The Lake of Death Page 12

  “Poor, poor elf-fish.”

  Betrayer! You’re the betrayer! Feril thought. Obelia, I gave you my trust! You said you’d help me!

  “I intended to, my elf-fish. I… I didn’t know…”

  Know what? Feril felt stiff, her limbs impossibly heavy. She tried to bring her sword up again but couldn’t lift it and it slipped from her fingers. You’ll not defeat me! she thought, wanting the Knights of Neraka to hear her thoughts. She meant to claw their eyes out, but she could see nothing but white. She was surrounded by an eerie whiteness and a cacophony of cries. A moment later she fell to the lake bed, her head striking against one of the overlord’s talons.

  “I didn’t know I couldn’t help you, elf-fish. Something keeps me from following my heart. I am sorry. Something inside me demands that I serve this overlord.”

  A chorus of apologies came from Obelia’s group of companions, but Kalilnama raised a dissenting voice. The Qualinesti philosopher strove to be heard above the others, his words virtually shouted inside her head: “Do not let them win, Kagonesti! You cannot overcome them, but you can escape! Flee, Kagonesti! Win by escaping!”

  I’ve no intention of lying down and surrendering, Feril thought, silently thanking Kalilnama for giving her hope, but the ghost knights who had entered her body were pinning her to the ground, holding her down as firmly as any anchor. Do you hear me, knights? You’ll not claim me! You’ll never claim me!

  Feril slammed her eyes shut to blot out the ghostly horror. She ignored the cold. Instead, she reached deep inside and found one last spark of magic. She coaxed it brighter, felt it blossom in her chest and course down her arms and legs.

  She pictured a silverfin, lithe and fast and likely of no interest to the dead Knights of Neraka. Such a fish would not threaten the dragon’s remains, she thought, remembering that when she’d turned herself into a catfish days ago the ghost knights had left her alone. Feril sensed her legs growing together and shortening, her arms melding into her sides, her skin giving way to scales. She was so cold she couldn’t be sure of everything that was happening, and so she prayed to Habbakuk as she vividly imagined her magical transformation.

  When she opened her eyes, her vision had righted itself. She was still hemmed in by white, but with eyes situated on both sides of her head, she also saw beyond. Move! she told herself. By the breath of Habbakuk, move and live!

  She flipped her tail and pushed away from Beryl’s corpse, leaving behind the two startled knights who had merged with her elf body and now found themselves staring at each other. She swam through their brethren. She pushed past one rank and into another, this one comprised of dead goblins and other creatures. The chill from their ghostly forms struck her like a physical blow, however, momentarily stunning her. She floated amid the spirits, gills barely moving.

  I’ve failed Dhamon and myself, and both of us will be cursed to join this undead army. She struggled to regain her strength but instead found herself sinking down, a dead weight. I thought being a fish would work. I thought…

  “Look! The wild elf is over there!” Feril heard someone cry. The ghost-voice was familiar… Kalilnama’s or Obelia’s, she wasn’t certain.

  “The elf-defiler has tricked us and is now on the other side of the dragon. We must stop her! We cannot let her harm Beryl’s precious body!”

  Obelia’s voice—Feril recognized it now—but he was pointing the ghosts in the opposite direction.

  “Hurry, before she mars the magnificent Beryl! We must slay her!”

  The cold receded, if only a little, as some of the ghosts moved away from her. However, not all of the undead warriors automatically heeded Obelia.

  “We can’t let the elf harm the Overlord!”

  A few more ghosts were prompted to follow the rest. Enough of those closest to Feril believed the Qualinesti ghost’s cries, so that, gliding away, she revived a little. Feril summoned her strength and kept swimming. Somehow she found a path through the undulating mass of white, angling away and rising up from the lakebed in search of the blue water that indicated an absence of specters.

  Feril heard the voices of the undead behind her. Their words flowed together and sounded like the wind blowing strongly through the trees. Faintly she heard Obelia, who was continuing to mislead the spirits, with Kalilnama helping him.

