By: Romesh Prakashpalan
Beware! Very Rough First Draft, Unedited!
Revised: 07-26-2002
Latest Revision at: http://home.earthlink.net/~prakash/Personal/Dragonlance
BackgroundThis story takes place after the War Of the Lance, and around the time of the beginning of the Legends Trilogy.
Chapter I –Why socks are a good idea
Matila Trapbaiter scrambled up the muddy hill. The wind whipped around her frightfully, and the very trees seemed to hurl their leaves at her face as she stomped in the damp soil. The goblins were closing in on her awful fast, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could keep them from catching up to her.
She honestly didn't understand what the fuss was about. She practically saved them from the glowing staff she found hanging in their chieftain's hut. After all, it could have fallen down and conked that ugly brute in the head while he slept! Think of the headache he'd have had in the morning! That was the problem with goblins her father would oft tell her: they just had no gratitude! You could save them from all of the sharp pointy objects they loved to collect, and they'd chase you down like a common animal!
Matila had just been afflicted with the kender "condition" known as wanderlust. Having traveled with her parents all her life, (until they had settled down in Kendermore) she was an experienced traveler. She stood a bit shorter than the average female kender, and had braided auburn hair that reached her knees and the soft brown eyes of an innocent baby doe. She resembled a human child with the pointy ears of an elf. Neither race would ever lay a claim upon her however.
Huffing and puffing, she reached into her tan vest and produced the staff that had caused this whole ruckus with the goblins. She had been amazed to find that the staff had shrunk to fit into the palm of her hand when she grasped it. The otherwise plain wooden staff was embossed with runes of magic across it. They had glowed softly when she had first taken a hold of it.
Now, something whispered to her as she held it. The language was incomprehensible to her, yet seemed urgent. "Umm, my name is Matila," she panted to the staff as she dodged a tree, "I can't really understand what you're saying… but if you can speak Common, I could use some help in getting away from here!"
"I once heard that Uncle Trapspringer was magicked away to a moon," she thought absently, as she scurried past a boulder. "I wonder if this staff can do the same for me!" In a commanding voice, she went into her Intense Look, and commanded, "FLY ME TO THE MOON!" She paused for a moment, and looked at the staff. Nothing seemed to be happening. "Well," she said a bit disappointedly, "I guess you aren't up for it right now, but as soon as you learn Common, we're gonna have to sit down and talk!" Putting away the staff, she heard a distant voice that just happened to be speaking Common.
Bringing the staff out once more, she exclaimed, "You can speak Common!!" Still, all she got was the same whispering of an incomprehensible tongue. Looking confused, she realized that the voice she was hearing was coming from up on top of the hill and wasn't coming from the staff. "Oh, sorry! My confusion. But maybe I can find a teacher for you and you can sit down and learn the Common tongue!" This cheered her up immeasurably, for not only had she solved her problem with the staff, but a voice up ahead could also mean someone to take care of the pesky goblins behind her.
***
Gulam saw the vermin run just ahead of his scouting party. Having discovered his prized staff missing in the morning, he had tracked this miserable kender to a nearby stream where she was gleefully chasing after a beleaguered duck. He and his scouting party of five veteran trackers had given chase through the woods and up this hill.
He was in a foul mood, for not only had the kender stolen his prized staff, but she'd also rearranged his armor and taken the only pair of socks he owned! His feet were now chafing in his leather boots. Gulam prized himself on bringing some modicum of civilization to his tribe, and this was an outrage as far as he was concerned!
Now, the kender seemed to be tiring -- and while she had given his party a good chase, he had no doubts what the outcome would be. His men were accustomed to tracking for days on end; she would fall into their clutches very shortly. He would take great pleasure in tormenting that one for days before death claimed her! Drawing his foul broadsword he screamed with bloodlust and charged the scampering creature as she disappeared over the top of the hill… and almost tripped over his (sock-less) feet when he saw Solamnic knights in front of him!
They were currently in the throes of securing their belongings (seeing a kender burst amongst you did that to most people) but after hearing the goblin's bloodthirsty cry they had grabbed their swords and released their purses. Instead of finding a lone kender, Gulam now stood almost face to face with 4 well-armed Knights of Solamnia!
Goblins are known for many things, courage not being one of them. A lone kender he could handle, a party of unaware adventurers he could lie in wait and ambush; and being braver than most goblins, he would even take on a group of drunken dwarves. Armored knights with gleaming swords and years of formal training were another. He turned and ran, cursing the kender and the itchy, blistered feet that came from having no socks.
***
The Solamnics had no love for goblins, and were it up to them, they would have been eradicated eons ago. Fortunately for the goblins, one world shattering war after another seemed to occupy the knights' time. Seeing the goblins run away at full speed, and lacking horses themselves, the knights did not pursue. For there was no telling if they could end up in a nest of the creatures.
The commander of the knights, a middle aged well-built man turned his gaze back to the kender once he had satisfied himself that the goblins had run off; and saw that she was looking at them in fascination, her eyes twinkling.
"Well kender, it would appear as if your pursuers have decided to give you a reprieve," he said, all the while taking stock of his possessions. "Are you injured or in need of any aid?" he asked somewhat hesitantly, doing his duty as the Measure expected him to, but hesitant to be around the company of a kender nonetheless.
Matila offered her hand to him, "My name is Matila Trapbaiter, what's yours?" Keeping her hand thrust out, she slowly lowered it after noticing that the knight wasn't about to accept it.
"My name is Commander Micel Dargan, Knight of the Sword," he replied. "If you are not in need of any assistance then I bid you farewell, as my company and I are patrolling the borders of Talador against elements of the Dragonarmies."
"Oh, Talador, is that where I am?" asked Matila not thinking she had come this far north in her travels. Micel nodded once. "Well, I need to find a teacher to teach my staff Common, Talador should have some sort of school that I can enroll it in."
She waved at the knights, "Thanks for the help guys, and by the way I think you dropped your pretty dagger." She tossed a dagger towards Micel, whose handle was engraved with the image of a sleek kingfisher. Smiling and waving furiously, she skipped towards the dirt path that would lead her to Talador.
Looking at her (and checking to make sure nothing else of his was missing), Micel shook his head and prayed to Paladine to look after the town.
Chapter II – Those who can...
Potan sighed as he inspected his students' homework. A dark skinned mage of Solinari in his early thirties, he had the kind face and demeanor of an instructor who cherished the young souls that he molded. Early on in his career, Potan had chosen the humble path of a schoolmaster instead of archmage. In truth, imparting knowledge to others was far more important to him than the quest for power. He had always had an infectious way of getting others excited about learning, even his fellow peers at the academy. But when the Conclave assigned him to this backwoods town of bumbling farmers and peasants he had almost torn his jet-black hair out! These children were more interested in learning about the breeding habits of frogs in the creek than the proper inflections of the syllables of the language of magic!
Fortunately, as Potan fervently believed – everyone could enjoy learning and bettering themselves. After a few weeks, the students had taken a shine to learning, and while they were still a bit clumsy in their formulations, they were getting better. Still, as he mused, a snail's pace is better than none at all.
A commotion outside of the door shook him from his reverie. His apprentice Johan was arguing (while grasping all of his pouches) with a kender outside his office. Thinking this a curious sight, he went to see what the commotion was about.
"I tell you madam, we don't… I mean... can't teach kender!" an exasperated Johan exclaimed, "the ways of magic are forbidden to your race."
"I don't want you to teach me magic, I want you to teach my staff Common!" an equally exasperated Matila exclaimed. "I can pay you!" she reached into her pouches, grabbing some gumdrops and tossing them aside, found some steel coins. Thrusting them at him, she seemed confused by his unwillingness to accept them. The sight of a kender paying for anything was rare enough, but the sight of a kender attempting to buy tuition at a school of magic was beyond Johan. Fortunately for him, Master Potan arrived at the scene.
