Onysablet had been able to gain only one piece of ancient magic, a finely crafted long sword called the Sword of Elven Glory. To this, the great Black had added a considerable number of lesser magical items. In fact, she had offered everything magical she possessed, along with enchanted items taken from smaller dragons in her dark realm. She knew that under a new dragon goddess’s banner, she could collect more magic.
Khellendros’s offering, however, was the most auspicious, one he said was meant to honor the Queen of his Heart. Two Medallions of Faith topped the pile, once worn by the famed healer, Goldmoon. Crystal keys, able to negotiate any lock, glimmered orange in the sunset. The greatest prize, Huma’s lance, sat closest to the great blue dragon. It had pained the Storm Over Krynn to carry it here, further wounding a claw that was still red and scarred.
“When the sky is dark and the moon is full and high, haloed by storm clouds, I will ascend to godhood,” Malystryx began. “The night will herald a new goddess born to Krynn, the only goddess the land will know. I will lead you to a greatness you only dreamed of. And no one will stop us from claiming all of Krynn.”
“Malystryx,” Gellidus said, staring at Malys. The White bowed.
“The Dark Queen,” the others repeated.
“The stars will witness my rebirth,” she continued. “The stars will witness a new age. The Age of Dragons! The death of men!”
In the foothills beyond the plateau, Gilthanas held out the glaive. “I believe you can wield this weapon, Dhamon, much better than I.”
Rig’s brow furrowed. The mariner opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he saw Dhamon shake his head.
“I’d rather have no part of that particular weapon,” Dhamon replied. He patted a long sword that hung from his hip. “I’ll settle for this one.”
“I much prefer a sword myself, too,” Gilthanas added. “Rig?”
The mariner was quick to accept the glaive. A cutlass already hung from his left side, and at least a dozen daggers were visible sticking out of the leather sheaths that crisscrossed his chest. A few more pommels poked above his black boots. “I’d rather be using Sturm’s dragonlance,” he said, looking at Dhamon. “Unfortunately, it’s resting with the Anvil.” Under his breath, he added, “And I intend to retrieve that lance, if we manage to live through this experience.”
“Slings don’t work against dragons,” Blister observed, as she took a couple of Rig’s daggers. “But I don’t think these will do much either.”
Fiona, Groller, Veylona, and Usha carried swords and shields. All of the weapons had been provided by Palin, who had borrowed them from the magical treasure trove of the Tower of Wayreth. There was residual magic in all the blades, though not as much as that radiating from the glaive. Nonetheless, they might pierce a dragon’s tough hide.
The sorcerer was scarred from head to toe, hairless, and looking considerably older than his fifty-odd years. But determination sparkled in his eyes, and Dalamar’s ring gleamed on his finger. He had intended to send Usha back to the tower, knowing this was no place for someone not trained as a fighter and unable to cast spells. But after looking into her golden eyes and seeing her firmly set jaw—and after explaining what had happened at Ariakan’s Rest—he knew better than to order her away. They would live or die together this day. She had faced Chaos in the Abyss. How could she not be a part of this battle that would play as pivotal a role in determining Krynn’s fate?
Palin only wished Ulin had joined them. He’d had no contact with his son since the day Ulin left the tower with the gold dragon. However, he knew a force of good dragons was headed this way and would soon fill the sky, Knights of Solamnia on silvers for certain. Perhaps Ulin would be among them.
Feril wore the Crown of Tides, telling Palin she needed no other weapon. She had used it to sink several Knights of Takhisis ships that tried to prevent them from landing near Port Balifor, and she would continue to use it to augment her spells.
Jasper carried the Fist of E’li. No one argued with the dwarf’s right to wield it.
Silvara and Gilthanas had provided information about the gathered dragons, and about the armies that were camped around the base of the plateau. Silvara assured them that there were indeed many good dragons on their way, ones she personally knew who would offer their lives to prevent Takhisis from returning to Krynn.
“This is suicide,” Gilthanas whispered to Palin, as he pulled the sorcerer aside. “The armies here alone are too much for us to handle, let alone five dragon overlords and two lieutenants—and Takhisis is coming too. Suicide, my friend.”
Palin nodded, gesturing toward the others. He held his wife’s gaze. “They know it too,” he said. “But not to try...”
“... is to willingly hand all of Krynn over to the dragons. I know. And that would be suicide, too,” the elf said. “Silvara and I will wait until the sun is down, then take to the sky. We’ll watch for you to reach the plateau.”
“And if we don’t...”
Gilthanas ran his fingers along his sword’s pommel. “Then Silvara and I will begin the fight.” Much softer, he added, “And join Goldmoon’s spirit far earlier than we had planned.” Sorcerer and elf clasped hands. Several moments later, Silvara and Gilthanas were gone.
The small group worked its way along a trail that led between the foothills and toward the mountaintop plateau. Blister fretted as they neared the place. “The Knights of Takhisis,” she muttered. “A sea of black. It makes my fingers itch. I don’t see any goblins yet, or hobgoblins or ogres or draconians like Silvara and Gilthanas noticed when they were scouting around. And who knows what else is really there? How are we gonna get by all that? Walk?”
“Of course,” Palin returned. His thumb played against Dalamar’s ring.
Within moments, they all resembled Knights of Takhisis, all tall and human. Even Fury, although he could not help but paw at the ground and constantly sniff the air, was clad in black armor. The only clue to the others’ identities was the color of hair that spilled out from beneath their helmets.
“This gives me the creeps,” Rig said to Fiona, as he looked down at the skull emblem on his black breastplate. His fingers traced the design, and he cocked his head toward Palin. He hadn’t felt metal. Instead he felt the smooth skin of his chest and the daggers strapped there.
“It’s a mask,” the sorcerer said by way of explanation. “An elaborate one, which we should pray those armies can’t see through.”
“Wow!” Blister squealed. She was admiring her gleaming armor and gauntlets. “I look wonderful!” Then she instantly frowned. The spell certainly made her look impressive, but her voice sounded just the same.
“The mask is for appearances only,” Palin said. “Be careful not to speak. That could give us away.”
Blister nodded. The red-haired knight growled softly and stopped pawing.
Dhamon led the way through the first encampment. Several dozen knights were stationed on the outer rim, but none paid the masked group any attention. They were more interested in the feast being prepared. Several large pigs were roasting on spits, and barbarians from some of the local Khur villages were passing around bread and cheese.
It was but the first of several camps they passed through, each roughly the same size and each characterized by the same celebratory atmosphere. Yet there was no ale or mead, Dhamon noted, nothing that would dull the knights’ senses.
The goblin armies were another matter. Drums pounded out an odd rhythm, and the youngest goblin warriors danced around tables heavy with food. Barrels of something pungent and fermented were conspicuous. Dhamon found the least-crowded paths through these camps and hurried toward the plateau, the others following. He didn’t want to risk a drunken goblin bumping into Blister or Jasper and seeing through Palin’s mask. He also avoided the camps of the ogres and draconians they spotted.