Dragons of a New Age

34 Retribution

Gale skimmed low over the desert sands, letting the heat rise up and soak into the undersides of his blue wings. Soon the heat would be behind him and he’d have to contend with the uncomfortable coolness of the Palanthas countryside.

But it won’t be for long, the dragon thought as he passed beyond the edge of the Northern Wastes and headed toward the city. After he had finished this particular task for Khellendros, he could return to the blessed heat and his own lair.

Gale’s quarry was on a ship in the harbor—that much The Storm Over Krynn had explained. Well, there would be streets and buildings and all manner of things between himself and the harbor—all manner of things waiting to be destroyed. After all, Gale considered, Khellendros did not say he was to deal only with the ship and that only Palin Majere should feel the Portal Master’s wrath.

The dragon’s sapphire lip curled upward in a smile. If he was to be bothered by running an errand, he’d make sure he got some enjoyment out of it. Gale pumped his wings faster, and the miles melted away below his striking form. His mind reached out to touch the wind that played over his scales.

Obey me, Gale coaxed. The breeze picked up in response.

Groller and Jasper quickly arranged for a dozen barrels of fresh water, and a good supply of dried fruits and meats. They selected several bolts of canvas, in the event the sails might need mending along the way, and a half-dozen coils of new rope.

There were plenty of steel coins left over, but the half-ogre made it clear he wanted to keep some in reserve—in the event they needed more supplies later.

They made arrangements for everything to be delivered this afternoon to the Anvil, and then the pair, accompanied by Fury, headed toward the docks.

“Windy,” the dwarf said. He tugged on the half-ogre’s sleeve and made the sign for “wind.”

Groller nodded, made the sign for storm, then drew his hands close together.

“A storm is coming,” Jasper translated. “I hope you’re wrong. I hope instead we...” The wind howled, drowning out the rest of the dwarf’s words, and the sky darkened.

A ridge of hair stood up on Fury’s back, and the wolf growled softly.

Dhamon’s hair whipped about his face, and he turned his head this way and that to keep it from streaming into his eyes. He had the walnut box under one arm, and a paper-wrapped bundle of clothes tucked under the other. The paper made crinkling and snapping sounds in the strong breeze, as he walked toward an inn named the Feather Rest.

Palin was waiting for him.

“The lance is in here?” Dhamon looked through the window. It was a rather plush establishment, with a lobby full of overstaffed chairs.

“On the second floor,” Palin answered. The sorcerer smiled. “In good hands, rest assured. Follow me.”

He led Dhamon up a wide, gently curving staircase with a peach-colored carpet runner tacked to the middle. A brass chandelier hung from the ceiling above the landing. Its candles were not lit; enough light spilled in from a window at the end of the hall. Palin strode to the nearest door, knocked once, and entered. Dhamon hesitated for a moment, then stepped inside.

The room was finely furnished, with a large four-poster bed, an oak cabinet, and several comfortable-looking chairs. Standing midway in the room, Palin was hugging an old woman. Near her, an elderly man looked on and smiled. Dhamon stared at the threesome.

The old woman was slight, with short, curly white hair and flashing eyes that complimented her bright blue dress. The wrinkles on her face were not deep, though they seemed more pronounced around her eyes and lips when she smiled. The man looked familiar somehow. He was big, broad-shouldered, and had a wide girth. His thick hair, an equal mix of steel-gray and white, fell to his shoulders. He was wearing a pair of light brown trousers over which hung an ivory tunic. His meaty, weathered hand patted Palin on the back.

“Son, it is good to see you,” the old man boomed.

“Caramon Majere,” Dhamon whispered. “You’re Caramon Majere, and you’re...” He turned to the old woman, who had disentangled herself from Palin.

“I’m Tika.” Her voice was clear and soft. She smiled warmly as she took Dhamon’s hand. “We’ve been waiting for you and Palin for several days. We were beginning to worry.”

“You were beginning to worry,” Caramon corrected. “I knew Palin would be along. I figured he was busy.”

Dhamon stared at the two. Heroes of the Lance, soldiers in a long-ago war, he thought they’d have been dead. Caramon must be near ninety, he suspected, though the man looked to be twenty years younger than that. He was obviously fit, with no stoop to his shoulders. Tika also wore her age well. Perhaps they’d been blessed by the gods—decades ago, when the gods were still around.

“The Inn of the Last Home?” Palin queried.

“Is in good hands,” Tika replied. “But we should be getting back there. Business always drops off when we disappear for a while.” She turned to her husband. “Caramon, don’t you think you should retrieve what this young man came for?” The elderly man nodded and walked over toward the bed. He knelt, lifted up the quilt, then retrieved a long, canvas-wrapped bundle.