"Come now Johan, what seems to be the problem?" asked Potan. "Surely a lone kender hasn't gotten you tongue tied has she?" Johan bowed respectfully to his master, and replied, "Master Potan, she requests that her staff," he sniffed disdainfully at this, "would like to learn the Common tongue." "I informed her that she would find no such tutelage at our academy for magic." He glared at the kender, who seemed to be regarding him as the simpleton!
"You did well Johan, now please go inside and prepare the spell components for this evening's class. I'll take care of this matter." Potan looked bemusedly at the whole scene.
Bowing once more, Johan gladly disappeared inside of the school.
Potan had never really met a kender face to face before. He knew of them, their reputation and the endless mischief they seemed to delight in. This one however seemed to be deadly serious about this staff that needed tutelage.
"Your apprentice is a nice boy, but you should work with him more on his language skills I think. He didn't seem to understand a word I was saying," said Matila while nodding sagely.
Hiding a smile, Potan asked, "Well madam, what exactly is the problem with your staff? I'm afraid we don't teach Common here; you're going to have to find a… "
"My staff, it needs to learn Common – and I already asked the school. They sent me to you since they said something about the staff being magic and runes." Thrusting her hand into her vest she produced the staff.
Potan's eyes lit up as he eyed the staff. Looking at it eagerly, he gestured to Matila, "May I?" Matila shrugged and handed it to him.
"It tries talking to me, but in a weird language. I was thinking that if someone taught it how to speak Common, I could understand it," said Matila, half exasperated. Kender typically didn't have the patience or presence of mind to keep at a single task for very long Potan knew. And this task seems to have driven her quite a bit longer than most kender would have the discipline to.
Grasping a hold of the shrunken staff, Potan looked at it curiously. To his amazement, once in his hand, it grew to be six feet tall! Runes of power glowed a slight red and faded away after the staff reached its full size. Being away from any sort of real magic for so long, he thrilled at the tingle of magical energy contained within the staff.
Holding the staff in his hands, he then noticed the Voice. Potan knew this language; it was the very language of the gods themselves. Sometimes while meditating, Solinari would make his presence known to him. When Potan didn't have the clarity to reach out to the god, Solinari would sound like this. This was obviously a blessed artifact of some god. Potan didn't think it was a god of magic however, as he looked across the staff. Finding a set of runes near the middle of the staff, he looked at them intently. "M-A-J-E-R-E – ah ha!" Potan exclaimed, having found a piece of the puzzle. "This staff is dedicated to the god Majere," he said looking at the kender.
"Well, can it learn Common?" asked Matila, eyeing the staff with renewed interest. Smiling at her, Potan replied, "I'm not sure if it can learn Common, however I think we can find someone who can understand it."
He looked at her intently, trying to make up his mind whether to snatch the staff and take it to the nearby Temple of Paladine by himself. Looking at the kender, who was scratching the back of her leg with her other foot (she looked for all the world like an innocent ten year old child), he couldn't in good conscience abscond with the magical item.
Saying the words he felt he would regret very shortly, he asked, "Would you like to accompany me to the Temple of Paladine so that we can ask their help in decoding the Mystery Of the Staff?" Matila's eyes shone brightly, "Sure thing! But my mom always said adventurers must always introduce each other before undertaking Important Missions."
She thrust her hand out, "My name is Matila Trapbaiter!" Taking her hand, Potan announced solemnly, "And my name gallant lady, is Potan Minam."
She reached out for the staff with her other hand, "And I think I'll call this fellow Staffopolous! I'll be glad when I can talk to him. He's sure to have some stories! Maybe even have a recipe or two for raisin pie. My father, he sure could cook the greatest raisin pie. Why in the wintertime he organized a festival of raisins. Problem was, most of the other kender didn't know about the festival so we had to eat about fifteen raisin pies apiece. Something about wasting not and wanting not…"
Potan sighed as he let the kender prattle off her inane tale, wondering exactly what he had gotten himself into.
Chapter III – God of Inner Light
Maegan sat in contemplation in the hastily erected Temple of Paladine. She had recently heard the call of the god, and had journeyed many miles through treacherous terrain to come to the temple despite her parents' pleadings not to. Paladine had appeared to her in a vision, warning her that the Queen of Darkness's foul evil was spreading like wildfire through the land, and though the War of the Lance had concluded, evil still lay in wait, biding its time as it had for time immemorial.
Good, he told her was a multifaceted thing. More than the worship and understanding of Mishakal and Paladine, the two gods whose worship had spread the most during the War, was required. If Good was to flourish once more upon the land and prevent another Kingpriest of Istar, the other gods needed followers of their own ideologies.
What this had to do with her, she had no idea. She had to only trust in the wisdom of the god that she held dear. Clutching the medallion that hung around her neck, upon which the likeness of a platinum dragon was emblazoned – she felt her entire being grow peaceful as the warm glow of the god enveloped her. Paladine was with her; that alone was important. He would guide her to do what was necessary.
Brushing her long dark blonde hair out of her face, her heart almost jumped out of her throat as she saw a kender (!) trying to climb the Platinum Dragon statue dedicated to Paladine in the courtyard. Frantically, a white robed mage cried out to the kender, who with a big grin jumped down into his arms. The two of them crashed to the ground.
"Whee! That was fun!!!" exclaimed the kender with a shout, stepping over the mage who was trying to ward off her feet from his face. "Let's do it again!!" Grasping a hold of the kender by her collar the white robed mage looked at her sternly, "Remember Matila, we're here on an important mission!"
Matila got up slowly, even solemnly. "You're right, Staffopolous is probably getting awfully lonely not being able to talk to anyone. The sooner we can understand him, the better." Picking herself up and gathering her pouches she got up and waited rather impatiently for Potan to get up on his feet.
"Welcome to the Temple of Paladine travelers. May Paladine's grace be with you," announced Maegan as she walked out to the courtyard. She eyed the kender. "When a mage and a kender travel together, dire things must be happening in the land," she smiled. "What can I do for you?" she asked.
"Greetings Revered Daughter of Paladine," bowed Potan. "My…" he searched for the right words, "…companion… has come across a staff that I believe is consecrated to the god Majere."
"Neither I nor the kender can understand it, but I believe it is a conduit to the god himself." Potan gestured to Matila who produced the staff from her vest. In his hands it once again grew to be six feet tall.
Maegan looked at the staff eagerly. This had to be a sign from Paladine himself! These two enter the temple grounds bearing a staff dedicated to a god of light other than Paladine or Mishakal. It had to be a sign from Paladine.
Fingers trembling, she nervously reached out for the staff, and then all was light.
***
Before her, Maegan saw the face of a god. It wasn't the face of Paladine, whom she would recognize instantly; no matter what guise he took. Instead this was the face of another god, and while she didn't know him, she was overwhelmed with incredible reverence and love.
"Rise, Revered Daughter of Paladine," the voice commanded gently. "I am Majere, friend of Paladine."
"Majere," Maegan kneeled before him and lowered her head in the utmost reverence – recognizing the name of Paladine's most trusted friend, "I am at your service milord, merely speak what it is that you want of me and it shall be done."
At this the god smiled, a loving smile that filled her being with warmth. "I am in need of followers, Revered Daughter – those who will seek to understand my ways and enrich their lives and the lives of others with another facet of Good."
"Go forth to the town of Istandil, and you shall find a young introspective boy. He has been chosen to be my first worshiper in this new Age. He is a quiet boy, whose quiet life of solitude is about to come to a most violent end. Go find him and present to him my staff."
"Do this in the service of Paladine and for all that is good Revered Daughter. And may your thoughts always guide you down the path of the light," the god spoke as his image faded before Maegan could ask him anything further.
