The Dragon's Tomb

Chapter XV

Karleah leaned back against the charred steps of the amphitheater and frowned. The nighttime sky above was black and starless due to the drifting ash in the air. Even with Jo and Braddoc on guard duty, Auroch could easily slip through that seamless night and trigger the abaton. But he hadn’t. In the faint glow of the abelaat crystal in her hand, Karleah could see that the abaton was still there, and still closed. The box that destroyed Armstead now sat silent and cold.

“Concentrate,” the wizardess told herself. Turning her attention from the box, she peered into the flawless, golden depths of the stone. Surely the crystal could tell her the weakness of the abaton. She lowered the stone atop a smoking brazier, letting the heat embrace its edged form. Again Karleah concentrated on the box, on Auroch, on her hope to destroy the abaton. With avid interest, she watched the dim facets of the crystal glow and fade. Smoky forms swirled about the outside of the stone. But the inside remained empty.

It was no use. The crystal lay silent, lifeless in Karleah’s palm. The old woman’s gnarled, scarred fingers closed about the stone, and her eyes lifted to the black sky overhead. She sighed and let her mind rest for a moment. You’re trying too hard, deary, she told herself. That’s why you aren’t seeing it. The abaton was too dangerous, too powerful for Auroch to have lost track of it. Surely Verdilith’s possession of it was part of the mage’s plan. Surely Braddoc’s theft of it, the castle’s examination of it—even their removal of it to Armstead must have been set up by Auroch from the beginning. And now, the fact that he hadn’t attacked them to regain his precious prize showed that they also were playing right into his hands.

Perhaps I should have let Johauna use Wyrmblight on the box, Karleah thought. Or, perhaps that’s exactly what Auroch wanted me to do.

“No,” Karleah said aloud. That’s just running myself in useless circles. It can’t be that everything I think of is part of Auroch’s plan.

Karleah shut her eyes to the darkness around her and whispered, “You haven’t forgotten what Armstead was like. You remember how lovely Armstead was in the spring. You remember the blossoming crabs lining the cobblestone pavement, the crocuses and tulips peeking beneath the trees.”

The old woman sighed, trying to hold back the flow of tears. She couldn’t allow herself the luxury of giving in to her pain.

Karleah opened her eyes and gazed down at the five smaller crystals Jo had given her. They lay arrayed dimly before her, as inert as the true abelaat stone. Karleah had hoped these other crystals might be key to unlocking the master crystal. But she had searched each of them, looking for some answering response, some glimmer of motion or color within the stones. Every time, she had failed.

The wizardess again contemplated the box. A clear seam outlined its lid, and a simple clasp connected the lid with the bottom of the box. Free from all ornamentation, the abaton was a marvel of simplicity.

Karleah knit her brows in concentration, clasped the master crystal in her hands, and stared at the box, suddenly wishing it would open for her. She wanted to see this marvelous place where the legendary abelaats lived, wanted to see them before they became twisted and evil creatures. She wanted to step across the bridge between worlds.

The crystal in her hand dug into her flesh, adding its heat with that of her blood.

As Jo stood watch, she distractedly ran her finger along the edge of Wyrmblight. Its hard, sharp edge nearly cut her skin. The sensation surprised her, for she had once believed it would never cut her. But much about the blade surprised her lately.

She should have given it to the baroness. That much was clear. The blade was fully an inch taller than she, and it had been stupid for Jo to think she could wield it.

Worse yet, she now knew she was ruining the blade. It was a sensitive, intelligent blade, drawing strength from its wielder. When Flinn fell from honor, the sword was blackened by his bitter soul, and when his honor was regained, the sword again glowed bright. Only four days after Flinn’s death, the blade was so strong that Verdilith couldn’t break it. But, in Jo’s meager hands, the fabled Wyrmblight had slowly diminished to being even weaker than a normal blade. It was so brittle now that jabbing Brisbois had cracked it. She hadn’t found the fracture, but she knew it was there. She could sense it.

