They trudged wearily on. The light of Sturm’s torch and Raistlin’s staff did not extend far, and Raistlin almost walked headlong into a stone wall before he realized it was there. He came to an abrupt halt, shining the light this way and that.
“I hope this is a hidden door like that other one,” said Caramon. “Otherwise we’ve come all this way for nothing.”
“You have no faith in me, do you, Pheragas?” Raistlin murmured. Holding his staff to light his task, he began to search the wall for marks.
“Who is this Pheragas?” Caramon muttered.
“Probably better you don’t know,” Sturm said grimly.
“Found it!” Raistlin announced. He pointed, and there was the same mark that they had seen on the door at the other end—the dwarven rune for ‘door.’
He pressed on the rune. As before, the mark depressed, sliding into the wall. There came a grinding sound, then a cracking sound as the stone separated, forming the outline of a doorway. This time the mechanism worked. The heavy door rumbled back so fast that it almost ran Raistlin down, and he was forced to scramble out of its way in a flurry of red robes, causing Sturm to pull at his mustaches to hide his smile.
The heavy door rumbled and screeched on the rusted tracks and flattened itself against the wall with a resounding boom that echoed back down the passageway.
“Nothing like announcing our arrival,” Sturm remarked.
“Hush!” Raistlin held up his hand.
“It’s a little late for that,” Caramon said, with a wink at Sturm.
Raistlin glared at him. “Take off your helm and you might find your brain inside! The sounds I hear are coming from out there.” He pointed through the opening of the tunnel and, now that the echoes had faded, they could hear harsh shouts and the clash of arms.
Caramon and Sturm both drew their swords. Raistlin reached into his pouch.
“Dulak,” he murmured, and the glow from his staff blinked out, leaving only Sturm’s torch to light the way.
“What did you do that for?” Sturm demanded, adding grudgingly, “Much as I hate to admit it, we could use that light of yours.”
“It is never wise to proclaim to your enemies that you are a wizard,” Raistlin said quietly.
“Magic works best by stealth and darkness, is that it?” Sturm said.
“C’mon, you two, cut it out,” Caramon said.
They stood unmoving, listening to the sounds of battle that were distant, far away.
“Someone else is interested in the secrets of Skullcap,” Sturm said at last.
Raistlin stirred at this. “I’m going to go find out what is happening. You two can stay here.”
“No,” said Sturm. “We all go together.”
Moving cautiously, holding his torch in one hand and his sword in the other, Sturm walked through the door. Raistlin came after him and Caramon brought up the rear, keeping a look-out over his shoulder.
Traveling down the dark tunnel, Tasslehoff Burrfoot reached the conclusion that if he never saw another rock in his life, it would be too soon. At first, tramping along a secret tunnel underneath a mountain was exciting. A skeletal warrior might be lurking just around the corner, ready to leap out and throttle them. A wight might decide to try to suck out their souls, or whatever it was that wights did to people.
Tika, on the other hand, didn’t appear to find the tunnel in the least exciting. She was nervous and unhappy.
Tas considered it his duty to try keep up her spirits and so he livened the journey by telling her all the gruesome, creepy, scary stories he’d ever heard about the things that lived in secret tunnels underneath mountains. Far from having the desired effect, the stories seemed to simply plunge Tika deeper in gloom. Once she actually turned around and tried to smack the kender. Accustomed to this sort of behavior in his companions, Tas ducked in time. He decided to change the subject.
“How long do you suppose we’ve been walking, Tika?”
“Weeks, I should imagine,” she said glumly.
“I think it’s only been a few hours,” Tas said.
“Oh, what do you know?” she snapped.
“I know it certainly is boring,” said the kender. He kicked at a rock, sent it bounding over the stone floor. “Do we have any more food left?”
“You just ate!”
“That seems like days ago!” Tas waved his arms. “You said yourself we’ve been walking for weeks …”
“Oh, shut up—” Tika began then froze in place.
A hideous sound thundered down the passageway— a loud rumbling, accompanied by shrill screeching. The ground shook, and dust fell from the walls. The rumbling and screeching lasted for several heart-thudding moments, then ended abruptly.