Then, just as suddenly, the darkness comfortably stole away the glare of the god's light.
***
Maegan awoke suddenly to find that she was lying on the courtyard grass. Feeling the warm glow of the god's presence slowly leave her, she got up groggily from her stupor. Reaching out for the mage's hand she pulled herself up.
"Revered Daughter! Are you all right?" asked Potan in concern.
"Neat! How did you get Staffopolous do that?" cried out Matila. Potan silenced her with a withering glance as he looked back at Maegan to make sure she was okay.
Maegan mumbled, "Istandil… Majere… seeks… boy… follower". She shook her head to clear her thoughts. "I'm very tired," she said suddenly, feeling drained like never before.
"Could you please escort me back to the temple Sir Mage?" she wearily asked Potan. Potan nodded humbly, as he grabbed her hand. Guiding them back into the temple, she smiled at the two, "Once I'm up for it, I have a lot to speak to the clergy about. I'd also love to hear how you two came to find the Staff of Majere."
Seeing Matila about to open her mouth, Potan silenced her with a hand over her mouth, and then looked back at Maegan. "It can wait milady, we will wait until you are well."
Seeing the trio enter the temple, a young acolyte rushed over, "Lady Marek! What has happened?"
"I am… feeling faint Thomas, I am going to my quarters to rest. But once I am up, I wish to speak to Revered Son Julian about something of dreadful importance."
"Can you please see to it that our guests," she gestured to Potan and Matila (whose mouth was being held tightly by Potan, even has he supported Maegan), "to the guest quarters, they have information and a holy relic that Revered Son Julian will want to see."
Looking at Potan and Matila (especially) uncomfortably, Thomas nodded, "As your wishes dictate Revered Daughter." The thought of a magic user (for even though he wore the white robes of Solinari, magic users and the clergy didn't see eye to eye on many issues) and most especially a kender (!) in the Temple of Paladine didn't seem to sit well with him.
However, the Revered Daughter (though ill) had requested it of him, and far be it for him to pass judgment. He could only hope that Revered Son Julian would be done with this business quickly, for the young Church sure couldn't afford to have a kender around!
Chapter IV – The Siege
Kurt ran down the street as fast as his feet would take him. The town of Istandil was under siege by the Dragonarmies, though that really didn't concern him at the moment. It was a town important enough for the Knights to defend, but not important enough for the Knights to defend well. As such there were no good dragons in the sky to ward off the raids of the evil blues that would descend down and terrorize the public. There were no dragonlances that would be used to stop their reign of terror.
The knights and the town's defenders barely kept the Dragonarmies at bay, as their numbers stretched to the limits. It was this fact, more than anything else that made them (with much trepidation) partner with the gnomes of Mount Nevermind, and agree to use some of their new anti-dragon weaponry against the blues.
This was why Kurt was running. Rock had been fed into the gigantic Smelt-o'matic machine that the gnomes had created, and in theory it was supposed to melt down the rock and fire a stream of molten magma at its target, which if the cannon was aimed correctly should take it down. Unfortunately, this first firing did far more damage than a blue dragon could think of doing in a whole afternoon. A tenth of the town was now on fire from the cannon spewing molten rock in every direction.
It did however succeed in driving the hideous blue away. So surprised was she at this onslaught of molten rock being hurled every which way (some rock fragments tearing her wings), that she fled, never once looking back. This caused those remaining gnomes who had survived to declare victory, even as they decimated a good portion of the city they were defending. A few were sure that they and their ancestor's places were secured in the afterlife, as their Life Quests were fulfilled. Needless to say, the rest of the town didn't agree with the gnomes' assessments.
Kurt attempted to flee the carnage, but everywhere he turned more devastation was present. Pausing under the windowsill of a now deserted bakery, he tried to catch his breath. Were he sardonic, he might reflect on the ironic nature of the shop he took refuge in, as it was however, he was only concerned with his next step. His reprieve was short lasting however, as flames from a nearby house spread its way towards the bakery in short time.
A young boy of but 12 seasons, Kurt's family came from mercenary stock, though one would never imagine it by looking at him. His family in fact was quite pleased to leave him alone, disappointment that he was to them. While his family took delight in the fine art of warfare, Kurt was far more interested in eclectic things: He delighted in simply, well, watching the grass grow. He could stare for interest at the fire burning, watching the tendrils of flame lick the night air. He would watch the leaves of a tree tumble down in the autumn breeze.
These things, the things of nature and of quiet introspection were his world. Swords and armor and noisy horses were not all that interesting to him. His father, who was convinced of the boy's talent in swordsmanship, attempted to introduce him to the art when he was a young lad. Those lessons had gone nowhere, the boy's mind being drawn elsewhere. Giving up in frustration, his father had drawn away from the boy. Hardly even addressing him any longer, he for the most part ignored the lad. Kurt thought he should feel sad at the lack of connection between him and his family, but for some reason he didn't. It wasn't that Kurt was emotionally vacuous. Rather, he knew that he didn't belong to this clan, and perhaps if they only took the time to understand him, there might be more of a connection. As it stood however, there was simply nothing between them.
Turning down the street once more in a gallant run, Kurt sped to his parent's modest home on the corner of Kimal and Banover streets. Not expecting anyone home, since his parents were both defending the city against the Dragonarmies, he unlatched the gate to the two story house that his mother had lovingly built before he was born.
Running into their dwelling, he was about to dart upstairs, prepared to save all of his family's worldly belongings before the fire ravaged their home. The next sight he encountered would never leave his memory.
On the floor that she had herself laid years ago, he saw his mother lying on a cot, her stomach ripped open as a young healer attempted to keep her innards together. Her husband, Kurt's father, was kneeling next to his wife, tears brimming his eyes as he looked chokingly upon his wife's visage as she lay on her deathbed. His blood stained hands clasped hers, even as it was apparent that the life was seeping out of her.
"M-m-mother?" Kurt stumbled as he walked towards his mother. His father and the healer both turned to look at Kurt as he walked towards his dying mother. His father's face quickly turned back to his wife, dismissive of the son that had no real connection with either him or her. His mother struggled to lift her head, looking at him with eyes that never had known a real motherly bond with her child. Then, suddenly, her eyes shut, her last thoughts of regret that she had never really known this son of hers, and that she could have made the effort to reach out to him in life. As death slowly took her, she made a vow to wait for him in the next life…
Kurt's father brokenly sobbed as his wife's heart stilled, the healer already rising from her body, as there were many more souls in the city needing her aid this day. Wiping away his tears, and with bloodshot eyes, his father got up wearily. "I… must be back at the front lines." Turning to the young woman, he said, "Your presence was much appreciated here Healer," and reaching into his belt he took out a handful of steel coins, "…here, payment for your services." Turning back to the body, he gritted his teeth. "Could you…" at this he faltered as he fought the tears threatening to rise once again, "…have someone take care of the necessary arrangements?"
The healer nodded once, "I know what needs to be done sir, the living need your skills in defense of our town, I know those who will tend to the dead."
Kurt's father nodded once, and then walked past his son and out the door without another word.
That was the last time Kurt ever saw his parents.
Chapter V – A Balance of Sorts is Reached
Revered Son Julian was officially the head of the Church in Talador. Having met the cleric Elistan years ago, he had been touched by the man and his faith in the old gods. Now, he found his time consumed less by matters of faith and more with matters of economics.
The population was still slow in embracing the gods of old, keeping the coffers quite low. How Julian was supposed to keep the clerics fed, the lawns manicured and the church services held was a problem that was growing larger everyday. At this rate, the church would be broke within a year.
Rubbing his eyes wearily as he worked on the church ledger, he did his best to use his faith in Paladine to assuage his fears. Putting his pen down, he was about to blow out the candle at his desk when he heard a soft knock at his door.
"Revered Son?" came the voice hesitantly.