  Then she heard nothing else from the ghosts, as she had swum far enough away from the dragon corpse and its undead protectors and was surging through the unnaturally cold water toward the surface. It felt like hours had passed before the dark blue gave way to a lighter, brighter shade and the water turned obligingly warm. She was in the company of other silverfins now, swimming with them toward shallow waters, feeling the caress of soft tendrils of broadleaf water plants.

  Every inch of her ached; over and over she recalled the knights melding into her and chilling her beyond feeling. For all she knew, Dhamon was still down there, but she was so incredibly tired and sore, she had to get to the shore.

  Thus she pictured her elf body and swiftly felt her scales smoothing to become tanned skin, the fins separating to become legs, her eyes returning to normal. Gasping, the Kagonesti crawled out onto the bank and collapsed on the sand. It was early evening, but Nuitari and Solinari were low in the sky, and they cast just enough light for faint shadows to fall against the white sand. That was when she noticed her own shadow pulling away, flowing like oil into the grass and thickening. It expanded into an inky cloud, then began to assume the shape of a dragon. It grew larger still and some of its blackness gave way to specks of shiny blue and silver. Scales and spiky ridges rose from Dhamon’s back. The dragon’s head, all angles and planes, lowered, the barbels brushing Feril’s back.

  “Dhamon…” She raised her head. “I feared you had abandoned me. I feared you were lost or captured by the ghosts. I’m ashamed. I might have left you down there.” She laid her head back down, letting exhaustion claim her.

  “I was with you, Feril, but I didn’t dare reveal myself, and I couldn’t break free. I wanted to help you fight the ghosts, but I trusted you would find a way.”

  He was frightened of the depths of the lake too, he would have admitted if he was being entirely honest. His voice rumbled through the sand. “I’d never felt so helpless. There were no shadows down there, and…” He suddenly jerked his head around, hearing something and suddenly remembering Ragh. He didn’t see the sivak in his usual resting place, but just beyond, a line of goblins with a Knight of Neraka towering behind them was emerging from the trees.

  “The beast!” the knight leader shouted.

  The goblins issued their guttural war cry as they attacked, waving their weapons.

  “Kill it!” the knight shouted above the din. “Slay the creature and be rewarded!”

  In a thick wave they poured across the clearing. Dhamon shook Feril, then he didn’t give her another glance as he turned and thundered toward his foe. He released the full brunt of his dragonfear, expecting to see the goblins freeze, whirl, and flee into the trees. Though they looked briefly shaken, not one of them quit the fight. They yelled all the louder, coming at him brandishing their heavy weapons.

  Dhamon batted wildly at the first to close with him. These goblins flew off into the skies as he waded into the front ranks. He tried to reach the Knight of Neraka shouting orders, but there were too many goblins between him and the human. Across the gap the knight cursed at Dhamon, an odd smile playing on his lips.

  Dhamon brought a clawed foot down on a dozen goblins, but a dozen more shoved forward, pricking at his feet and legs with their weapons, though the wounds were nothing more than fly bites to Dhamon. He raised another claw and trampled his torturers, then leaped forward close to the Knight Commander.

  The knight didn’t budge, using two hands to swing a greatsword in a high arc, not quite close enough to strike Dhamon, only taunting him perhaps. In the same instant the knight barked more orders in goblin-speak, and droves of the hideous little creatures streamed out from the w
oods to attack Dhamon.

  They were no more than ants to him, however, and he swatted some away with his claws, squished others beneath his massive frame, slapped more down with his thrashing tail. Some he swallowed, chewing on the disagreeable creatures just a little before spitting them out. There seemed to be hundreds of them, Dhamon guessed. The crude symbols on their shields and on the bits of armor they’d cobbled together marked them as Being from the same region. He wondered briefly if Feril was all right, if she was even conscious.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he couldn’t see her, but she must have collapsed on the beach, or else she would be here. The Kagonesti never shrank from a fight.

  The Knight Commander backed away, still issuing orders in the goblin tongue, keeping his eyes locked on the dragon’s, while grasping a feathered talisman that hung from his belt. There was no trace of fright on the knight’s face. Too late, Dhamon wondered if his fear aura had been diminished somehow, as not a single goblin had panicked and the knight wasn’t even trembling.

  He had crushed and killed goblins galore, but the reinforcements continued to defiantly prick him with their small spears and swords. They’d drawn a little blood here and there.