“What … what was that?” Tika quavered.
Tas reflected. “I think it was a Stalig Mite,” he said in hushed tones.
“A what kind of mite?” Tika whispered, her hands shaking so that the flame of the torch bounced all over the cavern.
“A Stalig Mite,” Tas said solemnly. “I’ve heard stories about them. They live in caves, and they’re huge and quite ferocious. I’m sorry to tell you this, Tika, but you should prepare yourself for the worst. That sound we heard was probably the Stalig Mite devouring Caramon.”
“No!” Tika cried wildly. “I don’t believe—” She paused, eying the kender. “Wait a minute. I’ve never heard of a Stalig Mite.”
“You should really get out more, Tika.”
“You mean stalagmite!” Tika was so mad she very nearly threw the torch at him.
“That’s what I said.” Tas was hurt. “Stalig Mite. Found only in caves.”
“A stalagmite is a rock formation found in caves, you doorknob! What do you mean scaring me like that?” Tika wiped sweat from her forehead.
“Are you sure?” Tas was loathe to give up the idea of a ferocious man-eating Stalig Mite.
“Yes, I’m sure.” Tika sounded very cross.
“Well, if that noise wasn’t made by a Stalig Mite devouring Caramon, then what was it?” Tas asked practically.
Tika had no answer for that, and she wished he hadn’t brought it up. She turned around. “Maybe we should go back …”
“We’ve been back, Tika,” Tas pointed out. “We know what’s back there—a lot of very dark darkness—and we don’t know what’s up ahead. Maybe Caramon hasn’t been eaten by a rock formation, but he and his brother could still be in trouble and need our help. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we—you and I—rescued Caramon and Raistlin? They’d respect us then. No more pulling my topknot or slapping my hand when all I wanted to do was to touch his stupid old staff.”
Tika envisioned Raistlin humbled and meek, thanking her profusely for saving his life, and Caramon hugging her tightly, telling her over and over how proud he was of her.
Tas was right. Behind them was nothing but darkness.
Fearful but resolute, Tika continued on her way through the tunnel, accompanied by Tasslehoff, who was hoping Tika turned out to be wrong about the Stalig Mites.
12
Death in the darkness.
A ghostly messenger.
turm had taken only a few steps into the room beyond before he found his way blocked by a heavy beam that had fallen down from the ceiling. Standing in the small pool of light cast by his torch, he saw that he’d encountered destruction so complete he could make out few details of what it was he was even looking at. Fire had swept the room. The floor was ankle-deep in debris, most of it blackened and burnt. Charred lumps might have once been furniture.
Sturm circled around the heavy beam, kicking aside debris, and found another doorway.
“The sounds are coming from out here,” he called back softly to his friends.
“From the armory,” said Raistlin. “I know where I am now. This was the library. What a pity it did not survive!”
He bent down to pick up the remnants of a book. The pages fell out in a shower of ash. The leather cover was all that remained and it w
as scorched, the corners blackened and curled.
“What a pity,” Raistlin repeated softly.
He dropped the book and looked up to find Sturm staring at him. “Armory? Library? How do you know so much about this accursed place?” asked the knight.
“Caramon and I lived here once upon a time,” Raistlin said sarcastically. “Didn’t we, my brother? I’m sure we must have told you.”
“C’mon, Raist,” Caramon mumbled. “Don’t do this.”
Sturm continued to regard the mage with suspicion; he might almost have believed him.
“Oh, for mercy’s sake!” Raistlin snapped. “How gullible can you be, Sturm Brightblade? There is a perfectly logical explanation. I have seen maps of Zhaman. There. End of mystery.”