Julian recognized the voice of Thomas, one of the acolytes who in his opinion would make a better bureaucrat than cleric. That however, was for Paladine and not Julian to decide. Still, Julian told himself, the boy had a good heart.
"Come in Thomas," replied Julian, doing his best to compose himself in a manner befitting a Revered Son of Paladine.
The door opened creaked and opened slowly as Thomas respectfully entered Julian's humble quarters.
"I hate to bother you at this hour Revered Son," bowed Thomas respectively. Julian dismissed this casually with a wave of his hand. "But, Revered Daughter Maegan has had… an encounter with a blessed artifact of Majere. She is recovering in her quarters right now, but is requesting a journey to the town of Istandil, where she claims she will find a follower of Majere to present the staff to."
Julian furrowed his brow in concern, "Is the Revered Daughter okay?"
"She seemed a bit dazed by her encounter, nothing more. She was in a trance for but a minute, but when she recovered she claimed that the god had spoken to her and given her this task."
Julian thought to himself for a moment, "And she feels strongly about this quest of hers?"
"I believe so Revered Son, she had requested a leave of absence as soon as possible. She seemed quite adamant, though I'd be curious to see what her state of mind is once she has had some rest."
Julian agreed. The gods did preach free will as the best course of action, though Julian knew that going from Talador to the town of Istandil was no small trek. In fact, the Dragonarmies were currently laying the town to siege. Getting in would be no small feat, and if she could, it would be a miracle worthy of Paladine himself.
"Let me know when she has awoken Thomas, I'd like to have a word with the Revered Daughter about her quest and I'd like to see this artifact of Majere," Julian announced, turning back to the ledger.
Bowing, Thomas stepped out of the room and gently shut the door as it squeaked close. Looking at the door in annoyance, the Revered Son turned his attention back to the budget, and making some adjustments, he smiled in relief.
Eliminating the Revered Daughter's expenses from the ledger, if only for a few months would greatly ease his burden. The gods indeed worked in mysterious ways.
Another knock came from the door. Feeling in better spirits, Julian announced, "Yes?"
"Oh, and Revered Son… the two who brought the staff have been given guest quarters while Revered Daughter Maegan recovers."
"Well of course, that is only proper, see to it that they are given something to partake of, and that they are comfortable," replied Julian.
"Yes Revered Son, …and Revered Son…"
"Yes?"
"One of them is a kender."
At this,
Julian's elation at balancing the ledger completely evaporated.
Chapter VI – A Very Bad
Day
Commander Joak's day was going poorly. First, the cursed Blue had refused orders to perform further reconnaissance over the town after coming back like a whelping pup, and now word was coming back that a good portion of the town had been destroyed! While ordinarily this would be good news, Joak had orders from the Dark Lady to capture the town relatively intact. That was why he had not ordered a full assault on the town by the blues. Not yet anyway.
Joak was not a very patient man; he was one who loved the fast life. In his thirty seasons on Krynn he advanced very quickly in whatever endeavor he found himself in. The Dark Lady admired this in him; in fact she had given him his "promotion" to the full rank of Commander personally. Perhaps it was overcompensation for his name that drove him to this lifestyle. As a child, children (and adults) would pronounce his name "joke", while it was supposed to be uttered, "joe-ack". The first man he killed had refused to pronounce his name correctly.
No one made fun of Commander Joak's name any longer. Not to his face at any rate.
Why the Dark Lady, knowing his traits of fast lightning quick conquest had given him this task of a slow siege was beyond him. While it had only taken him relatively few years to rise in the ranks, Joak knew it would be a quick tumble down to the torture chambers if he displeased her. He'd just have to adapt to this maddening situation.
Rubbing his forehead, he looked out at the horizon. The fires ravaging Istandil burned still. The Dark Lady was not likely to care that the town's ravaging fire was not caused by his actions; to her it was only enough that her desired objectives were followed. She would not be pleased at such wholesale devastation in this town he was to deliver to her intact.
"Damn it all!" he muttered. Turning around he exited his tent and looked down on the town. Istandil's defenders were not numerous, but they fought well. The blasted gnomes had also provided unexpected assistance; by his account it would be a few weeks yet before he could even enter the town. The Dark Lady had said that Istandil was important to the cause, but would not reveal anything more when pressed. Instead, all he got was a cold glare and a harsh rebuke not to question orders.
A shift in strategy was required. The town had already succumbed to massive destruction, though through no fault of his. He might as well end this silly farce of a siege with all of the resources at his disposal. With a smirk, he walked briskly back into his tent and sent for a messenger. His day was rapidly improving.
***
The gnomes helping defend Istandil were holding an emergency council session. Fixesitwithaplombandsometimescorrectly (or Fix as he was known to humans) clutched his singed hands. The Smelt-o'matic had worked! Unfortunately there was a problem with the calibration of the exhaust fan with the smelting mechanism, causing a tremendous backfire and explosion. The Smelt-o'matic would have to be completely replaced. More important to the gnomes right now however was how the fire was to be stopped. Some advocated using the remnants of the Smelt-o'matic to create another grander explosion in which the fire would be stopped due to the virtue of having nothing else to feed upon. Fix wasn't too sure, but he felt something was wrong with this idea. This was one thing that separated Fix from his brethren. They always thought that his ideas were, well too conservative and didn't push the boundaries of science as far as it should. Some even muttered under their breath that he might have human, and the crueler among them would even speculate: elven blood in him!
At this moment however, Fix was in charge of the council as he was in charge of well, fixing things. His solution involved the Squirt-master, which was an invention of a cousin of his. While the original Squirt-master had several problems (it once accidentally sucked all of the air out of Mount Nevermind) the improved Mark XXIV model that Fix had worked on functioned fairly reliably.
He was going to requisition one and connect it to the water supply in the town. It should arrive by his estimation within two to eight weeks depending on shipping times and costs from Mount Nevermind. Unfortunately, he'd never get the chance to put in the requisition orders.
The flight of blues attacked at that moment. Feeling a fear deep in the pit of his stomach, Fix started to tremble. Buckling, and falling to all fours he momentarily attempted to analyze this sensation of overwhelming fear that struck to his core. Feeling the bile rise to his throat, he turned blurry eyes to the heavens where they wheeled in all of their majesty and grace. His last thought before the dragonfear completely overwhelmed him was, "Whatoptimallydesignedcreaturesthesedragonsare!"
***
Kurt stood outside the shambles of his house. Watching the fires slowly engulf the structure, he saw all that remained of his material life float away, carried on the breeze and consumed by the flames that threatened to destroy the entire city. What senselessness this all was he thought. Standing outside, he strangely felt at peace, connected with something greater – something more tranquil.
Then, he felt the fear engulf him. Kurt had felt the dragonfear once before, when he had wandered outside of the city to sit and quietly contemplate his existence. Feeling the fear envelop him then, he saw a blue soar among the clouds on a reconnaissance mission.
The fear then was slight compared to this however. Despite his best efforts, Kurt was overwhelmed with the fear generated from the dragons. Sleek, powerful and majestic, they were a sight of both awe and revulsion.
The lead blue snarled, no more than half a mile away, and opened its mouth impossibly wide. Even at this distance, he felt it suck in all of the air around it! Kurt then heard the crackle of thunder and the blinding discharge of lightning, followed quickly by a booming explosion as the dragon shattered a dwelling. The two dragons wheeling behind it tucked their wings behind them and dived into the city. Hearing screams, Kurt attempted to look away but was mesmerized; seeing the dragons snatch up men, women and children in their gaping maws.
When he could take it no more, he ran. He knew there was no place in the town he could hide from the dragons. He could only hope that it would be over soon.