And the sword hadn’t spoken to her since Kelvin. A kind of gnawing desperation had begun inside of her. She was afraid to even pull the blade from its harness, lest she might break it. If only she could bear it back whole to the Castle of the Three Suns so that they could encase it, a relic, in glass. That’s what it had become: a glass sword.

Even Flinn had sensed her discomfort when last they had spoken through the crystal. He had asked repeatedly about the blade, kept saying he could feel that something was amiss with it.

Weary of her ruminations, Jo looked across the fire to check on Dayin. He slept soundly, as though unaffected by their bleary surroundings. Brisbois lay nearby, still but not asleep, his eyes open and staring toward Wyrmblight. There was something akin to lust on his dark features. Apparently aware of her attention, he stroked his short beard and twirled the ends of his moustache.

Jo turned Wyrmblight away from the dishonored knight, and he gave a slight whimper of disappointment.

“What are you looking at?” the young squire demanded.

Brisbois shook his head and smiled. “Nothing. I was just trying to think of how Verdilith is going to smash that thing.”

“He will not.”

“Well,” the man said, rising and shuffling over to where Jo stood. He stared her straight in the eye. “I hope, for your sake, you’ve got some other plan for the Great Green’s demise. Something gruesome you’ve been thinking of. Cutting his throat and letting him choke on his own blood; disemboweling him and letting him slip on his entrails; you know, that sort of thing.”

“What about cutting his arm off and beating him with the bloody stump?” Braddoc asked wryly from his nearby guardpost. He shook his head in disgust.

“Say, that’s a good one. Well, what are you going to do Jo? Are you going to beat him to death with his own limbs?”

“What business is it of yours what I plan?” she spat.

“I think it’s everyone’s business,” Brisbois replied, indicating the rest of the group with a sweep of his arm. “Obviously, Verdilith is searching for us. It’s only a matter of time—”

“How do you know he’s searching for us?” Braddoc interrupted.

Brisbois directed his response to Jo. “He hates that blade, Johauna. And he hates the person who wields it. He hates the blade so much I’ll bet he’d betray anyone to see it destroyed, even an old ally like Teryl Auroch.”

“How do you know that?” Jo asked, pulling Wyrmblight closer to her for comfort.

“How could I not?” Brisbois replied incredulously. He brushed the ash from his side and added, “Wyrm—that sword was created with a single purpose: to destroy Verdilith. It’s very existence is an abomination, as far as the dragon is concerned.”

“But, the Great Green would have to be a great fool if he hasn’t found us yet,” Braddoc shot back.

“Just so, just so.”

“You two are a couple of gasbags,” Jo said, a chill running down her spine.

“If I were Verdilith and I knew that sword was forged to be my bane, I would destroy it this instant, and you just after. Especially since it is the fallen sword of Flinn the Fallen.”

“Flinn the Mighty, damn you!” Jo hissed, jumping to her feet. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you and your plans did to him, bondsman. And don’t think your debt will be easily paid!”

Brisbois appeared shocked and backed away a step. He held up his hands in a gesture of peace and said, “I’m sorry, Mistress Menhir. I meant no disrespect.”

“What was the point of all this, again?” Braddoc asked, tersely motioning for Jo to lower the blade. She resented Braddoc’s continual interruptions of the feud between her and Brisbois, but did as she was told.

Brisbois pulled on his goatee a moment, a dubious expression crossing his features, then he sat down again by the fire. He said, “All I was saying was that Verdilith is sure to find us eventually, drawn to that sword like a moth to a flame. Here, in this blasted town, we have no defense. There’s nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. He could kill us all with a single breath.”

“We’ve got to guard the abaton,” Jo said, glaring askance at the man.

“One of us does,” he replied. “The rest should wait in reserve to attack if needed.”

“And what do you suggest?”

“I have no suggestion,” he replied. “That’s why I asked if you have any other plans for your defense.”

