Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends)

by Tracy Hickman

  There was movement as one of the creatures made a dive for him. Tas swiped out with his knife, driving it back. But in that instant, as it came into the light of his brand, he’d caught a glimpse of it.

  “Caramon!” he shrieked. “Draconians!”

  Lady Crysania was awake now; Tas saw her sit up, staring around in sleepy confusion.

  “The fire!” Tas shouted to her desperately. “Get near the fire!” Stumbling over Bupu, the kender kicked Caramon. “Draconians!” he yelled again.

  One of Caramon’s eyes opened, then the other, glaring around muzzily.

  “Caramon! Thank the gods!” Tas gasped in relief.

  Caramon sat up. Peering around the camp, completely disoriented and confused, he was still warrior enough to be hazily aware of danger. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he gripped the hilt of his sword and belched.

  “Washit?” he mumbled, trying to focus his eyes.

  “Draconians!” Tasslehoff screeched, hopping around like a small demon, waving his firebrand and his knife with such vigor that he actually succeeded in keeping his enemies at bay.

  “Draconians?” Caramon muttered, staring around in disbelief. Then he caught a glimpse of a twisted reptilian face in the light of the dying fire. His eyes opened wide. “Draconians!” he snarled. “Tanis! Sturm! Come to me! Raistlin—your magic! We’ll take them.”

  Yanking his sword from its scabbard, Caramon plunged ahead with a rumbling battle cry—and fell flat on his face.

  Bupu clung to his foot.

  “Oh, no!” Tas groaned.

  Caramon lay on the ground, blinking and shaking his head in wonder, trying to figure out what hit him. Bupu, rudely awakened, began to howl in terror and pain, then bit Caramon on the ankle.

  Tas started forward to help the fallen warrior—at least drag Bupu off him—when he heard a cry. Lady Crysania! Damn! He’d forgotten about her! Whirling around, he saw the cleric struggling with one of the dragon men.

  Tas hurtled forward and stabbed viciously at the draconian. With a shriek, it let loose of Crysania and fell backward, its body turning to stone at Tas’s feet. Just in time, the kender remembered to retrieve his knife or the stony corpse would have kept it fast.

  Tas dragged Crysania back with him toward the fallen Caramon, who was trying to shake the gully dwarf off his leg.

  The draconians closed in. Glancing about feverishly, Tas saw they were surrounded by the creatures. But why weren’t they attacking full force? What were they waiting for?

  “Are you all right?” he managed to ask Crysania.

  “Yes,” she said. Though very pale, she appeared calm and—if frightened—was keeping her fear under control. Tas saw her lips move—presumably in silent prayer. The kender’s own lips tightened.

  “Here, lady,” he said, shoving the firebrand in her hand. “I guess you’re going to have to fight and pray at the same time.”

  “Elistan did. So can I,” Crysania said, her voice shaking only slightly.

  Shouted commands rang out from the shadows. The voice wasn’t draconian. Tas couldn’t make it out. He only knew that just hearing it gave him cold chills. But there wasn’t time to wonder about it. The draconians, their tongues flicking out of their mouths, jumped for them.

  Crysania lashed out with the smoldering brand clumsily, but it was enough to make the draconians hesitate. Tas was still trying to pry Bupu off Caramon. But it was a draconian who, inadvertently, came to their aid. Shoving Tas backward, the dragon man laid a clawed hand on Bupu.

  Gully dwarves are noted throughout Krynn for their extreme cowardice and total unreliability in battle. But—when driven into a corner—they can fight like rabid rats.

  “Glupsludge!” Bupu screamed in anger and, turning from gnawing on Caramon’s ankle, she sank her teeth into the scaly hide of the draconian’s leg.

  Bupu didn’t have many teeth, but what she did have were sharp and she bit into the draconian’s green flesh with a relish occasioned by the fact that she hadn’t eaten much dinner.

  The draconian gave a hideous yell. Raising its sword, it was about to end Bupu’s days upon Krynn when Caramon—bumbling around trying to see what was going on—accidentally sliced off the creature’s arm. Bupu sat back, licking her lips, and looked about eagerly for another victim.