  “Pests! An annoyance,” Dhamon muttered. “I’ll not save any of you for Ragh.” That reminded him—where was his loyal draconian friend?

  “Ragh!” His roar vibrated through the earth and pitched several goblins right to the ground. The vibrations raced outward in all directions, even jarring Feril awake. The Kagonesti opened her eyes wide and a minute later struggled to rise.

  She looked toward the trees and saw the goblin army. “Dhamon!”

  “Ragh!” Dhamon bellowed over and over. “Ragh, where are you?”

  Feril shakily got to her feet, nurturing her inner resources and sending her senses into the tall grass around the forest. “Aid me,” she murmured to the plants and trees lining the beach. “Snare the creatures that assail the dragon.”

  Meanwhile, Dhamon was distracted by a new mob of goblins rushing to confront him; he lashed them with his tail, clawed and snapped at them as they swarmed him from all sides. As the minutes passed, however, the grass around him began to grow to unusual lengths; nurtured by Feril’s magic, the tall grass whipped around the legs of the goblins, holding them in place and making them easier to trap and kill. Ferns and wildflowers spiraled up and twisted around the creatures’ flailing arms, keeping them from using their weapons.

  Feril! She has recovered? he thought gratefully. The grass grabbed at him, too, but he was too large and powerful to be pinioned. With a massive swipe of his claws, he finished off the last group of goblins still managing to mount any offense, then cast his gaze about for the Knight Commander.

  The Knight of Neraka had disappeared. Dhamon knew he must be proving his cowardice by hiding somewhere in the woods. He sniffed the air, picking up the scent of wildflowers, goblin blood, and his own rankness. He didn’t scent the knight or the draconian. Again Dhamon wondered about his friend.

  “Ragh!” Dhamon’s serpentine throat had gone hoarse. “Ragh?”

  He scanned the still-rustling foliage, peered through the mounds of goblin corpses for a glimpse of the cowering Knight Commander or Ragh. The tall grass and ferns, spreading evergreens and bushes were swaying hypnotically. It made his head spin.

  “Ragh!” Though he had won the day, he felt spent, defeated. “Ragh…”

  Had the goblins killed him? If they had, where was the body?

  The tall grass was wrapping around his talons and twisting around his tail. His head felt so heavy that he lowered it, feeling the tendrils of flower vines ensnaring his barbels. He rested his head on the ground, his collapsing jaw crushing goblin bodies. Long blades of grass edged over his lip and entwined his teeth.

  Dhamon closed his eyes and let out a great sigh, feeling almost comforted and cocooned by the enchanted nature.

  “Dhamon?” Feril stepped over dropped weapons and dead goblins, feet slipping in the copious blood. She stilled the grass with a silent command and peered ahead, looking for goblins or worse.

  She didn’t see anything moving, though with her elven eyesight she saw better than the dragon, and under an old white oak she spied the prone form of the sivak. He was pinned to the ground with spears, and she thought him dead.

  “Dhamon?” She hurried to the dragon, tripping over dead goblins. Slender fingers traced the scale pattern on his snout. She gagged at his odor, made a hundred times worse combined with the stink of all the slain goblins. “Dhamon!”

  She shook off the fatigue from her journey in the lake and stared wide-eyed at Dhamon. It didn’t make any sense. The dragon wasn’t breathing.

  From deep in the woods, the Knight Commander surveyed his decimated army. Despite the massive bloodshed, it was total victory. Though all but a handful of the goblins had died, goblins were cheap fodder to the Knight Commander, and he had managed to slay the dragon called Dhamon.

  “Mistress Sable will be greatly pleased.” He imagined she would bestow a magnificent reward on him. True, he wouldn’t be able to bring the dragon’s head to her as he’d originally planned—he didn’t have enough goblins to cut if off and carry the heavy head—but he would do something to show proof of his success.

  The draconian was also close to death, but sivaks were hardy creatures and this one might survive. If he did, the Knight Commander would drag him back to Sable’s lair, a witness to this evening’s triumph who could testify about the knight’s genius and the dragon’s momentous death. Then he would end the sivak’s suffering in front of Sable or maybe let her dissolve the draconian with her acid breath. Sable would have to reward him then. Hadn’t he killed the great Dhamon and his pet? He would be so terribly, terribly rich.