“Why don’t we ask Karleah? She knows this place better than we do. She could probably find a place for us to stay that isn’t quite so … exposed,” Braddoc suggested.

Brisbois shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea just yet. The old woman seems engrossed in whatever she’s doing.”

“For once I agree with you,” Jo said. “And I hate to say it, but you are right about us getting out of the open.”

The squire looked over her shoulder to the inmoving form of the old woman. “We might be here a little while.”

“Then let’s start now,” Brisbois said, rising and dusting himself off again. “You keep guard over Karleah and Dayin while Braddoc and I go off to find someplace to hole up.”

Jo was about ready to agree with the proposal when a voice in her head said, Don’t let him have the upper hand. If he chooses the place where you’ll camp, he’ll know it better than you. But neither did she trust him to guard Dayin and Karleah. Jo made an angry cutting motion with her hand. “You’re staying near me, bondsman! Braddoc will post guard and you and I will find better cover.”

Brisbois turned to Braddoc and shrugged. The dwarf made no reply as he leaned on his axe. “Fine by me.”

Jo turned to Brisbois, who stood waiting, sword hand on the pommel of his weapon. The young squire made a commanding gesture, and the two headed off into darksome Armstead.

As Karleah forced her will upon the amber crystal, she felt it press into her palms, cutting through the flesh. And there was blood. For the first time since she had taken the true abelaat stone from its pouch, she broke contact, letting it drop to the ground beside the other crystals.

“It’s this damn box, sapping the stone’s power,” she said to herself as she stared at her hands. The blood was running faster than she had expected. Karleah blinked and wiped away what she could. She stared at her new cuts with annoyance, not wanting to cease her efforts to divine the abaton’s weakness. But the lines of blood slowly spreading down her arms convinced her to bandage the wounds. She shook her head, grasped the hem of her robe, and began to rip off strips of it.

As she applied the crude bandages to her hands, Karleah glanced up toward the campfire at the top of the amphitheater. Her eyes widened when she saw that there was nobody by the still-burning blaze except the sleeping boy and the dwarf.

“How goes the magical folderol?” Braddoc shouted down to her.

“Fine,” she lied, tying off one of the bandages. “Where are the others?”

“Went to … explore,” Braddoc replied.

That seemed a bad idea to the old witch, and Braddoc apparently sensed her uneasiness.

“Do you want me to try to stop them?”

A smile formed on the crone’s lips. Despite their bickering, she and Braddoc were growing psychically sensitive to one another. “Yes.”

Nodding, the dwarf tromped off into the darkness. Karleah peered nervously after him, noting once again the still form of Dayin. In the flickering light of the campfire, he seemed as dead as the buildings of Armstead. He had been despondent since Threshold. The news of his fathers heritage, of his own abelaat bloodline, must have crushed the boy, Karleah reflected.

“And no wonder,” she whispered to herself, continuing to stare at the boy’s dark form. “He now knows more about himself than he ever needed to know.”

She turned back toward the box, and only then realized with horror what she had done. The true abelaat stone had left her grasp, had left contact with her flesh. Its protection of her had ended.

She groped about on the ground, but the stone was gone. Looking up, she saw with fear that the abaton’s lid was slowly cracking open.

And the blackness within it was enormous.

She couldn’t scream, feeling the life force already draining from her body. She couldn’t move, her body seeming hollow, like a stone statue, imprisoning her soul. And, though she knew the box’s lid was only open a fraction of an inch, she felt as though she were staring into eternity.

She saw everything, and nothing. She saw fireballs as big as Mystara itself, as big as a thousand worlds, hurling in reckless courses at speeds unimaginable. She saw nations spread like lichen across a barren rock, breaking it down into sand and soil. She saw worms boring through the bodies of the dead. She saw the color of pain and the shape of screaming. But, worst of all, in the roaring rush she saw the purpose of the evil abaton—she saw what Auroch would do.