  “Hurrah! Caramon!” Tas cheered wildly, his small knife stabbing here and there as swiftly as a striking snake. Lady Crysania smashed one draconian with her firebrand, crying out the name of Paladine. The creature pitched over.

  There were only two or three draconians still standing that Tas could see, and the kender began to feel elated. The creatures lurked just outside the firelight, eyeing the big warrior, Caramon, warily as he staggered to his feet. Seen only in the shadows, he still cut the menacing figure he had in the old days. His sword blade gleamed wickedly in the red flames.

  “Get ’em, Caramon!” Tas yelled shrilly. “Clunk their heads—”

  The kender’s voice died as Caramon turned slowly to face him, a strange look on his face.

  “I’m not Caramon,” he said softly. “I’m his twin, Raistlin. Caramon’s dead. I killed him.” Glancing down at the sword in his hand, the big warrior dropped it as if it stung him. “What am I doing with cold steel in my hands?” he asked harshly. “I can’t cast spells with a sword and shield!”

  Tasslehoff choked, casting an alarmed glance at the draconians. He could see them exchanging shrewd looks. They began to move forward slowly, though they all kept their gazes fixed upon the big warrior, probably suspecting a trap of some sort.

  “You’re not Raistlin! You’re Caramon!” Tas cried in desperation, but it was no use. The man’s brain was still pickled in dwarf spirits. His mind completely unhinged, Caramon closed his eyes, lifted his hands, and began to chant.

  “Antsnests silverash bookarah,” he murmured, weaving back and forth.

  The grinning face of a draconian loomed up before Tas. There was a flash of steel, and the kender’s head seemed to explode in pain.…

  Tas was on the ground. Warm liquid was running down his face, blinding him in one eye, trickling into his mouth. He tasted blood. He was tired … very tired.…

  But the pain was awful. It wouldn’t let him sleep. He was afraid to move his head, afraid if he did it might separate into two pieces. And so he lay perfectly still, watching the world from one eye.

  He heard the gully dwarf screaming on and on, like a tortured animal, and then the screams suddenly ended. He heard a deep cry of pain, a smothered groan, and a large body crashed to the ground beside him. It was Caramon, blood flowing from his mouth, his eyes wide open and staring.

  Tas couldn’t feel sad. He couldn’t feel anything except the terrible pain in his head. A huge draconian stood over him, sword in hand. He knew that the creature was going to finish him off. Tas didn’t care. End the pain, he pleaded. End it quickly.

  Then there was a flurry of white robes and a clear voice calling upon Paladine. The draconian disappeared abruptly with the sound of clawed feet scrambling through the brush. The white robes knelt beside him, Tas felt the touch of a gentle hand upon his head, and heard the name of Paladine again. The pain vanished. Looking up, he saw the cleric’s hand touch Caramon, saw the big man’s eyelids flutter and close in peaceful sleep.

  It’s all right! Tas thought in elation. They’ve gone! We’re going to be all right. Then he felt the hand tremble. Regaining some of his senses as the cleric’s healing powers flooded through his body, the kender raised his head, peering ahead with his good eye.

  Something was coming. Something had called off the draconians. Something was walking into the light of the fire.

  Tas tried to cry out a warning, but his throat closed. His mind tumbled over and over. For a moment, too frightened and dizzy to think clearly, he thought someone had mixed up adventures on him.

  He saw Lady Crysania rise to her feet, her white robes sweeping the dirt near his head. Slowly, she began backing away from the thing that stalke
d her. Tas heard her call to Paladine, but the words fell from lips stiff with terror.

  Tas himself wanted desperately to close his eyes. Fear and curiosity warred in his small body. Curiosity won out. Peering out of his one good eye, Tas watched the horrible figure draw nearer and nearer to the cleric. The figure was dressed in the armor of a Solamnic Knight, but that armor was burned and blackened. As it drew near Crysania, the figure stretched forth an arm that did not end in a hand. It spoke words that did not come from a mouth. Its eyes flared orange, its transparent legs strode right through the smoldering ashes of the fire. The chill of the regions where it was forced to eternally dwell flowed from its body, freezing the very marrow in Tas’s bones.

  Fearfully, Tas raised his head. He saw Lady Crysania backing away. He saw the death knight walk toward her with slow, steady steps.

