Dragonlance 03 - Dragons of Spring Dawning (50 page)

Raistlin paused, his golden eyes narrowed.

“Don’t leave me to die at their hands,” Caramon said calmly, asking a simple favor. “End it for me now, quickly. You owe me that much—”

The golden eyes flared.

“Owe you!”
Raistlin sucked in a hissing breath.
“Owe you!”
he repeated in a strangled voice, his face pale in the staff’s magical light. Furious, he turned and extended his hand toward the draconians. Lightning streaked from his fingertips, striking the creatures in the chest. Shrieking in pain and astonishment, they fell into the water that quickly became foaming and green with blood as the baby dragons cannibalized their cousins.

Caramon watched dully, too weak and sick to care. He could hear more swords rattling, more voices yelling. He slumped forward, his feet lost their footing, the dark waters surged over him.…

And then he was on solid ground. Blinking, he looked up. He was sitting on the rock beside his brother. Raistlin knelt beside him, the staff in his hand.

“Raist!” Caramon breathed, tears coming to his eyes. Reaching out a shaking hand, he touched his brother’s arm, feeling the velvet softness of the black robes.

Coldly, Raistlin snatched his arm away. “Know this, Caramon,” he said, and his voice was as chill as the dark waters around them, “I will save your life this once, and then the slate is clean. I owe you nothing more.”

Caramon swallowed. “Raist,” he said softly, “I—I didn’t mean—”

Raistlin ignored him. “Can you stand?” he asked harshly.

“I—I think so,” Caramon said, hesitantly. “Can’t, can’t you just use that, that thing, to get us out of here?” He gestured at the dragon orb.

“I could, but you wouldn’t particularly enjoy the journey, my brother. Besides, have you forgotten those who came with you?”

“Tika! Tas!” Caramon gasped. Gripping the wet rocks, he pulled himself to his feet. “And Tanis! What about—”

“Tanis is on his own. I have repaid my debt to him ten-fold,” Raistlin said. “But perhaps I can discharge my debts to others.”

Shouts and yells sounded at the end of the passage, a dark mass of troops surged into the dark water, obeying the final commands of their Queen.

Wearily Caramon put his hand on the hilt of his sword, but a touch of his brother’s cold, bony fingers stopped him.

“No, Caramon,” Raistlin whispered. His thin lips parted in a grim smile. “I don’t need you now. I won’t need you anymore … ever. Watch!”

Instantly, the underground cavern’s darkness was lit to day-like brilliance with the fiery power of Raistlin’s magic. Caramon, sword in hand, could only stand beside his black-robed brother and watch in awe as foe after foe fell to Raistlin’s spells. Lightning crackled from his fingertips, flame flared from his hands, phantasms appeared—so terrifyingly real to those looking at them that they could kill by fear alone.

Goblins fell screaming, pierced by the lances of a legion of knights, who filled the cavern with their war chants at Raistlin’s bidding, then disappeared at his command. The baby dragons fled in terror back to the dark and secret places of their hatching, draconians withered black in the flames. Dark clerics, who swarmed down the stairs at their Queen’s last bidding, were impaled upon a flight of shimmering spears, their last prayers changed to wailing curses of agony.

Finally came the Black Robes, the eldest of the Order, to destroy this young upstart. But they found to their dismay that—old as they were—Raistlin was in some mysterious way older still. His power was phenomenal, they knew within an instant that he could not be defeated. The air was filled with the sounds of chanting and, one by one, they disappeared as swiftly as they had come, many bowing to Raistlin in profound respect as they departed upon the wings of wish spells.

And then it was silent, the only sound the sluggish lapping of water. The Staff of Magius cast its crystal light. Every few seconds a tremor shook the Temple, causing Caramon to glance above them in alarm. The battle had apparently lasted only moments, although it seemed to Caramon’s fevered mind that he and his brother had been in this horrible place all their lives.

When the last mage melted into the blackness, Raistlin turned to face his brother.

“You see, Caramon?” he said coldly.

Wordlessly, the big warrior nodded, his eyes wide.

The ground shook around them, the water in the stream sloshed up on the rocks. At the cavern’s end, the jeweled column shivered, then split. Rivulets of rock dust trickled
down onto Caramon’s upturned face as he stared at the crumbling ceiling.

“What does it mean? What’s happening?” he asked in alarm.

“It means the end,” Raistlin stated. Folding his black robes around him, he glanced at Caramon in irritation. “We must leave this place. Are you strong enough?”

