The Magic Of Krynn (33 page)

Everything stopped. The light, the pain. . . . Everything was silent. Palin opened his
eyes. He was lying face down, the Staff of

Magius still clutched in his hand. Opening his eyes, he saw the light of the staff shining
silver, gleaming cold and pure. He felt no pain, his breathing was relaxed and normal, his
heartbeat steady, his body whole and unharmed. But he wasn't lying on the floor of the
laboratory. He was in sand! Or so it seemed. Glancing around, slowly rising to his feet,
he saw that he was in a strange land-flat, like a desert, with no distinguishing features
of any type. It was completely empty, barren. The landscape stretched on and on endlessly
as far as he could see. Puzzled, he looked around. He had never been here before, yet it
was familiar. The ground was an odd color-a kind of muted pink, the same color as the sky.
His father's voice came to him, AS THOUGH IT WAS SUNSET OR SOMEWHERE IN THE DISTANCE, A
FIRE BURNED. . . .

Palin closed his eyes to blot out the horror of realization as fear surged over him in a
suffocating wave, robbing him of breath or even the power to stand.

“The Abyss,” he murmured, his shaking hand holding onto the staff for support.

“Palin-” the voice broke off in a choked cry.

Palin's eyes flared open, startled at hearing his name, alarmed by the sound of
desperation in the voice.

Turning around, stumbling in the sand, the young man looked in the direction of that
terrible sound and saw, rising up before him, a stone wall where no wall had been only
seconds previously. Two undead figures walked toward the wall, dragging something between
them. The “something” was human, Palin could see, human and living! It struggled in its
captor's grasp as though trying to escape, but resistance was useless against those whose
strength came from beyond the grave.

As the three drew nearer the wall, which was, ap- parently, their destination, for one
pointed to it and laughed, the human ceased his struggles for a moment. Lifting his head,
he looked directly at Palin. ' Golden skin, pupils the shape of hourglasses . . .

“Uncle?” Palin breathed, starting to take a step forward.

But the figure shook its head, making an almost im- perceptible movement with one of its
slender hands as though saying, “Not now!”

Palin realized suddenly that he was standing out in the open, alone in the Abyss, with
nothing to protect him but the Staff of Magius-a magical staff whose magic he had no idea
how to use. The undead, intent upon their struggling captive, had not noticed him yet, but
it would only be a matter of time. Frightened and frustrated, Palin looked about
hopelessly for some place to hide. To his amazement, a thick bush sprang up out of
nowhere, almost as if he had summoned it into being.

Without stopping to think why or how it was there, the young man ducked swiftly behind the
bush, covering the crystal on the staff with his hand in an attempt to keep its light from
giving him away. Then he peered out cautiously into the pinkish, burning land.

The undead had hauled their captive to the wall that stood in the middle of the sand.
Manacles appeared on the wall at a spoken word of command. Hoisting their captive up into
the air with their incredible strength, the undead fastened Raistlin to the wall by his
wrists. Then, with mocking bows, they left him there, hanging from the wall, his black
robes stirring in the hot breeze.

Rising to his feet, Palin started forward again when a dark shadow fell across his vision,
blinding him more completely than the brilliant light, filling his mind and soul and body
with such terror and fear that he could not move. Though the darkness was thick and all
encompassing, Palin saw things within it-he saw a woman, more beautiful and desirable than
any other woman he had ever seen before in his life. He saw her walk up to his uncle, he
saw his uncle's manacled hands clench. He saw all this, yet all around him was such
darkness as might have been found on the floor of the deepest ocean. Then Palin
understood. The darkness was in his mind, for he was looking upon Takhisis-the Queen of
Darkness herself.

As he watched, held in place by awe and horror and such

reverence as made him want to kneel before her, Palin saw the woman change her form. Out
of the darkness, out of the sand of the burning land, rose a dragon. Immense in size, its
wing span covered the land with shadow, its five heads writhed and twisted upon five
necks, its five mouths opened in deafening shrieks of laughter and of cruel delight.

Palin saw Raistlin's head turn away involuntarily, the golden eyes close as though unable
to face the sight of the creature that leered above him. Yet the arch-mage fought on,
trying to wrench himself free of the manacles, his arms and wrists torn and bleeding from
the futile effort.