Raistlin knelt down to pick up another book, only to feel it crumble at his touch. He let the ashes sift through his fingers. Sturm and Caramon had walked over to the door, taking the torch with them. Crouching on the floor, clutching his staff, Raistlin was glad for the darkness, which concealed his shaking hands, the chill sweat beading on his face and trickling down his neck. He was almost sick with terror and wished with all his soul that he had listened to those who warned him not to come to this place. He had lied to Sturm, lied to his brother. Raistlin had never seen a map of Zhaman. He was not even certain such a map existed. He had no idea how he knew where to find the rune on the mountain side. He had never heard of anyone called Pheragas. He did not know how he knew the sounds were coming from the armory or how he knew this room was the library. He had no idea how he knew that far below this level of the fortress was a laboratory …
Raistlin shuddered and clutched at his head with his hand, as though he could reach inside and tear out memories of things he’d never seen, places he’d never been.
“Stop it!” he whispered frantically, “Leave me alone! Why do you torment me?”
“Raist?” Caramon called. “Are you all right?”
Raistlin grit his teeth. He dug his nails into his palms, forcing his hands to quit shaking. He drew in a deep, shivering breath and held tightly to the staff, pressing the cool wood against his burning skin, and closed his eyes. The feeling of dread slowly seeped out of him and he was able to stand.
“I am fine, my brother,” he said, knowing that if he did not answer Caramon would come looking for him. He moved slowly across the debris-strewn room to join Sturm and his twin, who were standing by the door, listening to the sounds of battle and arguing about whether they should go investigate or not.
“Some innocent person could be in trouble,” Sturm maintained. “We should go see if we can help them.”
“What would an innocent person be doing wandering about this place?” Caramon demanded. “It’s not our fight, Sturm. We shouldn’t go sticking our heads in a goblin’s lair. Wait here until it’s over, then let’s go see what’s left.”
Sturm frowned. “You stay with your brother. I’m going to at least see—”
A bestial roar of pain, anguish, and bellowing fury shook the floor, sending dust and debris raining down from the ceiling, drowning out the rest of Sturm’s words. The roaring ceased suddenly in an agonized gurgle. The harsh voices shouted in triumph, and the sounds of clashing swords grew louder. The three friends stared at each other in alarm.
“That sounded like a dragon!” Caramon said.
“I told you, someone is in danger!” Sturm flung down the sack containing his armor, useless to him now, for there was no time to put it on. Caramon opened his mouth to remonstrate, but before he could say a word, his friend had dashed into the darkness.
Caramon looked pleadingly at his twin. “We can’t let him go off alone, Raist! We have to help him.”
Raistlin’s mouth twisted. “I suppose we must, though how we are supposed to fight a dragon with nothing but swords and rose petals is beyond me!”
“It sounds like it’s wounded. Those warriors probably have it cornered,” Caramon said hopefully, and he dashed off after Sturm.
“What a relief! A cornered, wounded dragon,” Raistlin muttered.
He ran through the mental catalog of his spells, searching for one that would do more than irritate the dragon—or give it a good laugh. Choosing one he thought might be suitable, Raistlin hastened after his brother, hoping, at least, to stop Caramon from getting himself slaughtered in some grand and noble last stand of the Brightblades.
Caramon followed Sturm out of the ruined library and found himself in a wide corridor. This part of the fortress had escaped the worst effects of the blast. The only damages were cracks in the walls and floors and some chunks of the ceiling that had crashed down into the corridor. The dragon’s roars sounded as though they were coming from the far end. The bellowings grew louder and more terrifying.
The voices of those battling the beast were growing louder as well. Caramon could not make out the words, but it sounded as if they were jeering their foe and spurring each other on. Sturm was running forward. He had not looked back; he had no idea if Caramon was coming or not.
Caramon advanced more cautiously. Something about this battle struck him as odd. He wished his twin would join him.
Half-turning, Caramon called softly, “Raist, hurry up!”
A hand closed over Caramon’s arm, and a voice whispered from the darkness, “I am here, my brother.”
Caramon gave a violent start.
“Damn, Raist! Don’t creep up on me like that!”
“We must make haste,” Raistlin said grimly, “prevent the knight from getting himself burnt to a cinder.”
The two of them hurried forward, following the light of Sturm’s torch and the bright gleam of his sword.
“I don’t like this,” Caramon said.
