“The dragons won’t take orders from the likes of us,” Grag pointed out. “Dragons despise us, even those who are on our side, fighting for the same cause. The reds would just as soon fry us as not. Your Verminaard illusion had better be able to fool them. Either that or …”
He paused, thoughtful.
“Or?” Dray-yan asked worriedly. The aurak was confident his illusion would fool humans and other draconians. He was not all that certain about dragons.
“We could ask Her Dark Majesty for help. The dragons would obey her, if not us.”
“True,” Dray-yan conceded. “Unfortunately, our queen’s opinion of us is almost as low as that of her dragons.”
“I have some ideas.” Grag was starting to grow enthusiastic. “Ideas about how dragons and draconians can work together in ways that humans cannot. I could speak to Her Majesty, if you like. I think that once I explain—”
“You do that!” said Dray-yan hastily, glad to be relieved of this burden.
Bozak were known for their devotion to the goddess. If Takhisis would listen to anyone, it would be Grag.
Dray-yan went back to the original topic under discussion. “So the humans escaped. How did that happen?”
“My men tried to stop them,” Grag said defensively. He felt he was being blamed. “There were too few of us. This fortress is undermanned. I repeatedly requested more troops, but his lordship said they were needed elsewhere. Some human warriors, led by an accursed Solamnic knight and an elven female, held off my forces, while other humans ransacked the supply room and hauled off whatever they could lay their hands on in stolen wagons. I had to let them go. I didn’t have enough men to send after them.”
“The humans have to travel south, a route that will take them into the Kharolis mountains. With winter coming on, they will need to find shelter and food. How many got away?”
“About eight hundred. Those who worked in the mines. Men, women, children.”
“Ah, they have children with them.” Dray-yan was pleased. “That will slow them down. We can take our time, Commander, pursue them at our leisure.”
“What about the mines? The army needs steel. The emperor will be upset if the mines close.”
“I have some thoughts on that. As to the humans—”
“Unfortunately, they have leaders now,” Grag complained. “Intelligent leaders, not like those doddering old idiots, the Seekers. The same leaders who planned the slave revolt and fought and killed his lordship.”
“That was luck, not skill,” Dray-yan said dismissively. “I saw those so-called leaders of yours—a half-breed elf, a sickly mage, and a barbarian savage. The others are even less worthy of note. I don’t think we need worry overmuch about them.”
“We have to pursue the humans,” Grag insisted. “We have to find them and bring them back here, not only to work in the mines. There is something about them that is vitally important to Her Dark Majesty. She has ordered me to go after them.”
“I know what that is,” said Dray-yan triumphantly. “Verminaard has it in his notes. She fears they might dig up some moldy old artifact, a hammer or something. I forget what it is called.”
Grag shook his head. He had no interest in artifacts.
“We will go after them, Grag, I promise you,” Dray-yan said. “We will bring back the men to work in the mines. We won’t bother with the women and children. They only cause trouble. We’ll simply dispose of them—”
“Don’t dispose of all the women,” Grag said with a leer. “My men need some amusement—”
Dray-yan grimaced. He found the unnatural lust some draconians had for human females disgusting.
“In the meantime, there are other more important events happening in the world, events that could have a significant impact on the war and on us.”
Dray-yan poured Grag a glass of wine, sat him down at the table, and shoved forward a stack of papers.
“Look through these. Take special note of a place labeled, ‘Thorbardin’…”
1
The coughing spell. Hot tea.
Chickens aren’t eagles.
earily, Raistlin Majere wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down on the dirt floor of the pitch dark cave and tried to go to sleep. Almost immediately, he began coughing. He hoped this would be a brief spasm, as some were, and would soon end, but the tight, constricted feeling in his chest did not abate. Rather, the cough grew worse. He sat upright, struggling to breathe, a taste of iron in his mouth. Fumbling for a handkerchief, he pressed it to his lips. He could not see in the utter darkness of the smallish cave, but he had no need to see. He knew quite well when he removed the cloth it would be stained with red.
