The Dragon's Tomb

Epilogue

The black gateway of the Realm of the Dead opened.

Flinn arose in flames. Stepping from a burning building at the center of Armstead, Flinn breathed the air of Mystara into his lungs again. His memory of what had just happened was vague, shrouded by a haze of forgetfulness, like the drifting ash that shrouded the village. He didn’t even know his own name.

But he did remember the abaton, the evil box of Auroch and the abelaats. He remembered, too, the instruction he had received from Diulanna: Destroy the abaton or remove it from Mystara.

There it was before him, its white-hot pillar drawing the magic from Mystara. Flinn could feel the life of his world gradually drain away into the pearlescent column, feel the balance of magic slowly shift and sway to favor the abelaats’ world. He must destroy the box, or every creature on Mystara would be dead within the year Diulanna had shown this to him. Thor, the Thunderer, and Odin, the All Father, had confirmed it.

Flinn flexed his muscles and felt his immortal form writhe with power. His mortal body had been strong, but now he wielded an otherworldly power. Even so, his powers were new to him, and he did not know them all. But he would learn them, and learn them quickly if he was to destroy the abaton.

The knight took another step, feeling the ground beneath his feet—a sensation he thought he would never feel again. He remembered that his pyre had been much like the ruined building that burned now behind him. Yet, something was missing, something that danced just beyond the edge of memory.

Flinn shook his head in confusion. “Not something,” he said to himself. “Someone.” But he couldn’t remember who. Soon he would remember—as he learned his powers, he would remember. “I must build my strength,” he stated.

“Since when do dead men have to build their strength?” a voice asked from behind him.

Flinn slowly turned. His eyes narrowed with remembrance.

“You don’t remember me,” said the stranger flatly. “That’s no surprise. You’ve been dead quite some time.”

“And who are you?” Flinn asked.

“Do you remember anything? About who you are, who you knew. Who you loved?”

Flinn shook his head. “No. Very little.”

“Then let me help you remember. Your name is great in these lands—of course, partly due to me. Your name is Flinn … Flinn the Mighty.”

Flinn nodded, trying the name out on his lips. He felt no threat from this stranger and guessed it was somebody he had known in his mortal life. Blinking, Flinn pointed down to the remains of a body on the ground, “Who was that?” he asked.

The stranger paused introspectively before replying. After a moment, he said, “That was your greatest enemy, a dragon named Verdilith. He took your form in perfection, as there is a perfect copy of everything on the Plane of the Dead. It was one of the many events that allowed you to return to this world.” The stranger eyed the column of light. “Let’s go. It’ll drain both of us of our souls unless we get away from it. Besides, you’ve much to learn before you can destroy that thing.”

“Very well.”

Flinn let himself be led away from the pillar of light, the pillar that was the gateway to his enemy; As he walked, he asked, “What is your name?”

“Braddoc, of Rockhome, of course.”