Two spires twisted together toward the sky. The twin spires were said to symbolize two dwarves from feuding clans who fell in love and turned their backs on their families, climbing to the highest point in the range to escape the conflict. The clans came for them, and in trying to get each to return home, the feud intensified. Swords were drawn, and several dwarves from both families were slain. The lovers stood at the high point of the mountains, fearing for their lives and praying to Reorx the Forge to be spared from the pointless bloodshed. Legend said Reorx reached down and touched the dwarf lovers, spinning them into the rock formation that has stood there all these centuries, forever safe from wars and forever part of the mountains they considered home—forever together.
“Aye,” Dhamon agreed. “I also know that part of the mountains well. There’s a pass near the spire, cleared a long time ago to make travel easy for merchants.”
Feril continued concentrating on the vision, a part of which was looming larger now. For an instant an odd image intruded. The faces of people appeared—a dwarf with steel-gray hair and a nose spread wide across his stern-looking face. Behind him were grouped a handful of dwarves and men, all looking careworn and haggard and determined. Then the faces winked out and once again there were only the twin spires. She focused on a crevice that drew her attention.
“Closer to that opening,” Dhamon urged. “I think I see something interesting.”
The scene shifted slightly, and the crevice came into better view. Wedged into the narrow gap was what at first looked like a shield. Dhamon thought it might have been dropped by one of the men they’d caught a glimpse of, but on closer inspection, the object proved to be a glossy black scale the size of a shield.
“A scale from Sable,” Obelia proudly pointed out. “Looks like one that has been shed, not broken or ripped off. So the black Overlord sheds after all! That means there must be other scales lying about that people have not absconded with or spoiled. Let’s look some more, shall we?”
With Obelia guiding her, Feril scryed beyond the Kharolis Mountains, after some effort finding another scale next to a totem of bones in the middle of the swamp and another at the edge of a pool of quicksand in a small nearby glade ringed by shaggybarks. Dhamon and Ragh said they were passingly familiar with each of those locations, too. There were several more scales at the edge of a marshy tributary, but they were all broken or cracked. Another two were near a stand of strange stones that Ragh said he might have seen before and thought was located north of the Plains of Dust. One scale was set atop a carved wooden totem and painted with strange symbols that none of them could read. The last scale the spell revealed was in another mountain range that Dhamon said he had traveled. It was in ogre territory to the far east, down the slopes from the city of Blöten.
“Don’t forget scales from other overlords,” Ragh prompted excitedly. “At least take a look. Let’s see if the other overlords have also shed a few.”
“The White,” Feril said without hesitation. “Frost, who took my home.”
A wintry scene filled the calm waters now, and it was a few moments before they could pick out shapes amidst all the whiteness. Frost was there, looking sculpted from ice, and in the lair behind him were more than a dozen frozen carcasses of walrus-men and small whales—his larder. There were a handful of scales scattered on the ground outside Frost’s lair. Another white scale rested on an icy peak. A few were bolted to a wall in the Solamnic Keep on the western coast of the island. Another sat at the edge of the large glacial lake, and there were more than a few scattered on the ground in the dragon’s lair.
“That cold place is a long way from here,” Obelia observed.
Dhamon grunted, and even Ragh had to agree.
The picture shifted again, stirred by the magic running through Feril’s fingers. Now they saw a barren land with geysers of steam rising from vents in the ground. In the center of a plateau was a pool of lava. Something drew Feril toward the pool, from whose bottom shone an intense red light.
“Yes, I can see it,” Dhamon said eagerly. “There’s a scale, large as a kite shield and several smaller ones near it, no doubt shed by Malys.”
“Beyond us to retrieve something out of lava,” Ragh commented.
“Likely true,” Obelia said.
Feril’s fingers stirred the water one last time, and a desert stretched for as far as they could see. The color of the sand was the palest brown and contrasted sharply with the brilliant blue sky. Then suddenly Feril focused on a small dune, burrowing deep into it. Far under the sand—though just how far they couldn’t say—were buried three blue scales. She sensed others were buried even deeper.
“From the Storm Over Krynn,” Ragh pointed out, with a measure of respect. “Those also would appear beyond our ability to obtain.”
“Perhaps.” Obelia looked thoughtful. “Perhaps not, given the nature-magic my elf-fish commands. In any event, it would take quite a bit of time and luck to find the blue scales, or the red one. The white is far from here. It appears, as I told my elf-fish before, the black overlord is the closest and presents our best opportunity.”
“Dhamon can fly,” Ragh reminded Obelia. “Nothing is too far when you’re on the back of a dragon. I’d rather go far north than tempt Sable’s clutches.”
Dhamon shook his head. “Sable is closest, Ragh.” Narrowed eyes kept the draconian from arguing. “I wasn’t planning on flying anyway. Sable’s minions would spot me in the air. I can travel more inconspicuously as Feril’s shadow.”
At her name, Feril sighed and stepped away from the water, swooning slightly from all the exertion. The others stopped arguing and looked at her. “I’ll be all right,” she said. Hours had gone by. They realized suddenly it was nearly dark. “I think we should try the mountains first, just to be on the safe side.”
Ragh puffed himself up and kicked at the water with his foot. “Fine, fine. Whatever you say. I’ll get a campfire started.”
“I’ll see what I can rustle up to eat,” Dhamon said mildly, following him.
Feril gestured to Obelia, who retreated into the flask. She carefully stoppered it and spread some clay around the opening to help ensure that no water would leak out. Then she put it back in the satchel and waited for the others to return.
The mountain pass was not difficult to find. Trails led directly to it from the Qualinesti forest. They saw right away that the pass wasn’t a natural occurrence. Color hands in the rock had been split by a force that had knocked part of the mountain away. Most of the rockface was smooth, worn away by time and weather, but on jagged sections here and there hawks had built their nests.
“It wasn’t magic,” Dhamon said, pointing to how the pass had been cut and shaped. “The dwarves carved a path through here a very long time ago.”
“To control access to their mountains,” Ragh added.
Feril raised a questioning eyebrow.
“They cut only a few passes through the Kharolis so they could watch people going through their mountain range. Easier to keep track of trespassers.”
Feril nodded in understanding.
“I watched them at work once, the hill dwarf clans,” Ragh continued. “Not cutting this pass, but one that was farther north. Not quite so big as this one—you could fit a wagon and more through it…mind you, I didn’t watch the whole time. I wasn’t that curious, and dwarves aren’t that exciting to watch no matter what they’re doing. It took hundreds of them with their picks, and at the base of the pass at night they used urkan worms, huge beasts that dwell underground and can’t stand the light. Years it took the dwarves, as these mountains are thick. Gave them something to do, I suppose, and it created another route for them to control.”
“Kept travelers away from dwarf villages and mines,” Feril noted, “except such passes can’t keep away the worst brigands and creatures who fly.”