Raistlin was a young man in his early twenties, yet he felt sometimes as if he had lived a hundred years and that each of those years had taken its toll on him. The shattering of his health had happened in a matter of moments during the dread Test in the Tower of High Sorcery. He’d gone into that test a young man, physically weak, perhaps, but relatively healthy. He’d emerged an old one—his health irretrievably impaired—not even the gods could heal him; his brownish red hair gone white, his skin turned glistening gold; his vision cursed.
The mundane were horrified. A test that left a young man crippled was not a test at all, they said. It was sadistic torture. The wise wizards knew better. Magic is a powerful force, a gift of the gods of magic, and with such a force comes a powerful responsibility. In the past, this power had been misused. Wizards had once come perilously close to destroying the world. The gods of magic had intervened, establishing rules and laws for the use of magic, and now only those mortals capable of handling such responsibility were permitted to wield it.
All mages who wanted to advance in their profession were required to take a test given to them by the wizards high in the Order. To ensure that every wizard who went into this test was serious about the art, the Orders of High Sorcery decreed that each wizard must be willing to bet his or her life on the outcome. Failure meant death. Even success did not come without sacrifice. The test was designed to teach the mage something about himself.
Raistlin had learned a great deal about himself, more than he wanted to know. He had committed a terrible act in that Tower, an act from which part of him recoiled in horror, yet there was another part of him that knew quite well he would do the same again. The act had not been real, though it had seemed quite real to him at the time. The test consisted of dropping the mage into a world of illusion. The choices he made in this world would affect him the rest of his life—might even end up costing him his life.
The terrible deed Raistlin had committed involved his twin brother, Caramon, who had been a horrified witness to it. The two never spoke of what had happened, but the knowledge was always there, casting its shadow over them.
The Test in the Tower is designed to help the mage learn more about his strengths and his weaknesses in order for him to improve himself. Thus, the punishment. Thus, the rewards. The punishment had been severe in Raistlin’s case—his health wrecked, his vision cursed. He had emerged from the Test with pupils the shape of hour-glasses. To teach him humility and compassion, he saw the passage of time speeded up. Whatever he looked upon, be it fair maiden or a newly picked apple, withered with age as he gazed at it.
Yet the rewards were worth it. Raistlin had power now, power that astonished, awed, and frightened those who knew the young mage best. Par-Salian, head of the Conclave, had given Raistlin the Staff of Magius, a rare and valuable artifact. Even as he bent double coughing, Raistlin put out his hand to touch the staff. Its presence was comforting, reassuring. His suffering was worth it. The magical staff had been crafted by Magius, one of the most gifted mages who had ever lived. Raistlin had owned the staff for several years now, and he still did not know the full extent of the staff’s powers.
He coughed again, the cough tearing at him, rending flesh and bone. The only remedy for one of these spasms was a special herbal tea. The tea should be drunk hot for best
effect. The cave that was his current home had no fire pit, no means to warm the water. Raistlin would have to leave the warmth of his blanket and go out into the night in search of hot water.
Ordinarily, Caramon would have been on hand to fetch the water and brew the tea. Caramon was not here, however. Hale and healthy, big of heart and body, generous of spirit, Raistlin’s twin was somewhere out there in the night, capering light-heartedly with the other guests at the wedding of Riverwind and Goldmoon.
The hour was late—well after midnight. Raistlin could still hear the laughter and music from the celebration. He was angry with Caramon for abandoning him, going off to make merry with some girl—Tika Waylan most likely—leaving his ill twin to fend for himself.
Half suffocated, Raistlin tried to stand and almost collapsed. He grabbed hold of a chair, eased himself into it and crumpled over, laying his head on the rickety table Caramon had cobbled together from a packing crate.
“Raistlin?” cried a cheerful voice from outside. “Are you asleep? I have a question I need to ask you!”
“Tas!” Raistlin tried to call out the kender’s name, but another spasm of coughing interrupted him.