“I can’t think why,” Raistlin returned caustically. “The three of us marching boldly to our deaths …”
Caramon shook his head. “It’s not that. Listen to those voices, Raist. I’ve heard them or something like them before.”
Raistlin glanced at his twin and saw that Caramon was serious. The two had served together as mercenaries for years, and Raistlin had come to respect his brother’s skill and his warrior instincts. Raistlin drew back the folds of his cowl in order to better hear the voices. He looked at Caramon and gave a nod.
“You’re right. We have heard those voices before. Fool knight!” Raistlin added bitterly. “We have to stop him before he gets himself killed! You go on. I’ll catch up.”
Caramon dashed on ahead.
“Shirak,” Raistlin spoke the word of magic, and the light of his staff flared. He noted in passing the remnants of a gigantic iron stair rail spiraling downward.
“That leads to my chambers,” he said to himself.
Focused on his spellcasting, he did not realize what he was saying.
“Sturm! Wait up!” Caramon called out when he thought the knight could hear him over the clash of arms.
Sturm halted and turned around. “Well, what is it?” he said impatiently.
“Those voices!” Caramon gasped, huffing from the exertion. “They’re draconian. No, listen!” He gripped his friend’s arm.
Sturm did listen, his brow furrowing. He lowered his sword. “Why would draconians attack a dragon?”
“Maybe they had a falling out,” Caramon said, trying to catch his breath. “Evil turns on its own.”
“I am not so certain,” said Raistlin, coming up to them. He looked from the knight to his twin. “Do either of you sense the debilitating fear that we have felt before around these beasts?”
“No,” Sturm replied, “but the dragon cannot see us.”
“That shouldn’t make a difference. Back in camp, we felt the terror of the red dragon long before it came into view.”
“It’s all very strange,” Sturm muttered, frowning.
“The one thing we do know is this,” said Raistlin. “‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’.”
“True,” said Sturm, smiling slightly. “In that case, we should help the dragon
.”
“Help the dragon!” Caramon goggled. “Have you both gone crazy?”
Both had, apparently, for Sturm was once more running toward the fight and Raistlin was hastening alongside. Shaking his head, Caramon dashed after his brother and the knight.
The sounds of battle intensified. The draconians’ hissing and their guttural voices, could be heard clearly now. They spoke their own language but with a mixture of Common thrown in, so that Caramon could understand about every fourth word. The dragon’s roaring diminished, growing weaker. Light flared from the armory, shining into the corridor.
Sturm had flattened himself against a wall. Edging near the door, he risked a glance into the chamber. What he saw amazed him so he could not move but stood transfixed, staring. Caramon yanked him back.
“Well?” he demanded.
“There is a dragon,” said Sturm, awed, “like none I have ever seen or heard of. It is beautiful.” He shook himself, came back to reality. “And it is badly hurt.”
Caramon went to see for himself.
Sturm was right. The dragon was not like any other dragon Caramon had ever encountered. He had seen dragons with scales that were black as the Dark Queen’s heart, dragons with scales red as searing flame, dragons with scales the color of a cobolt sky. This one was different. It was smaller than most and it was beautiful, as Sturm has said. Its scales gleamed like polished brass.
“What sort of dragon is it?” Caramon turned back to his twin.
“That’s what we must find out,” said Raistlin, “which means we can’t let it die.”
“There are four draconians,” Sturm reported. “One is badly wounded. The other three are on their feet. They have their backs to us. They’re concentrating on finishing off the dragon. They are armed with bows. They’ve been loosing arrows at it. We can take them from behind.”
“Let me see what I can do,” said Raistlin. “Perhaps I can save us time and trouble.”
Raistlin drew something from his pouch, crushed it beneath his fingers, spoke the words of magic, and made a motion with his hand.
A ball of blazing fire flew from his fingertips, hurtled across the room, and struck one of the draconians in the back. The magical fire burst on the draconian’s scaly skin. The draconian gave a hideous yell and collapsed onto the floor, rolling about in agony as the flames blackened his scales and charred his flesh. His companions scrambled to get away from him, for the flames were spreading, licking at their heels.
Dragons of the Dwarven Depths Page 14