  The knight raised its right hand and pointed at Crysania with a pale, shimmering finger.

  Tas felt a sudden, uncontrollable terror seize him. “No!” he moaned, shivering, though he had no idea what awful thing was about to happen.

  The knight spoke one word.

  “Die.”

  At that moment, Tas saw Lady Crysania raise her hand and grasp the medallion she wore around her neck. He saw a bright flash of pure white light well from her fingers and then she fell to the ground as though stabbed by the fleshless finger.

  “No!” Tasslehoff heard himself cry. He saw the orange flaring eyes turn their attention to him, and a chill, dank darkness, like the darkness of a tomb, sealed shut his eyes and closed his mouth.…

  CHAPTER

  8

  alamar approached the door to the mage’s laboratory with trepidation, tracing a nervous finger over the runes of protection stitched onto the fabric of his black robes as he hastily rehearsed several spells of warding in his mind. A certain amount of caution would not have been thought unseemly in any young apprentice approaching the inner, secret chambers of a dark and powerful master. But Dalamar’s precautions were extraordinary. And with good reason. Dalamar had secrets of his own to hide, and he dreaded and feared nothing more in this world than the gaze of those golden, hourglass eyes.

  And yet, deeper than his fear, an undercurrent of excitement pulsed in Dalamar’s blood as it always did when he stood before this door. He had seen wonderful things inside this chamber, wonderful … fearful.…

  Raising his right hand, he made a quick sign in the air before the door and muttered a few words in the language of magic. There was no reaction. The door had no spell cast upon it. Dalamar breathed a bit easier, or perhaps it was a sigh of disappointment. His master was not engaged in any potent, powerful magic, otherwise Raistlin would have cast a spell of holding upon the door. Glancing down at the floor, the dark elf saw no flickering, flaring lights beaming from beneath the heavy wooden door. He smelled nothing except the usual smells of spice and decay. Dalamar placed the five fingertips of his left hand upon the door and waited in silence.

  Within the space of time it took the dark elf to draw a breath came the softly spoken command, “Enter, Dalamar.”

  Bracing himself, Dalamar stepped into the chamber as the door swung silently open before him. Raistlin sat at a huge and ancient stone table, so large that one of the tall, broad-shouldered race of minotaurs living upon Mithas might have lain down upon it, stretched out his full height, and still had room to spare. The stone table, in fact the entire laboratory, were part of the original furnishings Raistlin had discovered when he claimed the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas as his own.

  The great, shadowy chamber seemed much larger than it could possibly have been, yet the dark elf could never determine whether it was the chamber itself that seemed larger or he himself who seemed smaller whenever he entered it. Books lined the walls, here as in the mage’s study. Runes and spidery writing glowed through the dust gathered on their spines. Glass bottles and jars of twisted design stood on tables around the sides of the chamber, their bright-colored contents bubbling and boiling with hidden power.

  Here, in this laboratory long ago, great and powerful magic had been wrought. Here, the wizards of all three Robes—the White of Good, the Red of Neutrality, and the Black of Evil—joined in alliance to create the Dragon Orbs—one of which was now in Raistlin’s possession. Here, the three Robes had come together in a final, desperate battle to save their Towers, the bastions of their strength, from the Kingpriest of Istar and the mobs. Here they had failed, believing it was better to live in defeat than fight, knowing that their magic could destroy the world.

  The mages had been forced to abandon this Tower, carrying their spellbooks and other paraphernalia to the Tower of High Sorcery, hidden deep within the magical Forest of Wayreth. It was when they abandoned this Tower that the curse had been cast upon it. The Shoikan Grove had grown to guard it from all comers until—as foretold—“the master of past and present shall return with power.”

  And the master had returned. Now he sat in the ancient laboratory, crouched over the stone table that had been dragged, long ago, from the bottom of the sea. Carved with runes that ward off all enchantments, it was kept free of any outside influences that might affect the mage’s work. The table’s surface was ground smooth and polished to an almost mirrorlike finish. Dalamar could see the nightblue bindings of the spellbooks that sat upon it reflected in the candlelight.