“Oh, good,” the cheery voice went on, hearing the coughing, “you’re still awake.”
Tas—short for Tasslehoff—Burrfoot bounded into the cave.
The kender had been told repeatedly that, in polite society, one always knocked on the door (or, in this instance, the lattice-work screen of branches that covered the cave entrance) and waited to be invited inside before one entered. Tas had difficulty adapting to this custom, which was not the norm in kender society, where doors are shut against inclement weather and marauding bugbears (and sometimes not even the bugbears, if they are interesting bugbears). When Tas remembered to knock at all, he generally did so simultaneous with entering if the occupant was lucky. Otherwise, he entered first and then remembered to knock, which is what he did on this occasion.
Tas lifted the screen and slipped nimbly inside, bringing with him light flaring from a lantern.
“Hullo, Raistlin,” said Tas. He came to stand beside the young mage and thrust both a grubby hand and the lantern into Raistlin’s face. “What kind of a feather is this?”
Kender are a diminutive race said to be distantly related to dwarves (by everyone except the dwarves). Kender are fearless, intensely curious, fond of bright-colored clothing, leather pouches, and collecting interesting objects to put in those pouches. Kender are a race of optimists and sadly a race that tends to be a bit light-fingered. To call a kender a thief is misnomer. Kender never mean to steal. They borrow, always with the best intentions of returning what they’ve picked up. It is hard to persuade a closed-minded person to understand this, however, particularly when he finds the kender’s hand in his purse.
Tasslehoff was representative of his race. He stood somewhere near four feet in height, depending on how high his topknot of hair was on any particular day. Tas was quite proud of his topknot and often decorated it as he’d done tonight, having adorned it with several red maple leaves. He faced Raistlin with a grin on his face, his slightly slanted eyes shining and his pointed ears quivering with excitement.
Raistlin glared at Tasslehoff with as much fury as he could muster, given that he was blinded by the sudden light and choking to death. He reached out his own hand and seized hold of the kender’s wrist and squeezed.
“Hot water!” Raistlin gasped. “Tea!”
“Tea?” said Tas, just catching the last word. “No, thanks, I just ate.”
Raistlin coughed into the handkerchief. It came away from his lips stained red with blood. He glared at Tas again and this time the kender caught on.
“Oh, you want the tea! The tea Caramon always makes for your cough. Caramon’s not here to make it, and you can’t make it, because you’re coughing. Which means …” Tas hesitated. He didn’t want to get this wrong.
Raistlin pointed a trembling hand at the empty mug on the table.
“You want me to fetch the water!” Tas jumped to his feet. “I won’t be gone a minute!”
The kender dashed outside, leaving the screen of branches open so that cold air blew in, causing Raistlin to shiver. He clutched the blanket around his shoulders and went into a another fit of coughing.
Tas was back in an instant.
“Forgot the mug.”
He grabbed the mug and ran off again.
“Shut the—” Raistlin tried, but he couldn’t manage to say it quickly enough. The kender was gone, the screen standing open.
Raistlin gazed out into the night. The sound of merriment was louder now. He could see firelight and the silhouettes of people dancing. The bride and groom, Riverwind and Goldmoon, would have gone to their wedding bed by now. They would be wrapped in each other’s arms; their love for each other, their trials, their sorrows and griefs, their long and dark journey together culminating in this moment of joy.
That’s all it will be, Raistlin thought—a moment—a spark that will flare for an instant then be stamped out by the doom that was fast approaching. He was the only one with the brains to see it. Even Tanis Half-Elven, who had more sense than most of this lot, had been lulled into a false sense of peace and security.
“The Queen of Darkness is not defeated,” Raistlin had told Tanis not so many hours ago.
“We may not have won the war,” Tanis had said in reply, “but we have won a major battle—”
Raistlin had shaken his head at such stupidity.
“Do you see no hope?” Tanis had asked.
