Dragons of a New Age

14 The Faces of Goldmoon

Dhamon heard the hurried footsteps of the dwarf and the kender behind him and briefly wondered if he should have slowed his pace to accommodate them. He wasn’t sure of what had come over him. He had sped right by. It wasn’t like him to be pointedly rude. He turned to retrace his steps and apologize to them.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

The voice was familiar. He turned to see a small woman with pale, wrinkled skin. Her white robe fluttered in the sea breeze and outlined her slight frame.

“I have been calling out to many warriors who visited the tomb, but you were the first to answer my summons.”

It was the phantom woman, but her voice sounded softer than when he’d heard her near Solace and she looked much older than the young woman he saw at The Last Heroes Tomb. Her blond hair was wispy, and contained thick streaks of white. Her blue eyes were dull and rheumy. The strong sunlight revealed the lines on her face, and Dhamon could see that the flesh on her arms and along her jaw sagged slightly.

She was an old woman, seventy or eighty, he guessed, though she exuded a matronly air and carried herself with a quiet grace and dignity. Her gait was slow, but he could tell she was not infirm. There was a presence about her, a sensation of power.

“Please, come closer.” Her voice was soft, not much above a whisper.

Dhamon’s eyes locked onto hers, but he held his place. “I can see you well enough from here,” he said.

“Tell me what brought you to the tomb.”

Dhamon gave a slight shrug. “I came to the tomb to pay my respects to the knights. That’s why most people go there, isn’t it? But the tomb has nothing to do with why I’m here.” He paused and pursed his lips. “And just why am I here?”

“I go to the tomb to honor my friends,” she replied, ignoring his questions.

“Who are you?”

“I am Goldmoon of the Qué-Shu.”

He stared at her as he searched his memory. Was this the Goldmoon, a Hero of the Lance? Was she the woman who fought in the War of the Lance and helped to restore healing magic to Krynn? The age would be about right, he mused.

“How were you able to call me?” was the only question he voiced.

“There is still some magic left in the world and in me. I sent my thoughts to the tomb in Solace. A place that honors fallen heroes should attract living ones, don’t you think? I believed the tomb would be the best place to find new champions.”

“Did you have to use your magic to make yourself look like a young woman? Did you think you needed that to get my attention?” Dhamon snapped. “Did you think I’m only interested in helping—”

“Goldmoon!” Jasper came rushing forward, panting from his long, hurried run. He regarded Dhamon. “His legs! They go on forever.”

The dwarf’s stubby legs carried him past Dhamon. The old woman smiled and extended a hand, and the dwarf shook it. Jasper looked into Goldmoon’s starlike blue eyes. They were bright and full of warmth and surprisingly youthful.

“Sorry I’ve been away so long,” he muttered. “I tried to get into Thorbardin, but you know they sealed the mountain. I thought I could find a way in, visit my relatives. Maybe I could have if I would’ve looked harder. But I remembered my promise and came back here.”

Jasper watched her brush a strand of thick, silky hair away from her unblemished face. Her ruddy complexion nearly matched his, and the skin on her hand felt soft and smooth against his calloused fingers. The dwarf wasn’t looking at an elderly woman. He saw Goldmoon as an ageless beauty full of life and filled with a sense of hope and faith. There were no age lines when he looked at her. There were no wrinkles or white hairs, no slowness of motion. Her voice and her manner were strong, as she was at the time of the War of the Lance.

“It’s all right, Jasper,” she said. She reached a finger down and touched the tip of his nose. “And I’m glad you escorted our visitor. I sent for him.”

The dwarf looked at her quizzically, stroking his short beard. “A new student? Should I leave?”

“I want you to stay,” she added.

“Can we stay, too?” Raph panted, as he edged forward. “Raph, slow down! I told you not to barge into things.

You could get hurt!” Blister huffed and puffed up behind him, staring at Goldmoon. She straightened her tunic, brushed the sand off her shoes, and offered Goldmoon a smile. “Excuse us for coming to your home uninvited. My companions are rather headstrong. They didn’t mean to be impolite.”

“No apology needed,” Goldmoon replied. “You are all welcome here.”

She glided toward Dhamon. “There is a grand adventure in the offing,” she said. “And it is an adventure one person alone should not undertake, Dhamon Grimwulf.”

“You know my name?” The moment after Dhamon spoke the words, he wished he could draw them back into his mouth. If a woman could project an image over hundreds of miles and through a tomb door, she no doubt could learn the identity of whom she was projecting to.

