The Eve of the Maelstrom

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The glaive Dhamon Grimwulf clutched was simple in design yet starkly beautiful, an axe-like blade affixed to a long, polished wooden haft. The edge, curved gently like a smile, gleamed silver in the light that spilled through the window. The weapon was drawn back, steadied. Dhamon’s eyes were steady, too, fixed on Goldmoon’s.

“My faith will protect me,” Goldmoon whispered as she stepped back, trying to put some distance between herself and the weapon. A few moments would buy time to convince Dhamon this was wrong. Goldmoon’s fingers touched the medallion about her neck, a symbol of her departed goddess Mishakal, and of her undying faith in the goddess.

“Dhamon, you can fight this. Fight the dragon....”

There were other voices in the chamber beside hers—that of the dwarf, Jasper, her favored student of many years, and those of Feril, Blister, and Rig. Shouted words, pleading, angry, incredulous words all aimed at Dhamon Grimwulf, the tall man with wheat-blonde hair and piercing eyes. They were meant to stop the glaive, to stop him. But the words ere thrust aside by the red dragon who controlled Dhamon. Against his will, Dhamon listened to the dragon voice inside his head and advanced on the healer.

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