***
Argus Trinival ducked down on the embattlements of city hall. One of the few remaining defenders of the town, he had seen the dragons swoop down upon the ravaged remnants of the city, and had been ordered here to city hall for one last reckoning with the Dragonarmies once they entered the city. Soot and ash covered his face, as it did almost every person in the town, living or dead, from the fire that had burned uncontrollably.
The few knights who were assigned to the city were carefully drawing up battle plans for when the town was breached. They now had plans on how to best buy time for the populace to rush into the forests this evening before the Dragonarmies breached the town's fortifications.
Argus wasn't a knight, and was honestly glad not to be one. The endless political bickering, the days of discussion in which the Measure was invoked thousands of times made him almost jump out of his skin in frustration. Argus was a man of action, not one to idly sit down and discuss moldy old texts on honor when a city was in peril. Instead he had enlisted his efforts as a sub-commander for Istandil Town Guard when the War of the Lance was over. Istandil was Argus' hometown, and he had no intention of the Dragonarmies conquering his home. Not after he had fought so hard during the War.
Hearing gasps and screams from some of the more undisciplined troops, Argus turned and scanned the horizon. The setting sunlight glistened off of the deep rich blue wings of the oncoming flight of dragons, giving them a pretty but eerie purplish glow. Argus had encountered dragonfear many times during the War of the Lance, but its foul effects still caused him to blanch. Looking down from his station, he saw that the effect on most of the troops and some of the greener knights was far more insidious. Many were bent down on their knees; a few had even begun to vomit violently.
Argus stood still, with other veterans of the War of the Lance upon the battlement. Looking up, he saw the few archers stationed on the keep were struggling to grapple with their bows. The dragons would make mincemeat of the defenders. Argus clenched his sword tightly, more from frustration than from fear. The Dragonarmies would march into Istandil, and butcher the civilians – this last, desperate stand would be for naught.
As the blues came closer, Argus noticed something was amiss. Each dragon carried on its back what appeared to be the misshapen outlines of riders! Now that the dragons were closer, Argus saw grimly that the riders were draconians. He could see the plan unfold before his eyes, "Let the dragons devastate the defenders at the keep, then the draconians terrorize the populace and chaos wins the day," he whispered.
As the dragons entered the range of the archers, Argus saw the first arrows fly towards their targets. These were the arrows fired by men brave enough to stand the terror of the certain death that the dragonfear fed them. They weren't however brave enough or experienced enough to counter that fear adequately. As it was, the arrows they shot were not true to their mark. It appeared to Argus as if the arrows themselves quivered at the oncoming onslaught. "Perhaps they have more sense than these honor bound knights," he thought sardonically.
This was madness! Those blues would destroy this keep with their foul lightning breath. The knights and any trapped with them would all die honorable, albeit pointless deaths. Argus had every intention of making the Dragonarmies pay for their invasion. As he saw it, that was quite impossible from the coffin that was the keep. Yelling out for his men to follow, he ran down the battlements and into the city. Those of his men who could drag themselves away from the clutches of the dragonfear followed him.
One of the blues landed with a booming thud in front of the doomed fortress. The shock wave of its landing caused a building behind it to finally collapse, weakened from the inferno that swept the town. The very stones of the keep seemed to shudder as it landed, cracking and uplifting slabs of the concrete pavement that it landed on.
The wyrm had only come into maturity in its last century of existence. Still, it was fearsome to behold. Its teeth were the length and sharpness of finely forged elven swords, its shiny blue scales glistened in the waning sunlight and its great horned head was the size of a horse. The wyrm peered at the keep with disdain; fully erect the great beast was some six stories high! Flexing its wings to fan the flames around it, and with a deafening roar, it breathed in sharply and let loose a bolt of lightning towards the keep. Mortar, stone, glass and wood all shattered at the onslaught. The defenders on the top of the building were jolted from the dragonfear, but only because they were knocked clear off of their feet. Looking into the maw of the dragon, whose fearsome visage promised death, brought back the dragonfear.
The sonic boom and chunks of stone and glass that rained down from the keep actually helped Argus and his band cover their escape into the city. Taking positions behind an abandoned smithy, they stood and waited for the band of draconians who were dismounting from the back of the wyrm.
The screams and cries of the dying men in the keep made Argus blanch. How many were to die for the sake of their honor? Taking in a deep breath, he watched as the few remaining archers pitifully attempted to fire their arrows at the blue. Those that did manage to hit the monster watched in dismay as their volleys splintered on its armored hide.
Looking around, he saw that his men looked at him for guidance; many had lost friends and companions in the keep, and were burning to let loose their fury on their foe. Still, revenge was poor motivation to go up against such a fearsome creature. Argus' men had such high regard for him however, that they would willingly walk into the maw of the creature weaponless if he so bade them. Looking up, Argus saw the other blues about to join their kin in the annihilation of the keep. To them, the keep was merely a toy thing, and they were playing with it as surely as a cat plays with its dinner before devouring it. The dragonmen floating down from the dragons were another ominous sight, the sunlight glinting off of their drawn weapons and shiny armor, and the bozak magic users chanted spells of destruction that rained down on the defenders. To make matters worse, the sun soon plunged beneath the horizon, leaving the defenders further crippled.
Argus looked at the draconians, they outnumbered his men considerably. They would be hard pressed to make a dent in their numbers, and even if they did – how many of his men would live to tell the tale? This was not the time for heroics of that sort. Taking a deep breath, he looked at his men, ten strong but all hardened veterans.
He decided to make a real difference, and said the words he knew spoke of true honor, "We help as many civilians escape as possible."
Chapter VII – The long and winding road.
The Revered Daughter was deep in prayer, communing with her god. Kneeling in the chapel, she did not notice the presence of the Revered Son walking up behind her. Waiting patiently for her prayers to come to an end, he stood impassively next to her. Coming out of her trance, Maegan looked up to see Julian standing beside her.
"Revered Daughter," he said gently as he motioned for her to rise. Rising to her feet, Maegan noticed that Julian had been in deep contemplation. Obviously, Thomas had delivered word of the artifact and its effect upon her.
"Revered Son," she said as she bowed slightly, "I trust that Thomas has delivered word of the blessed artifact of Majere to you?"
Julian nodded, "Indeed he has," he replied, "Come let us move to my study, I would not disturb the worshippers with our talk of such matters," he said as he motioned to her to follow him to his private study. Nodding slowly, she followed him out of the chapel.
Seating himself at his desk, which overflowed with scrolls and a hand transcribed copy of the Disks of Mishakal, which he was studying diligently; he pulled out a chair and bade her to sit upon it. Sitting down, Maegan noticed just how busy the man must be, for not only did he have to run the Church, he was also the most renowned theologian in these parts of Krynn. Looking at him, she saw the toll that his work must have taken upon his visage. When she had first met the man, scarcely a year ago, he had been vibrant and full of energy and life. His eye held a twinkle when he spoke of their great duty upon Krynn, to understand and worship the old gods once more, and the great love that they held for all of the races.
Now, looking at him, she noticed that the eyes had grayed considerably. The curly flowing dark mane that he once possessed was virtually gone, having receded considerably, and, having scarce time during the day to groom, Julian had chopped his locks short. His demeanor had changed; he now also stood slightly stooped. Julian was rapidly aging before her eyes she noticed. Suddenly, she became extremely self-conscious. Without her around, Julian would have even more duties to attend to.
Julian watched Maegan, could guess at the thoughts that went through her mind. The sacrifices he made for his god however were his to make, and he made them freely. Sure the times were when he wished that life were easier right now, but it was insignificant compared to the good that was occurring through his actions in this world. The day would soon come he fervently believed when his efforts and those like him would make this world a much better place.
Shaking his thoughts aside, he smiled warmly to Maegan and asked, "What is it that you have experienced Daughter?"
