” the being answered as he resumed the form of the youthful innocent and glided closer to the sorcerers and the knights. He reached out a slender hand, stroking the wolf. Surprisingly, Fury stopped growling and wagged his tail. “It is you who have some explaining to do—else I’ll turn you out into the cold.”
The strange youth questioned them extensively about their quest and their desire to obtain Huma’s lance. Yet he would answer none of their questions about himself, and only a few about the tomb and the land surrounding it. “Gellidus, or Frost as most men call him, knows I am here,” was all he would say. “But the White cannot enter this sacred place, and so I am safe from him.”
“You are a sorcerer or a faerie,” Gilthanas stated.
“You may believe what you wish.”
“Whatever you are, you’ll not keep us from Huma’s lance,” the elf ventured.
“I’ll not stop you,” the youth returned. “Provided you can find it”
The Solamnic Knight cleared her throat. “Their purpose is just,” she said, indicating Ulin and Gilthanas. “If you are just, you would help them, tell them which lance is the one they seek.”
A faint smile crept across the young man’s unblemished face. “I would help if I could. For unlike your two companions there,” he gestured toward the Knights of Takhisis, “I sense great goodness in all of you. But I truthfully have no idea which lance Huma wielded.”
Groller stirred, but didn’t wake. The half-ogre was dreaming. In his dream he could hear, plainly, just as he had years ago before a green dragon destroyed his home, his family, and his life. He could hear the cries of the dying. The wailing of the wounded.
Why had he and a small handful of others been spared? he continued to ask himself. Why had he been left alive to hear the screams and to pray to the departed gods for the horrifying noises to stop?
All of the noises did stop that day for the half-ogre, and he had heard no sounds since. He had buried his wife and children and left the village, never to return.
Groller never knew whether a malicious god listening from afar had heard his plea for silence and made him deaf, or whether the atrocities he witnessed that day were responsible for his handicap. The cause didn’t matter, only the unending, empty silence.
But he did hear things in his dreams. At first he thought it was the wind whistling, a sound he’d almost forgotten. The whistling grew deeper, then formed words. Huma, a distinct, musical voice said. Lance. The half-ogre saw the image of a man, statuesque and thick-chested. His armor gleamed, looking golden in the light of the torches.
These lances were used in the Chaos War, a disembodied voice said. The words didn’t come from the image of the man in golden armor. Nor did they come from the dozens of wraithlike figures that suddenly materialized. The wraiths wore the armor of Knights of Takhisis and Knights of Solamnia. A few wore no armor at all, just simple tunics, and they carried translucent shields. Each seemed to be linked to a particular lance.
Wielded by Knights of Solamnia, these lances were, and by brave men who claimed allegiance to no knighthood but who fought for the glory of Ansalon, the voice continued. Fought alongside the gods in the war against Chaos.
How… how did the lances get here? Groller heard himself asking. He could hear himself speaking, and was able to correct his pronunciation. The words were plain and rich, not broken and nasal.
I called them, the voice replied. Such weapons of honor deserve a final resting place, too.
The images of the knights wavered, then disappeared.
Are you Huma? His spirit? Who are you?
I am what you seek.
Huma’s lance? A weapon speaks to me?
I yearn to be wielded again—by one who reminds me of my former master. Come. I wait for you.
Groller listened intently, following the sound of the disembodied voice. In his dream, he was alone in the hall. Ulin, Gilthanas, Fury, the young Knight of Solamnia and the two Knights of Takhisis were gone.
The half-ogre eyed the lances surrounding him. Some of them whispered to him, recounting tales of the last battles they were used in, describing Chaos and the dragons, proclaiming the number of lives they claimed, mourning the loss of the men and women who once carried them. The hall stretched into the distance, and the torches burned brighter, their light casting long shadows on the floor. As he walked the hall, the floor sloped steeply downward. There were more lances along this hall—lances as far as his keen eyes could see. They were all whispering to him, but there was one talking louder than the rest, and he continued to pursue that voice.
After what seemed like hours the hallway leveled out and a circular room hove into view. It was lit by more torches that burned but did not smoke. The walls were made of glistening white marble. The floor was black with specks of white, looking as if a piece of the night sky had been cut away and installed here. In the center was a long rectangular block of green stone decorated with the image of a golden lance. A single piece of jade decorated the lance’s handle. Wield me again, the voice beckoned.
“If you don’t know which lance was Huma’s, and you’re the keeper of this place, how will we ever find it?” Ulin asked.
The youth shrugged his shoulders. “You’re a sorcerer, as is your companion here. Perhaps you’ve the means to—”
“Wait a minute,” Ulin interrupted. “How could you know that?”