“He’s coming back for Dayin!” she hissed through lips no longer her own. She struggled to rise, but the box dragged her stony body forward. Her head struck its coal-black side and bone shattered like glass in her mind. Then Karleah saw another vision, a vision of Teryl Auroch coming down from the skies and taking Dayin into the abaton, back to the world of the abelaat.

Dayin—run! she struggled to say, but her body slid off her, like a robe of silk slides from the shoulders of a young woman. And then, solid and black and heavy as the sun, oblivion embraced her.

Jo and Brisbois cautiously picked their way through the catacombs beneath Armstead. They formed a vast network of naturally and magically carved caves that honeycombed the bedrock of the village. If Jo’s guess was right, the catacombs connected every site in Armstead, including the amphitheater. Finding the trunk that led to the amphitheater would allow them an excellent hiding place, and a post from which to guard the abaton.

As the two carefully made their way through the passages, Jo held up a small lamp she had found among the wreckage. The flickering glow of the lamp seemed to make the caves jitter and sway, and it cast evil shadows over Brisbois’s grinning face.

“I told you we could turn up something worthwhile, if we only looked,” Brisbois said, stepping carefully over a fallen column of stone.

“All we’ve found yet is ruin and corpses,” replied Jo. Although she knew Brisbois was right, she couldn’t bring herself to admit it to him. Peering ahead, Jo mentally retraced their steps, hoping they were still heading toward the amphitheater. The passage ahead narrowed, and cracks in the stone walls showed that the ground had shifted in the blast. “I think the connecting passage will be just after this section.”

“Lead on,” Brisbois replied with a leering, self-satisfied smile.

Jo pursed her lips, declining comment. She stepped cautiously into the tight corridor, leaning to avoid the dark jags of rough stone that protruded from one wall. Brisbois followed close after, too close, in Jo’s opinion. She could feel his hot breath on her back, and his hand occasionally brushed her side.

She turned in the tight space and scowled at Brisbois. “Back off, bondsman,” she said, intentionally lifting the lantern close to his face.

The man didn’t wince, a lascivious light in his eyes. He nodded, his gaze tracing out the ash-smudged contours of her chest and hips.

Jo’s eyes narrowed. She set a hand on his shoulder and pushed him backward. “Keep your mind on your duty, soldier.” Pivoting, she continued into the passage. She raised the lantern and turned sideways to squeeze between two boulders. As she worked one leg past the encroaching stone, she could feel his eyes still on her.

“I know now why Flinn fell in love with you, Jo,” Brisbois said luridly, “why he wanted you.”

A sharp retort died on Jo’s tongue as the caves shifted violently around her. The lantern dropped from her hand, and, with a shattering of glass, the flame guttered and almost went out. Jo frantically tried to pull her foot free from the boulders. But, in the shuddering darkness, she couldn’t find a handhold. Dirt fell from the ceiling in a choking cloud and billowed out through the passage.

“Brisbois?” Jo shouted, anger and fear and alarm mixing in her voice.

For one awful moment, she felt him, his body pressed next to hers, his hands groping along her sides, his lips rubbing hungrily against hers. She broke away, drawing a breath to scream, but a burning, biting vapor filled her lungs, and she spasmed with coughing.

“You’ll be an excellent prize, Johauna Menhir,” he seethed eagerly.

Jo lashed out with her fists, but struck only the stone of the passage. Although she flailed in both directions, her knuckles struck nothing.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the caves shook again. In desperation, Jo wrenched her foot free of the rock, drew her knife, and searched the cave floor for the lantern. After dragging across the shattered glass, her hands at last settled on the lantern’s handle. She adjusted the wick and the flame grew bright again. Lifting the lantern into the dusty air, she drew her knife, but the defamed knight was nowhere to be seen.

“Brisbois! You bastard!”

