War of the Twins (12 page)

Tas took a cautious step or two forward. The ground felt no different from any other ground, even though—as he walked on it—he noticed that it took on the same color as the sky. Looking up, he saw that, in the distance, it turned black again. After a few more steps, he stopped to look behind him at the ruins of the great Temple.

“Great Reorx’s beard!” Tas gasped, nearly dropping his torch.

There was nothing behind him! Wherever it was he had come from was gone! The kender turned around in a complete circle. Nothing ahead of him, nothing behind him, nothing in any direction he looked.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot’s heart sank right down to the bottom of his green shoes and stayed there, refusing to be comforted. This was, without a doubt, the most
boring
place he’d ever seen in his entire existence!

“This can’t be the Afterlife,” the kender said miserably. “This
can’t
be right! There
must
be some mistake. Hey, wait a minute! I’m supposed to meet Flint here! Fizban said so and Fizban may have been a bit muddled about other things, but he didn’t sound muddled about
that!

“Let’s see—how did that go? There was a big tree, a beautiful tree, and beneath it sat a grumbling, old dwarf, carving wood and—Hey! There’s the tree! Now, where did that come from?”

The kender blinked in astonishment. Right ahead of him, where nothing had been just a moment before, he now saw a large tree.

“Not exactly my idea of a beautiful tree,” Tas muttered, walking toward it, noticing—as he did so—that the ground had developed a curious habit of trying to slide out from under his feet. “But then, Fizban had odd taste and so, come to think of it, did Flint.”

He drew nearer the tree, which was black—like everything else—and twisted and hunched over like a witch he’d seen once. It had no leaves on it. “That thing’s been dead at least a hundred years!” Tas sniffed. “If Flint thinks
I’m
going to spend my Afterlife sitting under a dead tree with him, he’s got another think coming. I—Hey, Flint!” The kender cried out, coming up to the tree and peering around. “Flint? Where are you? I—Oh, there you are,” he said, seeing a short, bearded figure sitting on the ground on the other side of the tree. “Fizban told me I’d find you here. I’ll bet you’re surprised to see me! I—”

The kender came round the tree, then stopped short. “Say,” he cried angrily, “you’re not Flint! Who—Arack!”

Tas staggered backward as the dwarf who had been the Master of the Games in Istar suddenly turned his head and looked at him with such an evil grin on his twisted face that the kender felt his blood run cold—an unusual sensation; he couldn’t remember ever experiencing it before. But before he had time to enjoy it, the dwarf leaped to his feet and, with a vicious snarl, rushed at the kender.

With a startled yelp, Tas swung his torch to keep Arack back, while with his other hand he fumbled for the small knife he wore in his belt. But, just as he pulled his knife out, Arack vanished. The tree vanished. Once again, Tas found himself standing smack in the center of nothing beneath that fire-lit sky.

“All right now,” Tas said, a small quiver creeping into his voice, though he tried his best to hide it, “I don’t think this is at all fun. It’s miserable and horrible and, while Fizban didn’t exactly promise the Afterlife would be one endless party, I’m
certain
he didn’t have anything like this in mind!” The kender slowly turned around, keeping his knife drawn and his torch held out in front of him.

“I know I haven’t been very religious,” Tas added with a snuffle, looking out into the bleak landscape and trying to keep his feet on the weird ground, “but
I
thought I led a pretty good life. And I
did
defeat the Queen of Darkness. Of course, I had some help,” he added, thinking that this might be a good time for honesty, “and I
am
a
personal
friend of Paladine and—”

“In the name of Her Dark Majesty,” said a soft voice behind him, “what are
you
doing here?”

Tasslehoff sprang three feet into the air in alarm—a sure sign that the kender was completely unnerved—and whirled around. There—where there hadn’t been anyone standing a moment before—stood a figure that reminded him very much of the cleric of Paladine, Elistan, only
this
figure wore black clerical robes instead of white and around its neck—instead of the medallion of Paladine—hung the medallion of the Five-Headed Dragon.