“Yeah, give me a moment,” Caramon grunted. Pushing himself away from the rocks, he took a step forward, then staggered, nearly falling.

“I’m weaker than I thought,” he mumbled, clutching his side in pain. “Just let me … catch my breath.” Straightening, his lips pale, sweat trickling down his face, Caramon took another step forward.

Smiling grimly, Raistlin watched his brother stumble toward him. Then the mage held out his arm.

“Lean on me, my brother,” he said softly.

The vast vaulted ceiling of the Hall of Audience split wide. Huge blocks of stone crashed down into the Hall, crushing everything that lived beneath them. Instantly the chaos in the Hall degenerated into terror-stricken panic. Ignoring the stern commands of their leaders, who reinforced these commands with whips and sword thrusts, the draconians fought to escape the destruction of the Temple, brutally slaughtering anyone—including their own comrades—who got in their way. Occasionally some extremely powerful Dragon Highlord would manage to keep his bodyguard under control and escape. But several fell, cut down by their own troops, crushed by falling rock, or trampled to death.

Tanis fought his way through the chaos and suddenly saw what he had prayed the gods to find, a head of golden hair that gleamed in Solinari’s light like a candle flame.

“Laurana!” he cried, though he knew he could not be heard in the tumult. Frantically he slashed his way toward her. A flying splinter of rock tore into one cheek. Tanis felt warm blood flow down his neck, but the blood, the pain had no reality and he soon forgot about it as he clubbed and stabbed and kicked the milling draconians in his struggle to reach her. Time and again, he drew near her, only to be carried away by a surge in the crowd.

She was standing near the door to one of the antechambers, fighting draconians, wielding Kitiara’s sword with the skill gained in long months of war. He almost reached her as—her enemies defeated—she stood alone for a moment.

“Laurana, wait!” he shouted above the chaos.

She heard him. Looking over at him, across the moonlit room, he saw her eyes calm, her gaze unwavering.

“Farewell, Tanis,” Laurana called to him in elven. “I owe you my life, but not my soul.”

With that, she turned and left him, stepping through the doorway of the antechamber, vanishing into the darkness beyond.

A piece of the Temple ceiling crashed to the stone floor, showering Tanis with debris. For a moment, he stood wearily, staring after her. Blood dripped into one eye. Absently he wiped it away, then, suddenly, he began to laugh. He laughed until tears mingled with the blood. Then he pulled himself together and, gripping his blood-stained sword, disappeared into the darkness after her.

“This is the corridor they went down, Raist—Raistlin.” Caramon stumbled over his brother’s name. Somehow, the old nickname no longer seemed to suit this black-robed, silent figure.

They stood beside the jailor’s desk, near the body of the hobgoblin. Around them, the walls were acting crazily, shifting, crumbling, twisting, rebuilding. The sight filled Caramon with vague horror, like a nightmare he could not remember. So he kept his eyes fixed firmly on his brother, his hand clutched Raistlin’s thin arm thankfully. This, at least was flesh and blood, reality in the midst of a terrifying dream.

“Do you know where it leads?” Caramon asked, peering down the eastern corridor.

“Yes,” Raistlin replied without expression.

Caramon felt fear clutch at him. “You know … something’s happened to them—”

“They were fools,” Raistlin said bitterly. “The dream warned them”—he glanced at his brother—“as it warned others. Still, I may be in time, but we must hurry. Listen!”

Caramon glanced up the stairwell. Above him he could hear the sounds of clawed feet racing to stop the escape of the
hundreds of prisoners set free by the collapse of the dungeons. Caramon put his hand on his sword.

“Stop it,” Raistlin snapped. “Think a moment! You’re dressed in armor still. They’re not interested in us. The Dark Queen is gone. They obey her no longer. They are only after booty for themselves. Keep beside me. Walk steadily, with purpose.”

Drawing a deep breath, Caramon did as he was told. He had regained some of his strength and was able to walk without his brother’s help now. Ignoring the draconians—who took one look at them, then surged past—the two brothers made their way down the corridor. Here the walls still changed their shapes, the ceiling shook, and the floors heaved. Behind them they could hear ghastly yells as the prisoners fought for their freedom.

“At least no one will be guarding this door,” Raistlin reflected, pointing ahead.

“What do you mean?” Caramon asked, halting and staring at his brother in alarm.

“It’s trapped,” Raistlin whispered. “Remember the dream?”

Turning deathly pale, Caramon dashed down the corridor toward the door. Shaking his hooded head, Raistlin followed slowly after. Rounding the corner, he found his brother crouching beside two bodies on the floor.