Slowly, delicately, the dragon lifted a claw. With one swift stroke, she slit open
Raistlin's black robes. Then, with almost the same, delicate movment, she slit open the
archmage's body.

Palm gasped and shut his eyes to blot out the dreadful sight. But it was too late. He had
seen it and he would see it always in his dreams, just as he would hear his uncle's
agonized cry forever. Palin's mind reeled and his knees went limp. Sinking to the ground,
he clasped his stomach, retching.

Then, through the haze of sickness and terror, Palin was aware of the Queen and knew that
she was suddenly aware of him! He could sense her searching for him, listening, smelling.
. .. He had no thought of hiding. There was nowhere he could go where she would not find
him. He could not fight, not even look up at her. He didn't have the strength. He could
only crouch in the sand, shivering in fear, and wait for the end.

Nothing happened. The shadow lifted, Palin's fear subsided.

“Palin . . . help . . .” The voice, ragged with pain, whispered in the young man's mind.
And, horribly, there was another sound, the sound of liquid dripping, of blood running.

“No!” The young man moaned, shaking his head and burrowing into the sand as though he
would bury himself. There came another gurgling cry, and Palin retched again, sobbing in
horror and pity and disgust at himself for his weakness. “What can I do? I am nothing. I
have no power to help you!” he mumbled, his fist clenching around the staff that he held
still. Holding it near him, he rocked back and forth, unable to open his eyes, unable to
look. . . .

“Palin”-the voice gasped for breath, each word causing obvious pain-“you must be ...
strong. For your own . . . sake as well as ... mine.”

Palin couldn't speak. His throat was raw and aching, the bitter taste of bile in his mouth
choked him.

Be strong. For his sake . . .

Slowly, gripping the staff, Palin used it to pull himself to his feet. Then, bracing
himself, feeling the touch of the wood cool and reassuring beneath his hand, he opened his
eyes.

Raistlin's body hung limply from the wall by its wrists, the black robes in tatters, the
long white hair falling across his face as his head lolled forward. Palin tried to keep
his eyes focused on his uncle's face, but he could not. Despite himself, his gaze went to
the bloody, mangled torso. From chest to groin, Raistlin's flesh had been ripped apart,
torn asunder by sharp talons, exposing living organs. The dripping sound Palin heard was
the sound of the man's life blood, falling drop by drop into a great stone pool at his
feet.

The young man's stomach wrenched again, but there was nothing left to purge. Gritting his
teeth, Palin kept walking forward through the sand toward the wall, the staff aiding his
faltering footsteps. But when Palin reached the gruesome pool, his weak legs would support
him no longer. Fearing he might faint from the horror of the dreadful sight, he sank to
his knees, bowing his head.

But the voice came again. “Look at me . . . You . . . know me . . . Palin?”

The young man raised his head, reluctantly. Golden eyes stared at him, their hourglass
pupils dilated with agony. Blood-stained lips parted to speak, but no words came. A
shudder shook the frail body.

“I know you . . . uncle. . . .” Doubling over, Palin began to sob, while in his mind, the
words screamed at him. “Father lied! He lied to me! He lied to himself!”

“Palin, be strong!” Raistlin whispered. “You . . . can free me. But you must ... be quick.
. . .”

Strong ... I must be strong. . . .

“Yes.” Palin swallowed his tears. Wiping his face, he rose unsteadily to his feet, keeping
his gaze on his uncle's eyes. “I-I'm sorry. What must I do?”

"Use . . . the staff. Touch the locks around . . . my

wrists. . . . Hurry! The . . . Queen . . .“ ”Where-where is the Dark Queen?" Palin
stammered.

Stepping carefully past the pool of blood, he came to stand near his uncle and, reaching
up, touched the glowing crystal of the staff to the first of the manacles that held
Raistlin bound to the wall.

Exhausted, near death, his uncle could speak no longer, but his words came to Palin's
mind. “Your coming forced her to leave. She was not prepared to face one of the White
Robes such as you. But that will not last long. She will return. Both of us ... must be
gone. .. .”

Palin touched the other manacle and, freed of his chains, Raistlin slumped forward, his
body falling into the arms of the young man. Catching hold of his uncle, his horror lost
in his pity and compassion, Palin gently laid the torn, bleeding body on the ground.