The amphitheater was lighted by an unholy glow as luminous vapors swirled thickly through it. The magical storm rose from the abaton and spiraled up into the black night above Armstead. Its twining mists reached like spectral claws up to the clouds high above and tore a hole in them, revealing the starry heavens. White-hot jags of lightning erupted through the center of the storm and danced in spinning circles across the devastated village. The ash that had settled on the charred ground lifted on the winds and filled the air like snow.

And, suddenly, Teryl Auroch stood in the midst of the storm, as calm as if he were standing on land. His face bore no expression, and, as he was lifted on the rushing winds, his piercing blue eyes settled on the campfire atop the amphitheater.

With a motion of his hand, Auroch awakened his son. Dayin rubbed his eyes and looked upward, shielding his face from the radiant mage. Then, lip trembling, he stood. Resignation hung plainly in his features, as though he knew in that moment what his father had planned, always had planned, since the moment of his birth.

The storm heightened, a moaning roar rising from the abaton itself. The charred remains of a blasted home collapsed in the gale, and rubble from the rock walls jiggled uneasily. Abruptly, fire erupted in the core of the vapors, flames that leaped to the very clouds. The sudden blast of heat sent winds howling and thrumming through the surrounding forests, bearing with them flocks of leaves, torn from their boughs.

The boy seemed mesmerized, unaware. He didn’t flinch as the crackling thunder shook the ground. He didn’t wince as the flames roared in huge, spiraling sheets from the box. Without expression, Dayin calmly stepped up from the earth, as though on an invisible stair, and walked to his father. The mage put his arm around the boy and held him close, as if to protect him from the ravages of the still-growing storm. Dayin glanced up at his father, the gazes of their brilliant blue eyes locking.

Jo burst out from the catacombs entrance just before the building above her toppled into the caves. She dropped the lantern and gripped Wyrmblight in a firm, two-handed grasp as she rushed toward the storm-swathed amphitheater.

“Karleah!” she shouted in fear, though the wind ripped the word from her throat. Leaning into the gale, she ran, stones sliding beneath her feet. Her legs slipped out from under her and she fell. Crying out in surprise and pain, Johauna gripped a charred root to keep from being blown backward.

Blinking, she stared into the raging storm. A blue-white column of mist rose from the amphitheater, its core blazing with fire. A shower of sparks and embers emanated from the storm’s heart, raining down on the land around her. And there, at the heart of the storm, she saw Teryl Auroch holding Dayin.

“Dayin!” she cried, but the wind blew too hard for her to hear her own voice.

A tremendous pillar of light pierced the sky, stabbing at an angle through the heart of the storm and entering the abaton. The pillar had a beautiful, pearlescent glow. Teryl Auroch gently gestured his son to walk into the slanting light. Jo watched helplessly as the boy floated on the air, entering the glowing shaft without a backward glance. The mage shot Jo a last enigmatic look, then stepped in behind his son.

“No! Dayin!” she screamed. “Dayin, come back!”

Struggling to her knees, Jo lifted Wyrmblight, wanting to feel the four runes of the Quadrivial pulse and glow with heat. But the sword was dark and cold.

All was lost—Armstead, Dayin, Flinn, Wyrmblight … Jo didn’t even want to guess what had happened to Karleah and Braddoc. Auroch had defeated them. Brisbois had escaped. Honor, Courage, Faith, and Glory were dead, and Jo’s heart was dead with them. Her pledge to Sir Graybow and herself—her pledge of mercy—rang hollowly in her ears.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Jo grasped the blade of Wyrmblight and set the hilt firmly on the ground. Leaning the sword toward her, she placed the tip against her left breast and closed her tearful eyes.

“No, Jo, there is another way,” a voice said from behind her, a voice she actually heard, one she recognized.

Johauna Menhir whirled around, Wyrmblight clattering loudly to the ground. Her heart leaped. It was impossible. It was true. For a moment, the fury of the storm was nothing.

Standing in the blasted city, framed by the flames of the burning buildings, stood Flinn the Mighty. He was clothed in scintillating light, his armor blinding. His smiling face glowed with strength and health.

And life.