Maegan attempted to put the jumble of her thoughts in order. She decided to start at the absolute beginning. She began slowly, "This afternoon a magic user and a kender arrived at the Temple and I greeted them, thinking they were a curious pair." Indeed they were, for it was known that magic users in particular had no use for a curiosity bound kender, kender that seemed doubly curious when magic was involved. Gathering momentum as she recounted her tale, she continued, "The magic user, a follower of Solinari," she mentioned almost as an afterthought, "mentioned that the staff was consecrated to the god Majere, and that he believed it was a conduit to the god."
Julian looked at her and raised an eyebrow, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck tingle, "Continue," he motioned to her.
Maegan searched for the words, "I… grasped the staff," she said hesitantly, "and then suddenly I was overwhelmed by a tremendous light."
"And then I saw him…" she said, "or at least I had a definite impression it was Majere." She struggled once again, "I cannot remember what he looked like or anything in particular; it was more of an impression than an image."
"Do you remember the visions I told you about, the ones that drew me to the Temple?" she asked him suddenly.
Julian nodded. Maegan had in fact joined the order because Paladine had appeared to her in visions expressing his desire that none of the other gods of light should be considered less important than he.
She continued, "Majere explained to me that he was in search of followers. There is a boy in Istandil who he said would be his first follower in this new Age. I have been tasked to find him evidently."
Julian sat, absorbing the tale in earnest. He sat back in quiet contemplation trying to think of it all. "Did Majere tell you who this boy was?"
Maegan shook her head. "Unfortunately he did not Revered Son, but I believe that is to be part of the test of my faith."
Many parts of this didn't make sense to Julian, but the gods were beyond mortal comprehension. Still, it would do to verify some of the story himself. "Where is the staff now? I'd like to inspect it."
"It is still being held by the mage and the kender who brought it to the temple," she replied.
"Blessed Paladine!" Julian exclaimed. "I had all but forgotten about them!" Julian almost imperceptibly trembled. What horrors could a bored kender inflict upon the temple he wondered?
***
Potan faced the most terrifying ordeal of his life. Not even the Test of High Sorcery, in which he had almost perished, could compare to the trauma of dealing with a bored kender. Matila had almost immediately gotten tired of the little room that they had been given to pass the time. She had pocketed idols, prayer books and other interesting items, only to have them liberated by Potan who did a sweep every half hour on her pouches.
Now, she sat on the bed, her head in her hands. "I'm bored," she uttered for the tenth time in the last half hour Potan noted alarmingly. She had already asked him to summon demons from the Abyss and to send her flying to the moon. Denying her requests, Potan had caught her attempting to read his spell book. Few had ever seen Potan irritated; far fewer had seen him angry.
The glare he shot her was so intense and full of anger and frustration that even Matila thought it wise to drop the book as soon as her fingers had cracked open the cover.
It had been nearly two hours Potan figured since Thomas had left him alone with the kender in this room. Fuming with impatience, and knowing that his students would be arriving for class within an hour, he started to pace, entertaining ideas of fetching the high priest and saying that he was leaving the kender with the staff in their temple unsupervised.
Fortunately for the temple, Revered Son Julian knocked on the door. Jumping up with relief, Potan rushed to the door, noticing that Matila was right behind him.
Opening the door, Revered Son Julian jumped back when he noticed the white robed mage attempt to grasp a hold of the kender who was running frightfully fast towards him. Studying the stern yet kindly face of the mage, Julian relaxed. The man was merely attempting to deal with the restless kender, a task that could threaten the sanity of the most stable mortal.
Potan fixed one final look of fury upon Matila and asked Julian, "How is the Revered Daughter doing?"
Julian smiled at Potan, "Revered Daughter Maegan is doing quite fine, come," he motioned, "let us go to my study where we can discuss this what has transpired here."
Introducing themselves to the Revered Son, Potan struggled with Matila as they made themselves down the temple halls to his study. At every "interesting" painting or sculpture or even worshipper, Potan had to fight to keep her concentrating on the goal of moving forward.
Arriving at his study, Julian motioned for the two to enter. Seeing Revered Daughter Maegan seated, Potan bowed and said, "I am pleased to find you well Revered Daughter."
Nodding slowly, and then beaming at him, the Revered Daughter appeared unable to contain her excitement, "We're off to Istandil!"
Potan was struck so utterly speechless that he released his grip on Matila, who then simply exclaimed, "Yipee!"
Chapter VIII – A Party Forged in Battle
Ragnar stood on the side of the road, his crossbow quarrel readied in place. A mountain dwarf who had given up the isolationist spirit that seemed to drive the dwarves of Thorbardin, he had made his way into the world thirty years earlier. Now, officially an outcast, Ragnar had befriended a tribe of Hill Dwarves living near Istandil. Hearing word of the Dragonarmies approach, he decided to make his way to the beleaguered town and offer his axe in service of the defenders. Ragnar had grown to like the people of the outside world more and more. He felt a duty towards protecting them, and other innocents. While there were still those in the land of men who thought themselves better than a four foot dwarf, many warmed up to him in due time. This was more than he could expect even in Thorbardin, where one didn't socialize much outside of one's clan. Even the hill dwarves he had encountered were willing (given time) to let the old feuds die.
And so, he marched off to Istandil. He made the journey alone, for no one seemingly had the courage to stand up to the Dragonarmies and make the fight for Istandil their fight. Ragnar grumbled to himself that if only more had the courage to stand up to these bullies, the Dragonarmies would likely never have left Neraka. Muttering into his beard, he squinted his eyes as he saw signs of a patrol ahead.
Ducking into the brush in the side of the road, he knelt patiently and waited. Chuckling to himself that any respectable mountain dwarf would be aghast at taking refuge in foliage, he held his breath as he heard the patrol come close. Peering intently at the patrol, he never heard the sounds of the leaves rustling behind him until it was almost too late.
Turning around sharply at the sound, he had the fevered impression that he was being attacked by a shadowy wraith, one that tripped over him and sent him sprawling to the muck. Sputtering and spitting out the dirt, he threw his crossbow, knowing that the weapon would be no good in close quarters. Roaring, he turned and tackled his attacker, who squirmed out of his arms and (giggled?) as he ran straight into a tree. Attempting to wrest his helmet back over his groggy head, he turned and roared in outrage, which turned into annoyance as he saw that what had attacked him was no wraith, but a common kender who looked at him with a shocked expression on her face.
"Be gone, ye wee nuisance!" spat Ragnar. Grabbing his crossbow, he saw that the patrol had noticed the ruckus. Swatting at the kender, he was glad to see her dart back into the forest, leaving him alone until the patrol came closer.
Knowing that he was not as agile or adept at moving through the forest as a slippery kender, he cursed his luck and sized up the patrol. There appeared to be five lone human mercenaries on horseback, who seemed to be staring at the side of the road. Ragnar didn't suppose that they'd assume that it was a wild animal that had caused the ruckus. Especially when he noticed their eyes watchful, and their hands on their weapons. Cursing the luck that would have him get run over by a kender, he drew his crossbow and took a bead on the lead human.
Muttering a prayer to Reorx for strength, Ragnar shot a bolt that caught the lead Dragonarmy officer in the chest, and in one smooth motion that one wouldn't have thought a dwarf capable of: dropped his crossbow, snatched up his battleaxe from his back and charged the remaining soldiers.
The soldiers were taken aback at the sudden death of their leader, and the sight of the enraged dwarf charging out at them. Reigning in their battle horses, they drew their weapons and charged.
The Dragonarmies had not made any sort of real attack against the Dwarven Nations, concentrating more on the capital human cities, and the forest cities of the elves. Had they, they might have been better prepared for the sort of tactics that the shorter folk could use against mounted adversaries. Ducking under the horse of one attacker, Ragnar slammed his axe up into the belly of the beast, begging Chislev for forgiveness as he took the life of the steed. Rolling under the horse, he came up in front of another rider. Blocking a glancing blow from this new adversary with his shield, he turned around as he heard a shocked exclamation as the injured horse behind him collapsed, taking its rider with it.