“But how can you go anywhere?” Palin murmured. “You are . . . dying.”

“Yes,” Raistlin answered wordlessly, his thin lips twisting in a grim smile. “In a few
moments, I will die, as I have died countless mornings before this. When night falls, I
will return to life and spend the night looking forward to the dawn when the Queen will
come and tear my flesh, ending my life in tortured pain once more.”

“What can I do?” Palin cried. “How can I help you?”

“You are helping already,” Raistlin said aloud, his voice growing stronger. His hand moved
feebly. “Look . . .”

Reluctantly, Palin glanced down at his uncle's terrible wound. It was closing! The flesh
was mending! The young man stared in astonishment. If he had been a high-ranking cleric of
Paladine, he could have performed no greater miracle. “What is happening? How-” he asked
blankly.

“Your goodness, your love,” whispered Raistlin. “So might my brother have saved me if he
had possessed the courage to enter the Abyss himself.” His lip curled in bitterness. “Help
me stand.”

Palin swallowed but said nothing as he helped the archmage rise to his feet. What could he
say? Shame filled his soul, shame for his father. Well, he would make up for it.

“Give me your arm, nephew. I can walk. Come, we must reach the Portal before the Queen
returns.”

“Are you sure you can manage?” Palin put his arm around Raistlin s body, feeling the
strange, unnatural heat that radiated from it warm his own chilled flesh.

“I must. I have no choice.” Leaning upon Palin, the archmage gathered his torn black robes
about him, and the two walked forward as fast as they could through the shifting sand
toward where the Portal stood in the center of the red-tinged landscape.

But before he had gone very far, Raistlin stopped, his frail body wracked by coughing
until he gasped for air.

Standing beside him, holding him, Palin looked at his uncle in concern. “Here,” he
offered. “Take your staff. It will aid your steps-”

Raistlin's hourglass eyes went to the staff in the young man's hand. Reaching out his
slender, golden-skinned hand, he touched the smooth wood, stroking it lovingly. Then,
looking at Palin, he smiled and shook his head.

“No, nephew,” he said in his soft, shattered voice. “The staff is yours, a gift from your
uncle. It would have been yours someday,” he added, speaking almost to himself. “I would
have trained you myself, gone with you to watch the Testing. I would have been proud ...
so proud . . .” Then, he shrugged, his gaze going to Palin. “What am I saying? I AM proud
of you, my nephew. So young, to do this, to enter the Abyss-”

As if to remind them where they were and the danger they were in, a shadow fell upon them
as of dark wings, hovering overhead.

Palin looked up fearfully. Then his gaze went to the Portal that seemed farther away than
he remembered. “We can't outrun her!” he gasped.

“Wait!” Raistlin paused for breath, color coming back to his face. “We don't need to run.
Look at the Portal, Palin. Concentrate on it. Think of it as being right in front of you.”

“I don't understand-” Palin looked at Raistlin, confused.

“Concentrate!” the archmage snarled.

The shadow was growing increasingly darker. Looking at the Portal, Palin tried to do as he
was told, but he kept seeing his father's face, the dragon ripping his uncle's flesh. . .
. The shadow over them grew still darker, darker than night, dark as his own fear.

“Don't be afraid.” His uncle's voice came to him through the darkness. “Concentrate.”

The disciplined training in magic came to Palin's aid. Thus was he forced to concentrate
on the words to a spell. Closing his eyes, the young man shut everything out-his fear, his
horror, his sorrow-and envisioned the Portal in

his mind, standing directly before him. “Excellent, young one,” came Raistlin's soft
voice. Palin blinked, startled. The Portal was right where he

had envisioned it, just a step or two away. “Don't hesitate,” Raistlin instructed, reading
the young

man's mind. “The way back is not difficult, not like coming through. Go ahead. I can stand
on my own. I will follow. . . .”

Palin stepped inside, feeling a slight sensation of dizziness and a momentary blindness,
but it passed quickly. Looking around, he drew a deep breath of relief and thankfulness.
He was standing in the laboratory once more. The Portal was behind him, though he had no
clear remembrance of how he got through it, and, beside the Portal, he saw his uncle. But
Raistlin was not looking at him. His eyes were on the Portal itself, a strange smile
played on his thin lips.