Smoke wafted through the air, and several deep niches were illuminated with more or less permanent flares of glowing rock or wisping, flaring fires.
From one of those niches, black eye sockets stared back, and the dragon uttered a grim chuckle. There were many treasures scattered about the niches and corners of the cave: piles of steel and golden coins, weapons of dwarf-crafted steel, gems and jewels of spectacular value and sparkling beauty. Nearly every other item had an intrinsic value or purity of beauty that was far more tangible than the piece of dry bone. And though he valued many things, he treasured nothing so much as the skull he had claimed from Skullcap following his battle with the brass dragon.
The dragon didn't know what it was about the bony artifact that made it so compelling to him; he merely understood that it gave him a sense of power and well-being to look upon the object. Now he rose, spreading his wings to add a bit of lift to his gliding leap across the searing rock of the moat. He came to rest before the skull and squatted, staring into those black eyes.
He felt it again, a sensation that had become increasingly common when he regarded the thing. It was a feeling that the skull was trying to talk to him, to communicate something that was terribly important.
'What is it, my skull? Show me… speak to me!' he urged, his words a whisper hissed on a breath of soft flame.
As always, there was no reply. Gingerly, carefully, Flayze reached out and picked up the skull. He looked at it from every angle, flicking his forked tongue into the mouth, through the empty sockets of the eyes. He felt as though there was a mystery here, a locked treasure that he should know how to reach, to understand.
Yet though he had possessed the skull for nearly twenty years, he had never been able to learn how to release the secrets held within. Naturally he had tried many times. Perhaps sorcery would have helped to decipher the puzzle, but as always Flayze disdained magic, scorning the arcane arts as the tools of weaklings.
On an inexplicable impulse, he lifted the skull and placed it atop his own head, the eyeless face turned toward the front.
And for the first time he felt the power of the artifact take hold.
Abruptly he could not see the cave, couldn't smell the smoldering rock or the acrid taint of sulfur on the air.
Instead, he was looking at a different place.
This was a small fortified manor house on a rocky knoll. The terrain was suggestive of the Kharolis borderlands, though Flayze did not recognize the specific location. As he observed, mystified and intrigued, the dragon's perspective whirled inward, slicing through the manor's walls as if they didn't exist. He found himself in a room filled with a dozen or more rough-looking men. These were warriors, bandits most likely, to judge from the motley clothing, the ill-kept nature of hair and beards. Though they were inside, apparently at a place of safety, each of the men was armed.
And one of them stood out from the rest, a man who was well groomed, young, and handsome. He regarded the others with a tolerant gaze, and Flayze sensed that, despite his apparent youthfulness, this was the leader.
Something about the young man compelled the dragon's attention more firmly, and Flayze sensed the hot pulse of blood and magic, a cadence that was pounding beneath the stiff leather armor of the human's shirt. Finally the dragon's perspective fell further, through that material, and he beheld the bloodstone. The gem seemed huge, and he could sense its power-and its link to the skull that still rested upon the dragon's head.
These ruffians were an interesting lot, Flayze decided. Someday before too long he would seek them out, perhaps to kill them or take the bloodstone. Yet he felt a reluctance as he considered those options, a sense that the skull did not want him to attack-at least, not in a way that could endanger the precious stone. On the other hand, the wyrm might try to find a way the men could be useful to him.
Abruptly his attention shifted, pulled back from the bloodstone, out of the manor house and across the valleys of Kharolis. Soon he had the sensation of diving downward, sweeping along the banks of a shallow river until he hovered over a small village, a place of humans.
His attention was riveted upon a large house in the center of that village. There was danger to him there, in that house, a menace that the red dragon could not identify. Yet he knew that it was the skull that was showing him this danger, and the skull that was compelling him to act. Vaguely he perceived that the danger there was to the skull, not to the dragon, but even that threat was an affront to his draconic pride.
With a growl, Flayze lifted his head, dislodging the skull and breaking the spell that had bound him. He caught the treasure in his claws, setting it back upon the natural dais he had found for it. He was restless, uneasy, mystified by what he had seen. The men in the manor, he suspected, had a role to play in his future. Someday he would find them and bend mem to his will.
But before then, there was the matter of the village. All sorts of alarming notions had stampeded through the dragon's mind when he beheld the place. Flayzeranyx didn't understand the nature of the danger, but he recognized a threat when he saw one. And with that recognition came the drive for action.
The village would have to be destroyed.
CHAPTER 17
374 AC
Fourth Misham, Paleswelt
Danyal scooted down the ladder from the straw-bedded loft that served as the bedroom for himself and his brother Wain. Wain, and Danyal's mother and father as well, were already outside tending to chores-milking the cow, getting the sheep into pasture, perhaps gathering turtles from the traps by the stream bank.
The lad felt an almost guilty thrill of pleasure as he thought of his own personal duties. His 'chore' today was to go fishing, to bring home enough plump trout for the evening meal-and more, if possible. It was useful business, to be sure, valuable to his family and the rest of the little village of Waterton. But more importantly, fishing was about Danyal's favorite thing to do in all Krynn.
Of course, the lad did his share of the other chores as well. Though Bartrane Thwait was the most important man in the whole village, he made sure that his sons, Wain and Danyal, worked as hard as anyone else. They took turns helping with the traps, gathering potatoes from the field, tending the sheep, and milking the lone cow that was the most obvious sign of the Thwait family's exalted status in the community.
And the boys took turns doing the fishing, Danyal reminded himself. He shouldn't feel remorse just because it was his day to drown a worm or two. In all honesty, he admitted to himself with a private smile, he really didn't feel guilty at all.
He found his willow fishing pole just outside the house and checked the fine catgut line, insuring that it was free of snags. The supple pole, its length nearly three times the boy's height, whipped back and forth satisfactorily. Danyal had several hooks in his pocket, each painstakingly sharpened by his father last night, and a pouchful of plump worms that he had gathered several evenings ago under the silver light of a full Solinari. Finally he took up the creel, the wicker basket that hung on the hook beside the house's only door.
It was when he reached to his waist, looking to attach the creel to his belt, that he remembered that the strap of tanned leather he usually wore had broken just the day before. A piece of rope would suffice to hold up his trousers, but the creel-especially if he managed to fill it with fish-called for a sturdier support. Putting down the pole, he went back into the house.
Sunlight flashed off a surface of silver on the other side of the room, and Danyal saw his father's belt in its place of honor above the mantle. Of course, he knew it wasn't the belt that was being honored-it was the silver buckle that was a family heirloom, a treasured memento that had been worn by Danyal's ancestor.
The lad hesitated for a moment, knowing that the importance of that treasured buckle suggested he find some other way to attach the creel. But the late-summer breeze was already freshening. Soon the trout would drop deep to wait out the brightest part of the day.