  The Knight Commander would sneak back to this place in the morning, just to see if the sivak pulled through. If the sivak didn’t live the night, too bad, then Bedell would have to settle for a small trophy from the Dhamon-dragon. Perhaps he’d cut off a small piece of the body—evidence of the kill. A few scales would do, a barbel, or a tooth. The pathetic elf woman would have slunk off by first light, then he could be on his way back to Shrentak. Without his army of goblins, he didn’t care to deal with the elf. She was a tricky one; she had brought the woods to life and held the goblins fast, thus she was a sorceress of considerable power. Confronting her would be above and beyond the call of duty. Sable didn’t know or care about the elf sorceress. Besides, she might figure out how to enchant him or tangle him up in the plants or trees like the stupid goblins, then he couldn’t return to Sable and gain his tremendous reward.

  No, he would retreat to a deserted village a few miles away. A couple of the homes were reasonably intact, and he would pass the rest of the night there.

  Then he would return in the morning for his precious evidence.

  12

  Dhamon tucked his long hair behind his ears, then stretched and worked a kink out of his neck. He was in his lair, deep in Sable’s swamp, and he was ogling all the riches he had collected when he was a dragon, thinking how he would carry them all out of the cave to a safer place—build a mansion and live there happily. He would need a wagon and sure-footed mules that could navigate the marsh. Several wagons, he corrected himself, as he looked into an alcove, the floor of which was covered with gold coins. Coins such as those had not been used on Krynn in a long time, and collectors would pay highly for them, especially in this marvelously preserved condition. He tried to remember where he’d gotten them—ah, yes… a few months ago he’d lumbered across an old ruin and Ragh had delved into a tunnel. The draconian came back with the gold coins and a handful of egg-shaped pieces of marble strung together on a thin cord.

  He had gems more precious than all those gold coins. Four matching sapphires that he claimed off the body of a Knight Commander were faultless and were the prize of his collection. Those walnut-sized gems couldn’t have honestly belonged to the knight; Dhamon suspected they had come from Sable a
nd were to be used as a gift or a bribe. Those four gems alone would be enough to buy him a fine house and furnishings in whatever city he eventually decided to settle in. Perhaps he would build several mansions in different cities, opting to travel between homes whenever he felt like a change of scenery. Some of the baubles he would save for Feril, of course. Even a Kagonesti appreciated jewelry. He fancied her wearing a thin strand of pearls he’d taken off the corpse of a female knight.

  “It wasn’t proper in my day,” Dhamon mused, thinking of that knight who had died easily by his caustic breath. When Dhamon was a Dark Knight no jewelry could be worn, and certainly no jewelry was taken off dead bodies—save the odd memento. The knighthood had changed, for the worse as far as he was concerned. There wasn’t as much honor, and loyalties were divided. “Shouldn’t he proper now.” He bent and ran his fingertips over a bowl filled with polished onyx chips, then turned and went to inspect other riches at the far end of his cave.

  There was one of his favorites—a long sword displayed on a stack of shields. The sword had been taken from the same Knight Commander who had carried the four sapphires. The sword was as strong and fine in its craftsmanship as any Dhamon had ever seen, and he ached to be human again, to properly hold it and feel its balance. Dhamon knelt and almost reverently touched the pommel. It was made of a hard metal that gleamed like silver but was far more precious. It felt comfortingly warm to the touch. The grip was etched with runes and studded with blue topaz cabochons. When he studied it closely, he could tell that the runes and gems had been set to represent constellations. The crosspiece was inlaid with gold and crushed pearls, and it curved at the ends, looking like the horns of a bull. His fingers wrapped around the pommel and he picked it up, briefly feeling the regret that a good sword never felt the same gripped in dragon’s claws.

  “Beautiful,” he said in a hushed voice. The blade was made of the same metal as the pommel, hammered to a fault, extraordinarily sharp. The balance was perfect, all of it feeling impossibly light and so easy to wield. “To battle with this! Wonderful!”