“A friend of mine carried this, and it served him well.” He rose and placed it almost reverently on the bed, at an angle because of its length. He began untying the cords.

“I remember it all as if it happened yesterday—not a lifetime ago,” Caramon continued. “Sturm Brightblade wielded this. He was a very good friend. Sturm was strong and determined. I guess we all were, confident in our youth. Somehow our weapons and wits were enough during the War of the Lance. But the dragons are larger now. Things are different.” Palin nudged Dhamon closer, taking the package of clothes from beneath his arm. Caramon continued to talk as Dhamon sat the walnut box at the foot of the bed.

“Goldmoon contacted us many weeks ago,” Caramon went on. “She was with us during those years. She fought beside us and encouraged us when things seemed impossible. I think we all owed her our lives at one time or another.” His fingers fumbled for a moment with the cord’s last knot, before it finally yielded. “She said there’d be new champions in need of old weapons. Well, this is a very old weapon.” He drew back the canvas, revealing a silver lance that shone softly in the light that drifted in from the open window.

The wind picked up, making the curtains flutter wildly. It was a cool wind, and it whistled as it washed over the lance.

Dhamon bent over the weapon. It was so polished and well-cared for that it looked newly forged. It had tiny etchings along its widest part, the images of dragons circling, some flying. The shadows cast by the waving curtains made it seem as if the dragons were moving. He touched the metal and was surprised that it felt warm. His fingertips tingled.

“We’d kept it in pieces, I guess because we all wanted a piece of history, a trophy from the war. This hung above the mantle in our inn. Tika and I gave the haft to Sturm, our oldest son, whom we named after Sturm Brightblade.” Caramon’s shoulders slouched. “Sturm and Tanin, another of our sons, died a long time ago. The haft passed to Palin, our youngest.”

“Young,” Palin chuckled. “Not anymore, father.”

“Goldmoon kept the banner,” Caramon added. He nodded toward the walnut box. “Is it in there?”

“Yes.” Dhamon quickly retrieved the haft. Its silk banner fluttered in the wind, which was even stronger now. He handed it to Caramon, who expertly joined it to the lance.

Tika drew a shawl about her and glanced out the window. The sky was darkening, and she saw a flicker of lightning in the clouds.

“It’s yours now,” Caramon said, hefting the weapon and passing it to Dhamon.

The weapon felt lighter than it should be, yet it was superbly balanced. “I don’t know what to say,” Dhamon began. He looked back and forth between Tika and Caramon. “To give me this. I don’t know if I—”

“Promise you’ll slay a dragon with it,” Caramon interrupted. “That’s what it was made for. And there’s certainly a few dragons on Krynn needing to be slain.”

A thick bolt of lightning shot from the clouds and touched down in the city. The ground shook, the vibrations felt even in the inn room, and thunder filled the air. Another bolt followed it, slicing through the corner of a balcony down the street, at the edge of Tika’s vision. Tile and stones rained down onto the sidewalk below. Tika quickly stepped away from the window and looked at Caramon.

“We’d better get going,” Palin said.

“Always in a hurry,” Tika said. “But I suppose Caramon and I were always in a hurry years ago.” She took the sorcerer’s face between her small hands and kissed his cheek. “The storm is a bad one. All this lightning. I wish you’d stay until it passes. Your ship can’t leave during a storm.”

Palin backed toward the door. “Mother, Father, I’ll see you again—soon. Next time it will be at home. I won’t ask you to do any more traveling...”

“Nonsense!” Caramon interrupted. “Checking out other inns is good for us. Gives us ideas for the Last Home. Besides, we—”

Lightning crackled sharply and thunder boomed, louder this time. Again the inn shook, and screams cut through the air—coming from somewhere outside on the street. Palin rushed to the window and looked out. He saw a building in the distance collapse as lightning repeatedly struck it. A wave of people were coming down the street, running away from something.

“The storm’s not natural!” Palin shouted over the thunder. “No rain! The lightning seems directed!”

Dhamon moved to the door. “Feril and the others...”

Palin drew back and nodded. “I know, let’s go.”

“Dragon!” they all heard someone scream.

“I’m going with you!” Caramon announced. “Let me get my sword.”

Tika grabbed her husband’s arm as Dhamon and Palin dashed out into the hallway. “Not this time, Caramon,” she admonished. “Stay here and protect me.”

The big man knew his wife didn’t need protecting, but he nodded and joined her at the window.