“Hope is the denial of reality,” Raistlin had said in return. “Hope is the carrot dangled before the draft horse to keep him plodding along in a vain attempt to reach it.”
He was rather proud of that imagery, and he smiled as he thought back on it. Another fit of coughing ended his smile and interrupted his thoughts. When he had recovered, he stared again out the door, trying to see the kender in the moonlight. Raistlin was leaning on a weak reed and he knew it. There was every possibility that the rattle-brained kender would get distracted by something and forget about him completely.
“In which case I’ll be dead by morning,” Raistlin muttered. His irritation at Caramon grew.
His thoughts went back to his conversation with Tanis.
“Are you saying we should just give up?” Tanis had asked him.
“I’m saying we should remove the carrot and walk forward with our eyes open,” Raistlin had answered. “How will you fight the dragons, Tanis? For there will be more! More than you can imagine! Where now is Huma? Where now are the fabled dragonlances?”
The half-elf had no answer. Tanis had been impressed with Raistlin’s remarks, though. He’d gone off to think about them, and now that this wedding was over, perhaps the people could be made to take a good hard look at the grim reality of their situation. Autumn was ending. The chill wind blowing into the door, coming from the mountains, presaged the winter months that lay ahead.
Raistlin went into another fit of coughing. When he lifted his head, there was the kender.
“I’m back,” said Tasslehoff brightly and unnecessarily. “Sorry to be so slow, but I didn’t want to spill any.”
He gingerly set the steaming mug on the table and then looked about for the sack of herbs. Finding it lying nearby, he grabbed hold of it and yanked it open.
“Do I just dump this whole bag in here—”
Raistlin snatched the precious herbs away from the kender. Carefully, he shook out some of the leaves into the hot water and watched intently as they swirled about and then drifted to the bottom of the cup. When the color of the water had darkened and the pungent smell filled the air, Raistlin took the mug in his shaking hands and brought it to his lips.
The brew had been a gift from the archmage, Par-Salian—a gift to ease his guilty conscience, so Raistlin had always thought bitterly. The soothing concoction slid down Raistlin’s throat and almost immediately the spasms ceased. The smothering feeling, like co
bwebs in his lungs, eased. He drew in a deep breath.
Tas wrinkled his nose. “That stuff smells like a gully dwarf picnic. Are you sure it makes you better?”
Raistlin sipped the tea, reveling in its warmth.
“Now that you can talk,” Tas continued, “I have a question about this feather. Where did I put it—”
Tas began to search through the pockets of his jacket.
Raistlin eyed the kender coldly. “I am exhausted, and I would like to return to my bed, but I don’t suppose I will be able to get rid of you, will I?”
“I did fetch the hot water for you,” Tas reminded him. He suddenly looked worried. “My feather’s not here.”
Raistlin sighed deeply as he watched the kender continue to rummage through his pockets decorated with gold braiding “borrowed” from a ceremonial cloak the kender had come across somewhere. Not finding what he sought, Tas rummaged through the pockets of his loose-fitting trousers and then started in on his boots. Raistlin lacked the strength, or he would have thrown the kender out bodily.
“It’s this new jacket,” Tas complained. “I never know where to find things.”
He had discarded the clothes he had been wearing for an entirely new set, collected over the past few weeks from the leavings and cast-offs of the refugees from Pax Tharkas in whose company they were now traveling.
The refugees had been slaves, forced to work in the iron mines for the Dragon Highlord Verminaard. The Highlord had been killed in an uprising led byRaistlin and his friends. They had freed the slaves and fled with them into the mountainous region south of the city of Pax Tharkas. Though it was hard to believe, this annoying kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, had been one of the heroes of that uprising. He and the elderly and befuddled wizard, who called himself by the grandiose name of Fizban the Fabulous, had inadvertently triggered a mechanism that sent hundreds of tons of boulders dropping down into a mountain pass, blocking the draconian army on the other side of the pass from entering Pax Tharkas to put down the uprising.
Dragons of the Dwarven Depths Page 2