Palin had begun his own enchantment. One of the first spells he’d taught his son, it was a clever use of heat, and it would produce no actual flame to threaten the forest. As the last words to his enchantment ended, the knights dropped their swords and cried out, tearing at fastenings on their armor. Their metal had grown hot, and was progressively becoming hotter, their skin sizzling.
Meanwhile the tall brute had struggled to his feet. His companion dropped his leather sack and hefted the spiked club to his shoulders. He spied the dwarf, charged toward him, and quickly fell face first into the velvet fern. Vines had slithered across the ground and wrapped themselves about his ankles. More vines were encircling his wrists and neck, flowing like water over his body and holding him tightly in place, nearly smothering him beneath their leaves. Other plants were grabbing at the tall brute. He fought against them as Jasper darted forward, picked up his hammer, and waved it threateningly. The brute broke free and glared at the short bearded man.
Palin and Feril stepped toward the knights, picking up their swords and kicking away pieces of the discarded armor. The heat did not affect Palin, and he watched as the moss and the vines spread to obscure most of the discarded mail and helmets. His eyes widened when he spotted a lord knight’s insignia on one of the breastplates.
The knights were down to the padding they wore beneath the mail. They wisely made no move to attack Palin, but they couldn’t help but glower at him.
“Don’t make us kill you,” the sorcerer said. He studied the men’s faces. “Lord Knight Breen,” he recognized the older man, Middle’s heir-apparent, “we’ve more than enough blood already on our hands. If I were you, I’d leave this forest quickly.”
Palin saw that the lord knight looked relieved, believing that his life and the lives of his men had been spared. The Knights of Takhisis didn’t know the draconians would likely find them, and that the draconians had no intention of letting them escape. “No witnesses,” Palin remembered the old Aurak saying.
“It’s in here!” Jasper said. The dwarf glanced in the leather sack, then returned his gaze to the tall brute and flourished his hammer for emphasis. Softly, he said to Palin, “The knights will follow us, you realize. If a lord knight’s involved, they’ll not give the Fist of E’li up. Probably wait until we’re sleeping, or…”
Palin motioned to the dwarf and Feril, and backed away from the men, following the path the knights had carved back toward the draconian’s tower. “If you’re right” Palin told the dwarf, “and they follow us, the Aurak’s assassins will find them that much quicker.”
When they’d put some distance between themselves and the knights, they darted behind a fragrant bush and waited. “Of course I was right,” the dwarf smugly whispered. “See?” A moment later the brutes thundered by. The knights followed, weapons outstretched.
Palin was disappointed to see the dwarf proven right. After all, Steel was a Dark Knight, but he had acted honorably— escorting Palin’s dead brothers home, praying over their graves, facing execution without excuse when Palin had escaped.
Feril motioned Jasper and Palin north, leading them toward the clearing where they’d left Usha. She talked to the plants as she went, coaxing them to cover up their trail. They pressed on even when the blackness settled around them, and she continued to use her keen elven senses to guide them.
More than a week later, and only one day shy of the Qualinesti’s deadline, they found Usha in the company of a half-dozen elven archers.
Jasper pulled the scepter from the sack and held it up for them to see. It looked like a small mace made of polished wood. Its haft was trimmed with alternating bands of silver and gold, and its bulb-shaped top was encrusted with diamonds, garnets, and emeralds.
“So you were successful,” the tallest elf observed, his eyes mesmerized by the glittering gems. “We are glad. We are only sorry that we were not able to help you as you have helped the Qualinesti, Palin Majere.”
Usha ran to embrace Palin. “You’re all right!1’
“Your wife convinced us of the error of our ways. You spoke the truth, but we would not hear it. We hope you will hear our apology.”
“She can be very persuasive,” said Palin, smiling down at her. “No harm has been done. We have the scepter, and I have my wife back.”
The tall elf nodded, and the band of elves quickly and silently melted into the foliage.
Usha kissed Palin deeply, then pulled back, wrinkled her nose, and looked closely at her husband.
Like Jasper and Feril, the sorcerer was exhausted and filthy, and smelted strongly of sweat. Usha, however, looked as fresh as if she’d just gotten up from a long nap.
“Ankatavaka isn’t far,” Palin said, grimacing when he noticed some of the grime of the forest had rubbed off on Usha. “New clothes, a bath, and when we’re rested, I’ll transport us to Goldmoon’s Citadel.”
“Win?”
“He hasn’t contacted me,” the sorcerer replied. “I’m hoping he does so by the time we reach Ankatavaka.”
Usha inhaled sharply. “I must believe he’s all right.”
“Of course he is” Jasper offered as they walked toward the coast. “He’s a Majere, isn’t he? And Majeres are made of very stern stuff. He’ll be back with us in no time. Now, about those clothes …” He opened the leather sack, so Usha could look inside.
The brutes, who had climbed the tower wall, had stolen more than the Fist of E’li from the draconians’ treasure room. Also inside were handfuls of rubies and sapphires, and strings of pearls.
“New clothes, some dwarven ale, a side of beef for Fury, maybe a nice necklace for Goldmoon since we’re going to need her medallion, and…”
Palin and Usha walked hand in hand, she softly telling him of her few weeks with the elves.
Feril shut out the dwarf’s musings and the Majeres’ conversation and concentrated on the beautiful sounds of Beryl’s forest. I will come back here, she told herself. With Dhamon Grimwulf.
Chapter 22
Red Hands
Dhamon had kept to himself during most of the journey. He ate sparingly, having little appetite, and he slept only briefly, feeling little need for rest and preferring to stay awake and forestall any further dreams. The few hours of sleep he grabbed here and there were filled with images of a red dragon made entirely of flame. Sometimes the dragon was ringed by erupting volcanoes and surrounded by red-scaled spawn that breathed streams of fire. Sometimes there were legions of goblins, hobgoblins, and Knights of Takhisis behind her—all of them made of fire, crackling and hissing malevolently.
The dreams became less and less frequent as Flint’s Anvil neared Schallsea Island, then one day they vanished all together. When the Silver Stair came into view beneath the full, pale moon that illuminated it—the Citadel of Light where Goldmoon made her home—Dhamon felt relaxed. The ship dropped anchor in the bay, and Dhamon, Blister, and the mariner took the longboat ashore. After two guards admitted them, they passed by a large number of Goldmoon’s students before making their way to her chamber.
The former knight had decided to show Goldmoon the glaive and tell her about the bronze dragon Shimmer. Perhaps she would have a clue to the weapon’s origin and how the dragon came by it. But first she needed to look at the scale imbedded in his thigh. Though it had caused him no pain since it was first put there, he feared it might be the true source of his nightmares.