Dhamon turned his head. Malys wanted to see who was there. A woman, young and uncertain, clad in the hated armor of the Solamnic Knights. She crouched and waved the blade in front of her.
Kill her, Malys ordered.
Dhamon stared at the armor, at the crown and kingfisher etched into the breastplate. Sir Geoffrey Quick had saved him years ago, turned him from a life of evil. Could this Solamnic save him now, run him through before he killed again?
You can’t fight me! Malys hissed inside his head. You are mine!
The woman edged to her right, started circling. She glanced down at the dwarf, noted Rig and Feril and Blister, all still
“You’ll not kill Goldmoon!” Fiona Quinti spat. “Whoever you are, you’re done with killing!” She had maneuvered herself in front of Goldmoon, and now she raised her blade, bringing it down in one smooth motion toward Dhamon’s chest
But the former Knight of Takhisis was quicker. He parried with the glaive, slicing the woman’s long sword in two. Then he swept forward with his leg, catching her ankles and knocking her to the floor.
In two more steps he was upon Goldmoon, raising the glaive and bringing it down one last time.
“No.” Dhamon cried from the small place in his mind as he watched the blade cleave deeply into her shoulder. By all the gods! He watched the healer fall, a blossom of red forming on her white tunic and spreading over the floor. No.’
On her plateau high in what had once been called the Goodlund Peninsula, Malystryx roared in pleasure. Her mountain trembled, her volcanoes erupted, and the small army of red spawn who stood about her struggled to retain their balance.
“You are mine, Dhamon Grimwulf.” Malys cried in her sibilant inhuman voice. “Come to me, my pawn. And bring your enchanted weapon “
I am damned, Dhamon thought. As his feet rushed across the blood-covered floor, and his hands continued to burn, he caught a last glimpse of his fallen comrades. How many of them had he killed? How many were only injured? Feril? His feet were flying down the curving staircase, through the lower levels of the Citadel of Light, then across the shore and toward the longboat
From somewhere behind him his keen senses picked up more footfalls, a large man. The mariner. Rig still lived.
He jumped in the boat and pushed off from the shore, laying the glaive in the bottom of the boat. Dhamon was thankful to set aside the burning thing. The skin of his hands was cracked and red, but the Red forced them to close around the oars and to head out to the ship.
On the shore, he spotted the mariner. Rig was screaming something, vile words that he knew he deserved. The mariner charged into the water, fists raised and shouting. But the dark man couldn’t catch Dhamon, and eventually Rig retreated, returned to the Citadel and disappeared inside.
Dhamon was near the Flint’s Anvil now, could see the few deckhands at the rail. They were calling out questions, but the dragon ignored them, wouldn’t let Dhamon reply. She directed Dhamon to again grab the hurtful weapon, to aim it at the ship, at the waterline. Blow after blow landed against the prow, shattering the hull and eliciting cries from the startled deckhands. Again and again the glaive cleaved through the wood as if it were cloth. Water poured in, the ship listed. Only when the dragon was certain the ship was doomed and when a rain of arrows from an archer on deck started to fall upon the former knight, did she have Dhamon row away.
Come to me, she hissed. Come to the Peak of Malys. You are a most worthy pawn.
In the highest room in the Citadel of Light, Feril regained consciousness and crawled toward Blister. The kender lay unmoving, breathing awkwardly. Her lips were cracked and bleeding, her nose broken from Dhamon s kick. Feril shakily got to her feet
Fiona was unconscious, but at first glance seemed otherwise unhurt Goldmoon was dead. And Jasper….
Feril knelt by the dwarf. There was so much blood. The cut through his chest was deep. It had parted a couple of his rib bones and punctured a lung beneath. But somehow he lived, for the moment at least
“I know of healing magic, but I can’t do it alone,” the Kagonesti said softly. “Help me, Jasper.” She clutched his stubby fingers and brought them to his chest. She laid his hands across the wound, as he had laid them across Palin’s wound long weeks ago. She fought back the tears that filled her eyes. “Please help me, my friend.”
A few miles beyond the Citadel of Light, Groller and the old man examined a wide patch of ground. Fury sniffed about the perimeter, only occasionally raising his furry head and staring at Sageth. They were oblivious to what had trap-spued in Goldmoon’s room.
“Good you can’t hear me ” the old man tittered to Groller. He glanced at the tablet and spoke to it. “This spot will do nicely. It shouldn’t be long now.”
Chapter 23
Loose Ends
The blue dragon banked over the northern Wastes. The moon was so large and bright and low against the white sand that it cast the dragon’s shadow ahead of him. The silhouette passed over the ruined Bastion of Darkness, glided over a decimated barbarian village and a small oasis. The dragon smelled the fresh, sweet water below and idly considered stopping to quench his considerable thirst and to feast on the camels and riders he could also smell sleeping beneath the palms. But he decided such a luxury would have to wait
The dragon continued on toward a rocky rise, where a massive cave was partially hidden by the ridge’s shadow. Tucking his wings in close to his scaly body, he disappeared inside the cave, leaving behind the comforting warmth and accepting the cooler confines of the underground lair.
“Khellendros,” the blue dragon began. He lowered his sapphire head, showing proper homage.
“Gale ” Khellendros replied. “What has delayed you?”
The younger blue dragon related the tale of his battle with Dhamon Grimwulf, and how the human—his former partner—had wounded him seriously, blinded him. He had to rely on his other senses now, and on his rage, which was unstoppable. The dragon knew Dhamon Grimwulf lived, and he swore the man would die for leaving him in a world of darkness.
Behind Khellendros, a talon of Knights of Takhisis rested. They had managed to retrieve a set of crystalline keys, magic from the Age of Dreams. They listened intently as the younger dragon retold the story of plunging into the cold lake, sinking to its bottom and laying still for so long. He had expected to die, felt his blood and energy leave him, felt sadness and anger that his once-partner, whom he had considered a brother, delivered the killing blow. The dragon wanted to die in a glorious battle. He had been on duty in Northern Ergoth during the fighting in the Abyss, and had lived through the Chaos War. This death seemed such a waste.
It was perhaps those thoughts, he told Khellendros, that kept him alive. Gale stayed at the bottom of the lake for hours, the air stored in his great lungs keeping hint from drowning. He had sensed two humans and an elf standing on the shore of the lake, and he hadn’t wanted to crawl out while they were there and he was weak and at their mercy. So he waited until he was sure they were gone, then slowly made his way into the hills around Palanthas.
Gale spent months there, nursing his wounds and recovering his strength, sleeping for several weeks at a time and learning how to exist by his heightened senses of hearing and smell. Even now traces of the battle lingered. His eyes were fixed and pale. A scar stretched nearly two feet along the side of his neck. The cut had been deep, and the wound festered. No scales grew along the wound, and never would again. There were other scars, one near the base of his neck, another on his side where Dhamon had buried his sword up to its hilt and used it as a mountain climber would, lodging a piton in rock to haul himself up the creature’s back.