“Tika!” Caramon moaned. Brushing back the red curls from the still, white face, he felt for the lifebeat in her neck. His eyes closed a moment in thankfulness, then he reached out to touch the kender. “And Tas … No!”

Hearing his name, the kender’s eyes opened slowly, as if the lids were too heavy for him to lift.

“Caramon …” Tas said in a broken whisper. “I’m sorry.…”

“Tas!” Caramon gently gathered the small, feverish body into his big arms. Holding him close, he rocked him back and forth. “Shh, Tas, don’t talk.”

The kender’s body twitched in convulsions. Glancing around in heartbroken sorrow, Caramon saw Tasslehoff’s pouches lying on the floor, their contents scattered like toys in a child’s playroom. Tears filled Caramon’s eyes.

“I tried to save her …” Tas whispered, shuddering with pain, “but I couldn’t.…”

“You saved her, Tas!” Caramon said, choking. “She’s not dead. Just hurt. She’ll be fine.”

“Really?” Tas’s eyes, burning with fever, brightened with a calmer light, then dimmed. “I’m—I’m afraid I’m not fine, Caramon. But—but it’s all right, really. I—I’m going to see Flint. He’s waiting for me. He shouldn’t be out there, by himself. I don’t know how … he could have left without me anyway.…”

“What’s the matter with him?” Caramon asked his brother as Raistlin bent swiftly over the kender, whose voice had trailed off into incoherent babbling.

“Poison,” said Raistlin, his eyes glancing at the golden needle shining in the torchlight. Reaching out, Raistlin gently pushed on the door. The lock gave and the door turned on its hinges, opening a crack.

Outside, they could hear shrieks and cries as the soldiers and slaves of Neraka fled the dying Temple. The skies above resounded with the roars of dragons. The Highlords battled among themselves to see who would come out on top in this new world. Listening, Raistlin smiled to himself.

His thoughts were interrupted by a hand clutching his arm.

“Can you help him?” Caramon demanded.

Raistlin flicked a glance at the dying kender. “He is very far gone,” the mage said coldly. “It will sap some of my strength, and we are not out of this yet, my brother.”

“But you can save him?” Caramon persisted. “Are you powerful enough?”

“Of course,” Raistlin replied, shrugging.

Tika stirred and sat up, clutching her aching head. “Caramon!” she cried happily, then her gaze fell upon Tas. “Oh, no …” she whispered. Forgetting her pain, she laid her blood-stained hand upon the kender’s forehead. The kender’s eyes flared open at her touch, but he did not recognize her. He cried out in agony.

Over his cries, they could hear the sound of clawed feet, running down the corridor.

Raistlin looked at his brother. He saw him holding Tas in the big hands that could be so gentle.

Thus he has held me, Raistlin thought. His eyes went to the kender. Vivid memories of their younger days, of carefree adventuring with Flint … now dead. Sturm, dead. Days of
warm sunshine, of the green budding leaves on the vallenwoods of Solace … Nights in the Inn of the Last Home … now blacked and crumbling, the vallenwoods burned and destroyed.

“This is my final debt,” Raistlin said. “Paid in full.” Ignoring the look of thankfulness that flooded Caramon’s face, he instructed, “Lay him down. You must deal with the draconians. This spell will take all my concentration. Do not allow them to interrupt me.”

Gently Caramon laid Tas down on the floor in front of Raistlin. The kender’s eyes had fixed in his head, his body was stiffening in its convulsive struggles. His breath rattled in his throat.

“Remember, my brother,” Raistlin said coldly as he reached into one of the many secret pockets in his black robes, “you are dressed as a dragonarmy officer. Be subtle, if possible.”

“Right.” Caramon gave Tas a final glance, then drew a deep breath. “Tika,” he said, “stay still. Pretend you’re unconscious—”

Tika nodded and lay back down, obediently closing her eyes. Raistlin heard Caramon clanking down the corridor, he heard his brother’s loud, booming voice, then the mage forgot his brother, forgot the approaching draconians, forgot everything as he concentrated upon his spell.

Removing a luminous white pearl from an inner pocket, Raistlin held it firmly in one hand while he took out a gray-green leaf from another. Prizing the kender’s clenched jaws open, Raistlin placed the leaf beneath Tasslehoff’s swollen tongue. The mage studied the pearl for a moment, calling to mind the complex words of the spell, reciting them to himself mentally until he was certain he had them in their proper order and knew the correct pronounciation of each. He would have one chance, and one chance only. If he failed, not only would the kender die, but he might very well die himself.