The remaining officers drew back suddenly, leaving Ragnar to face the three of them circling his flanks. Drawing a wary eye on each, he waited for the inevitable charge. Not wanting to give them the satisfaction of an easy kill, and satisfied with the knowledge that he'd made them pay for his life, he bellowed a lusty battle cry to Reorx and leaped at the rider to his side.
The poor man never knew what hit him, as Ragnar's fine dwarven battle-axe cleaved through his sword and his chest. Even though he knew that he would never be able to turn around in time to parry the oncoming onslaught, Ragnar attempted to bring his axe to bear on the remaining two riders.
A flash of bright light and the shrill voice of a kender broke the cadence and rhythm of the battle for Ragnar however. Stumbling, he turned to see that the two remaining riders were more preoccupied with something else.
"Is that just your horse, or also your uncle?" cried out the shrill voice of the kender once more.
Turning, Ragnar saw that two figures robed in white and a kender were making their way towards the officers. Now that they were closer, Ragnar could see that one was a magic user and the other a cleric of some sort. The magic user looked awfully pale and fumbled around in his pouches for what Ragnar assumed were spell components. The cleric looked shaken as well, but clutched her medallion and was deep in prayer to her god.
The kender however, looked like she was having a blast taunting the Dragonarmy officers. Ragnar saw the one who was suffering the most of the kender's insults yell out, "Take the grimy dwarf Lorian, I'm gonna rip the tongue out of that slimy kender!" At this, the one named Lorian turned his attention half-heartedly towards Ragnar.
Thankful for the reprieve (even if it did come from a kender) Ragnar focused his attention back on the human named Lorian. "Let me axe send ye to the Abyss into the arms of yer foul mistress!" spat Ragnar as he charged the man. Lorian never had a chance against the enraged dwarf.
Potan saw that Matila's taunts had worked a little too well, saving the dwarf from an assured death at the hands of the officers. Unfortunately, one of them was headed straight towards them, galloping at full speed. At this rate, he'd be upon them in a few seconds!
Potan reached into his pouches, for him spell casting was never something to be rushed, but something he took ecstasy in, feeling the words slowly reach his lips as he savored the tingle of magic that was released from every syllable, and the exultant release of that energy as the spell reached its conclusion.
He was not used to an enraged enemy rushing him, attempting to spear him upon his sword. Fumbling for the components to the spell, he found the rabbit foot and the bit of amber required. Rubbing them together, he spoke the words that were emblazoned upon his mind, and felt the torrent of power flow through him as the spell passed through him, using him as a conduit to the magical energy from Solinari. Pointing his hand at the rider, he closed his eyes hoping his aim was true. The crackle of lightning and the smell of sulfur were present, and then he heard a blood-curdling shriek as the rider toppled off of his steed, burning as he hit the ground.
Gasping for air as the magic drained him, Potan fell to the ground exhausted. Looking at the scene before him, he felt his body tremble violently. Never, not even in the dreaded Test of High Sorcery had he been forced to take a life. The kindly schoolmaster had never even liked to discipline his pupils, always flinching himself as he smacked a disobedient child with the swatch. Now, as he forced himself to look up, he realized that he had burnt a man to a crisp.
Feeling a cool touch, and a whispered prayer to Paladine he looked up at Maegan. Her face was pale, but serene and he felt the warmth and light of the god soothe his troubled spirit. "We did what was necessary for self preservation kind sir," she said to him as she helped him get up. "We did not spill blood hastily or without necessity." She smiled, but then her expression grew somber, "but the day that we forget how painful killing is, is the day we become no better than our enemies that seek to enslave us – and so it is written on the Disks of Mishakal."
"Come, let us greet our dwarven friend before the kender takes him for all he's worth!" she smiled as she grasped Potan's arm.
Ragnar watched the group approach him, keeping a wary eye out on the kender. That one had already gotten him into enough trouble, and he wasn't certain he would like any further interaction with her. Wiping off his bloodied blade, he shouted out, "Well met, and thanks to ye for the hand. But if ye don't mind, I have a long road to travel, and night grows near."
Maegan called out as she approached, "Thanks to you Sir Dwarf, for were it not for your assistance, we would have come upon the patrol and most likely suffered for it."
She grinned and asked, "What is your name, so that we can thank our noble rescuer, and to what parts are you headed?"
Ragnar flushed at being called a 'noble rescuer', and being addressed as 'Sir Dwarf'. Bowing and gruffly clearing his throat, "Me name's Ragnar of Clan Bulder, I am headed to defend the town of Istandil. And who might ye be?"
"My name is Maegan, this is Potan, and I believe you have already met Matila," she smiled again.
Matila giggled, "He was napping in the brush, I tripped over him and then he almost knocked himself out!"
She nodded sagely, "If I didn't wake him up, he might have been attacked by the patrol, or…" she started to laugh, "a woodchuck!"
"Sleeping?!" roared Ragnar in outrage as he sputtered, "Why ye light footed cousin to a wee fairy! If you ever cross me path again, I'll show ye what eternal sleep is like," he glared as his eyes got a dangerous glint to them. He waved his axe menacingly at her, and then turned his back on the group, "If ye don't mind, I've got business to attend to. Good day."
"Wait Ragnar of Clan Bulder!" cried out Maegan. "My party and I are headed to Istandil, and could use some company. Surely if we were to join forces we would make the journey less dangerous?"
Ragnar looked at the group once again, his gaze lingering longest on the kender. Dwarves traditionally abhorred magic of any kind, and traveling with a magic user and a cleric (even a cleric of Paladine) made him slightly uneasy. The kender however was the sticking point with him. He'd had it with that one, and she'd better stay far away from him. Looking at the magic user and the cleric once again, he took a close look at their faces.
These were the faces of two who had been sheltered most of their lives, the magic user in particular seemed to be more at home in a library. Even the cool breeze made him shiver and draw his robes closer. He also kept eyeing the smoldering remnants of the dragon army officer that he had slain with remorse and pity. The female cleric seemed to be a little more at ease, but still her demeanor was that of one who was to go camping in the woods for the first time, not trekking through dangerous lands overrun with the Dragonarmies. Sadly enough the kender seemed to be the worldliest of the bunch.
Ragnar was irritated, but he was not cruel. Calmly he finished wiping off his blade. "Well, we do seem to be headed in the same direction, we might as well make this easy on the both of us." He reached out for Potan's hand, "What be yer name lad?"
"I'm Potan Minam of Talador sir," replied Potan. "It is good to have your company," he attempted a weak smile as he forced himself to think past his actions in battle.
Ragnar shook his hand once, and his eyes got hard, "But be keepin' that one away from me," he said as he pointed to Matila, "or mark me words – she'll find her head fed to a dragon!"
Chapter IX – Istandil
One of the refugees cried out in pain. Argus motioned to one of his lieutenants to tend to the injured man. They had barely managed to get this group of refugees out of the town before being set upon by a group of draconians. Two of his men hadn't made it out alive, bravely battling the enemy so that the innocent men, women and children could have a chance to escape. Unfortunately, the draconians had no compulsions against hurting innocent civilians, and many of them had been injured and killed in that skirmish. Argus looked at the makeshift graves that peppered this region of the forest. Here and there, a family member would sob at a fresh grave, attempting to decorate and mark it best they could. At least, Argus thought to himself, some who had died had someone to remember him or her. Many graves had no mourners, whole families having been separated during the burning of the town and the invasion by the Dragonarmies.
