“We’ll help there,” Gilthanas offered. He pointed to the dragons. “We’ll take you to the edge of Onysablet’s realm. From there...”
“Let me guess. We’re on our own,” Rig grumbled.
Gilthanas nodded. The elf did not need to explain that the dragons would not prefer to venture into an overlord’s realm, at least one they were unfamiliar with.
At the edge of the gathering Fiona Quinti squared her shoulders. Though Groller towered over her, she looked tall and formidable, if haggard, in the silver plate of her Solamnic knighthood. Her mailed hands painted pictures in the air, as she did her best to explain to Groller what was about to transpire.
The half-ogre’s heavy brow knotted in thought. He looked up at the dragons, nodded, and swallowed hard.
It was the hazy hour before dawn, when the sky lightened just a little and the world seemed at its quietest. Usha stared out a window in the Tower of Wayreth. She drew her robe tight around her thin form, shivering from worry, not cold.
Blister was sleeping. Palin, too, had fallen asleep shortly after arriving a few hours ago. She hoped he would rest long enough to regain his energy.
She was exhausted, too, but couldn’t sleep. Her mind was too preoccupied with the Fist of E’li that Palin had told her about. She had traveled to the Qualinesti forest with Palin, Jasper, and Feril in search of the Fist. But she hadn’t accompanied them on the most dangerous part of the mission. When they had been caught by a band of distrustful, freedom-fighting elves, Usha had volunteered to stay with the elves as a hostage, insurance that her husband and the others were there for only one thing—the scepter—and proof that they were not spies for the green dragon overlord.
Something happened during her time with the elves. Something about the scepter. Something she was trying desperately to remember. Something, perhaps, that might help against the dragons.
2
A Gathering of Evil
The Storm Over Krynn sprawled just outside the mouth of his lair, basking in the late afternoon sun and idly studying his claw. Huma’s lance had left a crimson welt deep across his thick skin. The wound throbbed, though the blessed heat somewhat eased the pain. It had been a few weeks since the battle over the artifacts, time enough for the wound to heal—if it would ever heal. He had carried the hateful lance hundreds upon hundreds of miles to the Northern Wastes. Perhaps it had marked him eternally.
Khellendros knew he could live with the pain—a small price to pay in his quest to resurrect Kitiara’s spirit, and an unremitting memento of his easy triumph over the great Palin Majere. He smiled inwardly. It would be sweet to tell Kitiara of his victory, though even more sweet had she been there to share it with him.
“It will not be much longer. We shall be partners again,” he softly growled. “And I shall not let you die a second time.” The four artifacts were ensconced in his underground cave—along with numerous lesser magical treasures. The latter had been excavated recently as he resculpted his damaged lair. The walls in the section deepest below ground were heavily scored from lightning blasts given off by the dozens of dying spawn that were trapped when Majere and his fellows collapsed the lair. In his remodeling, the dragon had added new chambers, making room for the new spawn he was creating, and, most importantly, for Kitiara.
Kitiara would approve of this sanctuary, he decided, as he thrust his wounded claw in the sand and stared across the seemingly endless white expanse, broken only by the occasional cactus he had allowed to grow. She will approve, and together we shall...
A shadow fell across the sand, momentarily blocking the sun. Khellendros set his thoughts of Kitiara aside and glanced up to acknowledge the approach of Gale, his lieutenant. The smaller dragon glided to a landing several dozen yards from the overlord, sniffed the air to hone in on the Storm’s precise position, then slowly advanced.
“You desire my aid,” Gale hissed. The smaller blue brought his head to the ground in a show of respect.
Khellendros stared into his lieutenant’s eyes, sightless from a battle with Dhamon Grimwulf, and waited several beats to answer. “Follow me, Gale. We shall discuss things inside.”
The shadows of the overlord’s lair swallowed the massive dragons. The great chamber, barely large enough to hold the pair, was dimly lit along one wall by the light that spilled down the tunnel from the surface.
“Fissure!” Khellendros’s voice reverberated against the walls and caused the lair to vibrate. Sand filtered down through cracks in the ceiling, dusting the four artifacts laid out in the center of the chamber and covering the huldrefolk who had been gazing intently at the ancient magical items. The faerie took a few steps back.
“These treasures are not yours to trifle with,” the great dragon growled.
“I didn’t so much as touch them, O Portal Master,” the huldre answered. His form shimmered, and the sand disappeared from his features. “But I have been looking at them. Very closely. We should use them, Khellendros. Now. We shouldn’t wait and risk the chance that Malys might discover your great prizes and take them for herself. Gale is finally here, and he can watch over your realm while you and I are in The Gray. We should take them out on the sand this very night. Together we can...”
Khellendros’s rumble silenced the huldrefolk. “There remain a few things to attend to, faerie, before we dare open the portal.”
“Hmm, yes. Selecting a spawn for Kitiara.” The diminutive gray man scratched his smooth head. “Gale can do that, while you and I are visiting The Gray. You showed him how to train spawn. He can pick one out. There are more than a dozen to choose from.”
“I shall be certain a perfect spawn is ready before we leave for The Gray. I shall select the vessel.”
“Fine. And how long until you make this selection?” the huldre dared to insist.
“Gale will be training the few spawn below. He must also find more human females to serve as spawn. When the time is right, I shall select the most appropriate of them.”
The smaller blue dragon edged closer to the faerie, nostrils quivering to take in Fissure’s scent. He cocked his head and sniffed again, listening with ears that were increasingly an acute substitute for lost eyes. From farther in the cave came a skittering sound, at first no louder than the huldre’s beating heart, a definite clacking against the stone floor. Within moments the noise was loud enough to interrupt Khellendros and the huldre.
Two great scorpions, as black as night, scuttled forward out of the shadows. Their unblinking yellow eyes gleamed malevolently, and their pincers snapped open and shut.
“You wisssh sssomething,” they said in unison, their strange voices hissing like shifting sand. From their clawlike feet to the tip of their curved venomous tails, they stood a little taller than a man. Their hard, segmented bodies were long and thick, glistening like wet stone in the meager light.
“You will guard my lair while I am away,” Khellendros instructed the pair. “And you will make sure none of the spawn touch these.” He gestured at the lance, medallions, and crystal keys. “Do you understand?”
“Yesss Massster,” they replied. They skittered past the dragons, toward their post at the entrance to the lair.
“Away?” Fissure asked. “You’re going somewhere? Where?”
Khellendros narrowed his eyes. “Where I go is none of your concern, faerie.” The overlord turned toward Gale. “Malys desires my presence, and I would not like to give her cause to suspect my plans by refusing her. I shall be gone for some time. How long, I am not certain. But in that time...”
“I will train your spawn,” the lesser dragon finished.