“Uh, pardon me, sir,” stammered Tas, “but I’m not at all sure
what
I’m doing here. I’m not at all sure where
here
is, to be perfectly truthful, and—oh, by the way, my name’s Tasslehoff Burrfoot.” He extended his small hand politely. “What’s yours?”

But the figure, ignoring the kender’s hand, threw back its black cowl and took a step nearer. Tas was considerably startled to see long, iron-gray hair flow out from beneath the cowl, hair so long, in fact, that it would easily have touched the ground if it had not floated around the figure in a weird sort of way, as did the long, gray beard that suddenly seemed to sprout out of the skull-like face.

“S-say, that’s quite … remarkable,” Tas stuttered, his mouth dropping open. “How did you do that? And, I don’t suppose you could tell me, but where did you say I was? You s-see—” The figure took another step nearer and, while Tas certainly wasn’t afraid of him, or it, or whatever it was, the kender found that he didn’t want it or him coming any closer for some reason. “I-I’m dead,” Tas continued, trying to back up only to find that, for some unaccountable reason, something was blocking him, “and—by the way”—indignation got the better of fear—“are you in charge around here? Because I don’t think this death business is being handled at all well! I hurt!” Tas said, glaring at the figure accusingly. “My head hurts and my ribs. And then I had to walk all this way, coming up out of the basement of the Temple—”

“The basement of the Temple!” The figure stopped now, only inches from Tasslehoff. Its gray hair floated as if stirred by a hot wind. Its eyes, Tas could see now, were the same red color as the sky, its face gray as ash.

“Yes!” Tas gulped. Besides everything else, the figure had a most horrible smell. “I—I was following Lady Crysania and she was following Raistlin and—”

“Raistlin!” The figure spoke the name in a voice that made Tas’s hair literally stand up on his head. “Come with me!”

The figure’s hand—a most peculiar-looking hand—closed over Tasslehoff’s wrist. “Ow!” squeaked Tas, as pain shot through his arm. “You’re hurting—”

But the figure paid no attention. Closing its eyes, as though lost in deep concentration, it gripped the kender tightly, and the ground around Tas suddenly began to shift and heave. The kender gasped in wonder as the landscape itself took on a rapid, fluid motion.

We’re not moving, Tas realized in awe, the ground is!

“Uh,” said Tas in a small voice, “where did you say I was?”

“You are in the Abyss,” said the figure in a sepulchral tone.

“Oh, dear,” Tas said sorrowfully, “I didn’t think I was
that
bad.” A tear trickled down his nose. “So this is the Abyss. I hope you don’t mind me telling you that I’m frightfully disappointed in it. I always supposed the Abyss would be a fascinating place. But so far it isn’t. Not in the least. It—it’s awful boring and … ugly … and, I really don’t mean to be rude, but there is a most peculiar smell.” Sniffling, he wiped his nose on his sleeve, too unhappy even to reach for a pocket handkerchief. “Where did you say we were going?”

“You asked to see the person in charge,” the figure said, and its skeletal hand closed over the medallion it wore around its neck.

The landscape changed. It was every city Tas had ever been in, it seemed, and yet none. It was familiar, yet he didn’t recognize a thing. It was black, flat, and lifeless, yet teeming with life. He couldn’t see or hear anything, yet all around him was sound and motion.

Tasslehoff stared at the figure beside him, at the shifting planes beyond and above and below him, and the kender was stricken dumb. For only the second time in his life (the first had been when he found Fizban alive when the old man was supposed to have been decently dead), Tas couldn’t speak a word.

If every kender on the face of Krynn had been asked to name Places I’d Most Like To Visit, the plane of existence where the Queen of Darkness dwelled would have come in at least third on many lists.

But now, here was Tasslehoff Burrfoot, standing in the waiting room of the great and terrible Queen, standing in one
of the most interesting places known to man or kender, and he had never felt unhappier in his life.