Argus sighed, he would like to do one more raid upon the town and help as many civilians escape as possible, but his men were burnt out and more of the town was under occupancy. Within a day, the entire town would be under the control of the Dragonarmies, and then the whole proposition of getting people out would be dicey. Still, it pained Argus to think about whole families being decimated at the mercy of the evil draconians.
Forcing himself to not think about such dark thoughts, he wiped the grime from his face, and tried to locate everyone. The refugees numbered over a hundred at last count, and daylight was beginning to break. Argus wanted most of his men to lead them to the neighboring town of Talador through the forest, while he and those who remained would organize further raids to free townsfolk during the cover of darkness. Argus got up wearily, and closed his eyes. Waves of nausea occasionally assaulted him, a result of getting hit in the arm by a foul draconian sword during the last raid. He steadied himself, and forced himself to stand straight. He looked at his bandaged arm, where the blood continued to seep out of the wound, despite his best efforts to staunch it. He would have to have the arm looked at by a healer; he thought it fortunate it was not his sword arm.
"Renald," he called out to his second in command, "see to it that the refugees are ready to be moved, I do not want them lingering so close to the town near day break." Renald, a young, yet distinguished fighter nodded once and moved to ready the refugees for their trek to Talador.
Allowing himself to be enveloped in the pain of his wound, Argus grimaced and looked down at it with concern. "Poison," he thought to himself with a pang of worry. During the war of the lance, it was rumored that some draconians would poison their swords with their foul saliva before heading into battle. Argus feared that this was the case with this wound. It was said such wounds led to a lingering death, and Argus suddenly felt more afraid than he ever had in his life.
Overwhelmed with his worry, he was startled to look up and see a young boy glance at him with a blank expression on his face. The boy appeared to be around 10 to 12 seasons of age, but had the eyes of one who had lived for far longer. His thin frame and wispy brown hair made him appear frail and wraithlike.
The boy looked at his wound in concern, but then appeared to be looking at it intently as if examining it, "It's poisoned isn't it sir?" he asked at length. As the boy motioned for the arm, Argus hesitantly held it out for him to take a closer look, not knowing why he did so, but something of boy's aura compelled him to.
"It doesn't appear to be spreading right now, but I would say that it shows signs of being…" he stumbled over the words, "quite deadly. If you don't have it treated soon you might have to have the arm amputated."
"And exactly where did you get your medical training young man?" asked Argus, now more amused than concerned at the thought of a young boy barely old enough to ride a horse giving him a medical examination as if he were a healer.
The boy didn't flinch, "I have spent much time in the Library of Istandil, before it was burnt down. I have a fondness for learning you might say," the boy replied looking at Argus with those aged eyes.
Argus held his breath, unaware if he should dismiss the boy's quiet boastfulness. Instead, he asked, "What would you recommend as proper treatment for this wound?"
The boy shrugged, "I do not know, the library is quite incomplete with its tomes, if only," he sighed wistfully, "I lived in Palanthas, I might have known the cure, for their library is second to none it is said."
"As it is," he continued, "I would have to say that finding a true cleric or a healer would be your best option."
Argus nodded, "What is your name son?" he asked.
"Kurt," the boy responded. He hesitated, the and the first signs of youthful indecision appeared on his face as he asked, "My father is a defender of the town, do you perchance know of him?"
"What is his name?" asked Argus.
"Joseph Aniqaem," replied Kurt. "He was part of the town defense, so I was wondering if you had any heard anything of his fate when the town fell."
Argus looked at the boy; Joseph was indeed known to him, though only in passing. He was the captain of the 10th division, and Argus heard word that they had perished to a man during the final thrust into the town, bravely fighting to give their life so that time could be given for the town to evacuate.
He slowly replied, "I do not know of his fate, though his company was seen bravely defending the town against the onslaught, and word was that they had suffered heavy casualties." He paused, and looked at the boy. If it were any other youth, Argus might have consoled him with a comforting lie, and some shred of hope. This boy however seemed to prefer truth.
He clutched his wounded arm and continued, "I would not expect to find him alive, though there is always hope."
Kurt nodded once, briefly, and then bowed his head in sorrow. "My father…" he stumbled for once, "…did not very much care for me as his son," he continue on glad to release his emotions to this stranger who seemed to treat him as an adult. "But word that he might be dead pains me still." He looked up, tears brimming his eyes.
Argus looked at the boy, who now seemed oh so young, a stark contrast from the lad who had glibly told him his arm was poisoned. He reached out with his good arm, and clumsily attempted to comfort the boy who stood before him.
He then held him before him, and searched the night sky. "There," he pointed to the constellation he searched for. "That's Kiri-Jolith," he whispered softly as he found the constellation in the form of a bison's head, "the deity whom I pledge my service to. Even before the gods returned to the land, the Trinivals all revered him, and to impart upon us his justice and courage in battle." Kurt followed his gaze at the night sky, even though he knew by heart where every constellation resided. Argus continued, "One day, when you depart this mortal realm, you will find your father and those that knowingly or not, worship Kiri-Jolith under his constellation."
Argus looked at the boy and smiled, then his gaze got grim once more as it swept past the five-headed dragon constellation that was the Queen of Darkness. He got up wearily, "But come, pack your things. You should make a move out with the rest of the…" he hesitated to use the word refugee to describe such a noble lad, "…townsfolk."
Kurt started to move away from Argus, his voice once more that of a boy who had lived far longer than his years. "I have no things," he said as he went to walk with the rest of the refugees. "All I had was burnt to a crisp in the fire."
Argus' face then softened again. The boy continued, "But I do hope that you find a healer to look at your arm sir. And I also hope that Kiri-Jolith will look after you for all that you have done for us."
Argus smiled in response.
Kurt then walked off and continued coolly, "And if the poison spreads, hack off your arm cleanly under the shoulder, and then seal it with a torch."
Argus' face dropped at how cold (but accurate) the clinical response was.
Chapter X – On the road again
Potan watched his feet move with almost military precision in a sort of abstract fascination. He wondered at how hard it would be for him to actually direct his feet in such an orderly fashion if he directed his entire brainpower towards the task. Some things, he thought, were better done in a stupor. So intent was he upon watching his feet, that he didn't notice the small rock in front of him.
Stubbing his toe, he let out a startled exclamation as he was flung headfirst towards the ground. Getting up slowly and choking on the flung up dust, he gasped for air.
Ragnar turned around – this group was just hopeless. His instincts were right; the kender was the worldliest of the bunch. She was ahead scouting out the trail. Already she had alerted them to two patrols that they had deftly avoided in the forest.
Prologue [This needs major work!!]
The god appeared in her dreams nightly. At first, Maegan had no idea why these dreams manifested themselves to her. They didn't frighten her, but she also didn't understand them. Not until tonight.
In her early twenties, Maegan was a beautiful young woman. Many were the suitors who would announce their intentions daily. With her sparking blue eyes, and lithe figure, and intelligence, she knew she was the catch of this small town. Yet somehow she knew that more lay in store for her than the life of a domesticated wife and mother.
Tonight that plan unfolded for her in her dreams, though she would not fully understand it for quite some time.
She whirled through the sky, carried on the back of a platinum dragon. The dragon, though frightful to behold gave her only feelings of intense peace and love. Grasping his mane with tears of joy and love, Maegan soared through the heavens, as her spirit was set free from its earthly bounds.
Higher and higher the pair went, soaring across the sky. Looking down at Krynn she saw her tiny village disappear into nothingness, she saw the mountains and the forests and the rivers all vanish. And now as she looked up she saw the moons and stars. How clear the sky was so high up above Krynn! Suddenly, she saw before her a crystalline palace, a place she knew belonged to the gods themselves. The palace shone bright, brighter than the stars or the moons themselves. It pained her to look at it, though her soul longed to join it.
Soon, she began to hear the whispers of the gods, and Maegan's soul, now finally understanding what was required of her, drifted back down to the earthly slumber of mortals.