The half-ogre stood in a farming village in Kern, not far from the shores of the Blood Sea. His wife was by his side, a plain-looking human woman to whom he was passionately devoted. He held her small hands in his large, calloused ones and looked over her shoulder toward their home, made of stone and thatch. They’d recently built it themselves, built it in the shade of a pair of large oaks. There was a vegetable garden behind the home, and by craning his neck, Groller could see the crops coming up—beans, carrots, and a row of turnips. Their daughter was playing at the side of the home, chattering to a cloth doll and straightening its flower-dotted dress. Groller intended to build an addition to the home, now that his wife was pregnant with their second child. The baby would be a boy, he hoped; someone to carry on the name of Dagmar.
Groller was accepted in this village—more than accepted, he was considered a vital part of the community. He was strong and able to help with the toughest of tasks. Amiable and caring, he was liked by everyone. The village suited him, and he was happy.
He was working in the garden late one morning when the green dragon came. The beast skimmed twice over the village, watching as the people shouted and ran for cover, like scurrying ants. Then the beast banked away, and Groller prayed it was gone, that it had found nothing to interest it in this small place. He grabbed his hoe and headed toward the house, where his wife and daughter were.
But the dragon hadn’t left. It was merely biding its time, selecting the best vantage for its attack. It returned just as Groller reached the front door, flying low, jaws open, breathing a cloud of noxious sticky liquid that coated everything.
Those people still outside who were caught in the cloud began screaming. They grabbed their faces and pitched forward, twisting on the ground. Groller yelled to his wife and daughter to stay inside, and he darted out into the center of the village, hoe held high.
The dragon landed, its tail lashing out at the smallest homes, the ones made only of wood. Its wings whipped up the air and blew the thatch off buildings. Several people were snatched up in the creature’s claws or smothered by its noxious, lethal breath.
The screams filled Groller’s senses. They wouldn’t stop; they rose to a fever pitch as the dragon continued its terrible assault. The half-ogre watched his friends die. He swung his hoe at the dragon, but it bounced off the thick green scales. The dragon glanced amusedly at him; or perhaps it was looking beyond him, not seeing him at all. Then it pushed off from the ground. The air from its wings knocked Groller over as well as the handful of others who’d dared to make a stand.
The dragon flew from one home to the next, crushing each building and pulling out the people. It ate most, swallowing them whole. Others it simply killed and tossed aside.
“Maethrel!” Groller shouted. His wife was in the doorway. Then suddenly there was no doorway, no home. The dragon had landed atop it, turning it to rubble, then vaulted away to demolish another building.
Groller’s legs pumped over the ground, which was still sticky from the green dragon’s caustic breath. His hands tore at the thatch and stones until his fingers were bloody from the effort, until they located Maethrel. She was dead, crushed. Groller’s daughter too was slain.
Tears streamed down the half-ogre’s face, and he screamed in sadness and rage. His screams mixed with the cries of those few still alive. Only half-aware of his actions, he grabbed his hoe and ran toward the dragon, crying with anger, trying to get the dragon’s attention. “Fight me!” he yelled. But the dragon seemed uninterested. It was tearing at the building that used to be the village hall.
The air was saturated with the cries of the dying, the screams of the few survivors. The cries rose louder than the dragon’s snarls, than the whoosh of its horrible breath. They were all Groller heard.
“Make the noise stop,” Groller prayed as he raced toward the dragon. “Please make the screams stop.”
He was only a few yards away from the dragon when it lifted from the ground again and banked toward the east. It flew out over the Blood Sea, finished with the village. All around Groller, the moans continued.
He fell to his knees, dropping the hoe and cupping his bloody hands over his ears. “Please make it stop.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a tiny man, gnome-sized and golden, with golden eyes. The man was watching him. Then the creature nodded to him, and suddenly the screaming stopped.
Groller looked around. The little gold man was gone, as were all the noises. He stumbled back toward his ruined home, glancing at the survivors, wondering why a handful had been spared. They were talking to him, yelling at him perhaps. He saw their mouths move, tears streaming from their eyes, but he could no longer hear them.
He couldn’t hear anything.
“Maethrel,” he cried. He couldn’t even hear his own words. He sat beside her, placing his bloody hand over her heart, and wept.
He buried his wife and daughter that night and slept by their graves.
He awoke to the sensation of something rough and wet running across his cheek. He lay on his back, blinking. He thought he saw the small gold-skinned man again. The one with the golden eyes. He blinked again, and reached his fingers up, entwining them in Fury’s long red hair. No little man. Only the wolf. Somehow the wolf was with him. Somehow the beast had found a way down into the cavern. Fury continued to lap at Groller’s face.
“Rig?” Groller asked, hoping the wolf had somehow brought the mariner down too. “Furl? Fee-oh-na?”
Groller tried to push himself up, but his legs wouldn’t move and his waist wouldn’t bend. Panic rose in his chest. He couldn’t feel his legs. He struggled to move his arms, his long fingers prodding the back of his head. Blood, and a growing bump. He gingerly felt the rest of his body. His chest felt on fire and his arms and head ached. He touched his thighs. His sensitive fingertips registered the feel of the fabric, the warm wetness of the blood, the give of the flesh. But his legs felt nothing.
“Fuhree?”
Groller turned his head this way and that, trying to see through the darkness. Where were Rig and Feril? He glanced about again, his eyes coming to rest on the lumpy form of the dwarf. “Jaz-pear!” Groller called. “Jaz-pear!” Shouting hurt his chest.
Groller couldn’t tell if the dwarf was alive. The grayness was unmoving. His own chest hurt, and breathing was painful. “Maethrel,” Groller breathed. Perhaps he would see his wife again when he died. That would not be so bad. But he didn’t want to die yet. Rig and Palin needed his help against the dragons. “Jaz-pear!”
Jasper heard his name. It was a whisper, hard to make out, indistinct. Goldmoon? he thought. It sounded as if she were calling to him from a distance. It was as if he was on the Walk on Schallsea Island and she was in the Citadel of Light, calling him to come to another lesson. Her body was in the Citadel of Light, he knew, in a crystal coffin that magically preserved her so the mystic missionaries could travel to the island and bid their final farewells.
“Jasper,” he thought he heard Goldmoon call again. If it is her, he thought, I’m dead.
“Jasper.” Definitely Goldmoon’s voice, he decided. The dwarf searched for her face, but all he could see was the darkness. “Jasper. Have faith.”
He imagined her, full of life, gold hair tumbling to her shoulders and spilling down her back. Her eyes were pensive and expressive. When he’d given serious thought to going to Thorbardin before the dwarves sealed the kingdom, those eyes had talked him out of it. Goldmoon wanted him to stay with her, to learn more of the healing arts and of mysticism. He hadn’t been able to say no to those eyes.
The shifting bands of gray became paler, and tendrils of hair framed a smooth face. “Goldmoon,” Jasper whispered. “It is you.”