Sargas smiled. “No, man of destiny. As I told you before, there are many gods. Just as I am the god of honor, there is a god of guile. Just as I am the god of evil, there is a god of good. And there are more. There are gods of creation, of destruction, of life and death. I will introduce them to you.”
A circle of beings appeared, forming a ring around Theros. They all shone with an inner radiance, though sometimes that brilliance was cloaked with darkness. Each god seemed to take on different forms, even as Theros stared at them. One was a dwarf in fancy clothing, another a horrible skeleton, hideous to look upon. One was a fat merchant, another a gentle creature with eyes like a doe.
“We are the gods of Krynn. We control all aspects of life. Two of the gods are not present. Paladine seeks to defeat the Queen of Darkness in her attempt to return to the world from which she and her dragons were long ago banished. They have taken physical form and are manipulating events in the great conflict to come.”
Sargas laughed. “As you may suspect, I am the Dark Queen’s champion and ally.”
Theros looked around at the circle of beings. Their power and majesty made it difficult for him to think. He wanted to do what was right, but he had no idea what that was.
“I will introduce to you the gods. I start with Gilean, God of Neutrality,” Sargas said.
A man stepped forward. He carried a large book in which he constantly wrote. He lifted his eyes, gazed at Theros briefly, and returned to his work.
“This mortal knows his true nature,” Gilean said. “You are right, Sargas. He must be free to choose.”
Sargas introduced the rest of the pantheon of neutral gods: Sirrion, the god of flame; Chislev, the goddess of nature; Zivilyn, the god of wisdom; Shinare, the goddess of wealth and money; and Lunitari, the god of neutral magic. Every one of them had something to offer Theros, if he would choose to serve him.
But none of them felt right to Theros. He respected them and understood that each was important, but none embodied what was in his heart. They did not represent what he knew himself to be. These were not the gods he could follow.
Sargas did not appear surprised. The last of the neutral gods he introduced was Reorx, the Forge.
“Reorx is the forger of creation and tools. I think you would be well suited to Reorx, Theros Ironfeld. You will become his follower.”
Reorx, a powerful dwarf in shining gold armor, rubbed his beard and thoughtfully regarded the big man. The dwarf shook his head.
“No, this man is not for me. I appreciate a master of steel and a forger of weapons, but he will not be a worshiper of mine.”
Sargas looked angry.
“He is my disciple, and until I release him, he goes where I send him.”
Reorx shook his head. “No, Sargas, this human is not your disciple. Mark my words, Sargas. Do not attempt to interfere.”
“He owes me his very life!” Sargas snarled. “He will obey me.”
Reorx stood his ground.
“You must let him choose, and choose freely. He will anyway, regardless of what you try to do.”
Sargas marched Theros around the circle, took him past the gods of evil. They offered Theros power, immortality, fabulous riches, dark magic. But they did not want mere worshipers. They wanted slaves.
Theros shook his head. One by one, the gods of neutrality and evil drifted into the gray, disappearing from sight.
Sargas introduced the remaining gods.
“This is Majere, the god of monks. Next to him is Kiri-Jolith, the god of warfare. He favors knights. Next, Habbakuk, the god of animals and the sea. Branchala is the god of music, and Solinari is the god of good magic.”
Theros’s gaze continued down the line. His heart felt rested, but still something about each was not quite right. Theros wanted nothing to do with magic, and he had little care or knowledge of animals. He continued looking until his eyes came to a woman who stood at the end of the line.
She was, at the same time, all women in his life, all women who had ever meant something to him. She was his loving mother. She was the charming Marissa. She was the courageous Telera. She was, strangely, the woman in the burning tree, clutching the baby. She was Tika, cool and calm in the midst of chaos. Theros felt drawn to this woman.
Sargas noticed his interest.
“This is Paladine’s companion and adviser, Mishakal. She is the goddess of healing and light.”
Theros began to cry. His lower lip quivered, his eyes filled with tears. He sank to his knees. He tried to cover his face with his hands, in spite of the fact that he had only one arm.
Mishakal stepped forward.
“He has made his choice now, Sargas. You have done well to teach him honor. Let him now rekindle that part of his soul he knew he had but could not develop.”
Sargas bowed and disappeared into the gray.
Mishakal knelt down in front of Theros and took him into her arms. She let him cry, cradling him, letting his anger and sorrow and fear and pain flow into her. She absorbed them all, and washed them away with Theros’s tears.
“Yes, Theros, your mother is a follower of mine. She rests in a very special place in my hall. She is to be honored for the work she did on the face of Krynn in her time, and for giving you the inner strength to pursue your own destiny.”
Theros looked up through tear-flooded eyes at the radiant woman.
“Theros,” she said softly, “do you have the will to live?”
His heart fluttered. Mishakal saw the spark of life within him, growing stronger by the moment.
“You must make the choice this day, Theros Ironfeld. You must choose what you will do. You may remain with me in my great hall and be with your mother. She sends her love and wants you to know that you have always been loved. She is proud of you.
“Or you can return to the world of the living. It will be difficult. You will go back to terrible pain, to the bitter knowledge that you are a cripple. You go back to a world torn apart by war. But you are a man of destiny, Theros, and you can make a difference there.”
Theros felt Mishakal’s peace soothe his heart and his soul. He made his choice.
* * * * *
Theros woke up to unbelievable pain and agony. The gray dome was gone. He was lying inside a cart drawn by two elk. The cart had metal bars, forming a cage. He groaned and tried to sit up, but firm hands pushed him back down.
The pain of his terrible wound was almost unbearable. He coughed, hacking up phlegm. He lifted his eyes and looked up to see a person bending over him.
It was a barbarian woman, the one he’d seen walking into Solace that night.
“Who are you?” Theros asked, dazed.
“I am called Goldmoon. I am a follower of the goddess Mishakal. She has restored you to life.”
Theros smiled and let himself drift into a healing sleep. Before he slept, he murmured something.
“What did he say?” asked a man known as Tanis Half-elven.
“You won’t believe this,” said a warrior known as Caramon. “I could swear he said, Thank you, Sargas!’ ”