“I know a lot about you, Dhamon. But do you know anything of me?”

He didn’t answer.

“Decades past, my companions and I sought to stop the Dragonarmies. In droves, the evil men and creatures came west from the Khalkist Mountains, sweeping into Balifor and beyond. It was the start of the War of the Lance. Our struggle lasted five years, and in that time we witnessed the fall of eastern Ansalon.”

Dhamon knew the stories of the Heroes of the Lance by heart. There were few on Ansalon who didn’t know about the exploits of Caramon and Tika Majere, Raistlin, Goldmoon and the rest.

“The dragonlances were the key,” Goldmoon said, interrupting his thoughts. “The secret of creating dragonlances was rediscovered during a time when many people had given up hope—like many have now. We used the newly forged weapons to drive back the Blue Dragonarmy. The good dragons, once held at bay because their eggs had been stolen, entered the war. The tide turned, and Takhisis’s forces scattered. The evil dragons fled to remote parts of Ansalon and became weaker. Some of my companions who fought in that war have passed beyond this world—the kender Tasslehoff Burrfoot, Tanis Half-Elven, Flint Fireforge, Sturm Brightblade, dear Riverwind. Those few of us left...”

She paused and took a step closer. “We can only watch and believe the future will brighten. This is your world now, your time. We bested the dragons once. Perhaps they can be bested again. The gods are gone, and the threat of the dragons is greater than ever before. And you’re looking for a cause, Dhamon Grimwulf, though you may not realize it. You’re looking for something to lighten your heart. It seems a cause has found you.”

She touched his shoulder. “Now is an age when men must gaze into their hearts and find the strength and faith to overcome the obstacles placed before them. They cannot look to the gods anymore for worldly salvation. They can only look to themselves. I’ve stared into your heart, Dhamon, and it’s much stronger than you believe it to be.”

“But what can I do?” Dhamon stared at the old woman. “Can one man really make a difference?”

“Not just one,” Goldmoon replied. “Jasper will go with you. And others will eventually follow. I will continue contacting visitors to the tomb.”

The dwarf scowled and shook his head. He shuffled toward Dhamon. “Flint Fireforge was my uncle. I promised him once that I’d help Goldmoon whenever she asked.” Under his breath he added “I just never thought she’d ask.”

“It might be exciting,” Raph whispered. “We might get to see a dragon. And I’ve never seen one of them before.”

“I think we should stay out of this,” Blister calmly returned. “This isn’t our concern. We only tagged along. This is Dhamon’s business, not ours.”

“So we’ll tag along again.”

“No, we won’t,” Blister scolded.

“Well, I will.”

“No, you won’t.”

Dhamon ignored the chatter behind him. “What do you want me to do?” he asked Goldmoon.

“You must travel north to Palanthas. Evil breeds there, and it must be stopped. It will be a long journey, but a necessary one. I have friends nearby. The sorcerer Palin Majere will meet you in a place called the Lonely Refuge. It’s in the Northern Wastes. Jasper can tell you how to get there. Palin will help. You must give him this.” She reached into the folds of her robe and produced a tattered piece of blue and yellow silk.

“A piece of cloth?”

Goldmoon pressed it into his hand and motioned for the kender and Jasper to leave. The dwarf’s grumbles were heard above the kender’s banter, and Goldmoon waited until they were situated in front of one of the Citadel’s large fountains.

“The cloth is a banner that was tied to a dragonlance. Palin has the lance’s handle, or haft. When you’ve joined these two pieces, Palin will tell you where the lance rests. Unite the weapon’s parts, Dhamon Grimwulf. It was one of the original dragonlances, rumored to be the most powerful of all. It might be our only hope against the dragon overlords.”

“One weapon?”

“A single weapon maybe, but, more importantly, a symbol. Something to give the people of Ansalon hope. Something they can stand behind, be united by. There are a few other original lances left, but most of them are inaccessible to us right now. What you will join together will be a start. Perhaps subsequent visitors to the tomb who answer my summons can retrieve the other weapons.”

Dhamon took a deep breath. Should he go to Palanthas and the Lonely Refuge, or travel wherever he wanted? Was she giving him a choice? Or was she giving him an order?

Could he walk away and take his life elsewhere? Or had he already decided at the tomb in Solace to let this woman chart his destiny, help him cleanse his heart?

“There are many ships in New Ports. I’ll see if one will take us to Palanthas,” he said.

“Hurry,” Goldmoon urged.