First, the room the gray-haired, black-robed cleric told him to stay in was completely empty. There weren’t any tables with interesting little objects on them, there weren’t any chairs (which was why he was standing). There weren’t even any
walls!
In fact, the only way he knew he was in a room at all was that when the cleric told him to “stay in the waiting room,” Tas suddenly
felt
he was in a room.

But, as far as he could see, he was standing in the middle of nothing. He wasn’t even certain, at this point, which way was up or which way was down. Both looked alike—an eerie glowing, flame-like color.

He tried to comfort himself by telling himself over and over that he was going to meet the Dark Queen. He recalled stories Tanis told about meeting the Queen in the Temple at Neraka.

“I was surrounded by a great darkness,” Tanis had said, and, even though it was months after the experience, his voice still trembled, “but it seemed more a darkness of my own mind than any actual physical presence. I couldn’t breathe. Then the darkness lifted, and she spoke to me, though she said no word. I heard her in my mind. And I saw her in all her forms—the Five-Headed Dragon, the Dark Warrior, the Dark Temptress—for she was not completely in the world yet. She had not yet gained control.”

Tas remembered Tanis shaking his head. “Still, her majesty and might were very great. She is, after all, a goddess—one of the creators of the world. Her dark eyes stared into my soul, and I couldn’t help myself—I sank to my knees and worshipped her.…”

And now he, Tasslehoff Burrfoot; was going to meet the Queen as she was in her own plane of existence—strong and powerful. “Perhaps she’ll appear as the Five-Headed Dragon.” Tas said to cheer himself up. But even
that
wonderful prospect didn’t help, though he had never seen a five-headed anything before, much less a dragon. It was as if all the spirit of adventure and curiosity were oozing out of the kender like blood dripping from a wound.

“I’ll sing a bit,” he said to himself, just to hear the sound of his own voice. “That generally raises my spirits.”

He began to hum the first song that came into his head—a Hymn to the Dawn that Goldmoon had taught him.

Tas was just starting in on the second verse when he became aware, to his horror, that his song was echoing back to him—only the words were now twisted and terrible.…

“Stop it,” cried Tas frantically into the eerie, burning silence that resounded with his song. “I didn’t mean to say that! I—”

With startling suddenness, the black-robed cleric materialized in front of Tasslehoff, seeming to coalesce out of the bleak surroundings.

“Her Dark Majesty will see you now,” the cleric said, and, before Tasslehoff could blink, he found himself in another place.

He knew it was another place, not because he had moved a step or even because this place was different from the last place, but that he
felt
he was someplace else. There was still the same weird glow, the same emptiness, except now he had the impression he wasn’t alone.

The moment he realized this, he saw a black, smooth wooden chair appear—its back to him. Seated in it was a figure dressed in black, a hood pulled up over its head.

Thinking perhaps some mistake had been made and that the cleric had taken him to the wrong place, Tasslehoff—gripping his pouches nervously in his hand—walked cautiously around the chair to see the figure’s face. Or perhaps the chair turned to around to see
his
face. The kender wasn’t certain.

But, as the chair moved, the figure’s face came into view.

Tasslehoff knew no mistake had been made.

It was not a Five-Headed Dragon he saw. It was not a huge warrior in black, burning armor. It was not even the Dark Temptress, who so haunted Raistlin’s dreams. It was a woman dressed all in black, a tight-fitting hood pulled up over her hair, framing her face in a black oval. Her skin was white and smooth and ageless, her eyes large and dark. Her arms, encased in tight black cloth, rested on the arms of her chair, her white hands curved calmly around the ends of the armrests.

The expression on her face was not horrifying, nor terrifying, nor threatening, nor awe-inspiring; it was, in fact, not even an expression at all. Yet Tas was aware that she was scrutinizing him intensely, delving into his soul, studying parts of him that he wasn’t even aware existed.

“I-I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot, M-majesty,” said the kender, reflexively stretching out his small hand. Too late, he realized his offense and started to withdraw his hand and bow, but then he felt the touch of five fingers in his palm. It was a brief touch, but Tas might have grabbed a handful of nettles. Five stinging branches of pain shot through his arm and bored into his heart, making him gasp.