  Scattered about on its surface were other objects, too—objects hideous and curious, horrible and lovely: the mage’s spell components. It was on these Raistlin was working now, scanning a spellbook, murmuring soft words as he crushed something between his delicate fingers, letting it trickle into a phial he held.

  “Shalafi,” Dalamar said quietly, using the elven word for “master.”

  Raistlin looked up.

  Dalamar felt the stare of those golden eyes pierce his heart with an indefinable pain. A shiver of fear swept over the dark elf, the words, He knows! seethed in his brain. But none of this emotion was outwardly visible. The dark elf’s handsome features remained fixed, unchanged, cool. His eyes returned Raistlin’s gaze steadily. His hands remained folded within his robes as was proper.

  So dangerous was this job that—when They had deemed it necessary to plant a spy inside the mage’s household—They had asked for volunteers, none of them willing to take responsibility for cold-bloodedly commanding anyone to accept this deadly assignment. Dalamar had stepped forward immediately.

  Magic was Dalamar’s only home. Originally from Silvanesti, he now neither claimed nor was claimed by that noble race of elves. Born to a low caste, he had been taught only the most rudimentary of the magical arts, higher learning being for those of royal blood. But Dalamar had tasted the power, and it became his obsession. Secretly he worked, studying the forbidden, learning wonders reserved for only the highranking elven mages. The dark arts impressed him most, and thus, when he was discovered wearing the Black Robes that no true elf could even bear to look upon, Dalamar was cast out of his home and his nation. And he became known as a “dark elf,” one who is outside of the light. This suited Dalamar well for, early on, he had learned that there is power in darkness.

  And so Dalamar had accepted the assignment. When asked to give his reasons why he would willingly risk his life performing this task, he had answered coldly, “I would risk my soul for the chance to study with the greatest and most powerful of our order who has ever lived!”

  “You may well be doing just that,” a sad voice had answered him.

  The memory of that voice returned to Dalamar at odd moments, generally in the darkness of the night—which was so very dark inside the Tower. It returned to him now. Dalamar forced it out of his mind.

  “What is it?” Raistlin asked gently.

  The mage always spoke gently and softly, sometimes not even raising his voice above a whisper. Dalamar had seen fearful storms rage in this chamber. The blazing lightning and crashing thunder had left him partially deaf for days. He had been present when the mage summoned creat
ures from the planes above and below to do his bidding; their screams and wails and curses still sounded in his dreams at night. Yet, through it all, he had never heard Raistlin raise his voice. Always that soft, sibilant whisper penetrated the chaos and brought it under control.

  “Events are transpiring in the outside world, Shalafi, that demand your attention.”

  “Indeed?” Raistlin looked down again, absorbed in his work.

  “Lady Crysania—”

  Raistlin’s hooded head lifted quickly. Dalamar, reminded forcibly of a striking snake, involuntarily fell back a step before that intense gaze.

  “What? Speak!” Raistlin hissed the word.

  “You—you should come, Shalafi,” Dalamar faltered. “The Live Ones report.…”

  The dark elf spoke to empty air. Raistlin had vanished.

  Heaving a trembling sigh, the dark elf pronounced the words that would take him instantly to his master’s side.

  Far below the Tower of High Sorcery, deep beneath the ground, was a small round room magically carved from the rock that supported the Tower. This room had not been in the Tower originally. Known as the Chamber of Seeing, it was Raistlin’s creation.

  Within the center of the small room of cold stone was a perfectly round pool of still, dark water. From the center of the strange, unnatural pond spurted a jet of blue flame. Rising to the ceiling of the chamber, it burned eternally, day and night. And around it, eternally, sat the Live Ones.

  Though the most powerful mage living upon Krynn, Raistlin’s power was far from complete, and no one realized that more than the mage himself. He was always forcibly reminded of his weaknesses when he came into this room—one reason he avoided it, if possible. For here were the visible, outward symbols of his failures—the Live Ones.

  Wretched creatures mistakenly created by magic gone awry, they were held in thrall in this chamber, serving their creator. Here they lived out their tortured lives, writhing in a larva-like, bleeding mass about the flaming pool. Their shining wet bodies made a horrible carpet for the floor, whose stones, made slick with their oozings, could be seen only when they parted to make room for their creator.