Footsteps in the sand, leading me on …
Looking up, I see the scaffold, the hooded figure with its head on the block, the hooded figure of the executioner, the sharp blade of the axe glinting in the burning sun.
The axe falls, the victim’s severed head rolls on the wooded platform, the hood comes off—
“My head!” Raistlin whispered feverishly, twisting his thin hands together in anguish.
The executioner, laughing, removes his hood, revealing—
“My face!” Rastlin murmured, his fear spreading through his body like a malign growth, making him sweat and chill by turns. Clutching at his head, he tried to banish the evil visions that haunted his dreams continually, night after night, and lingered to disturb his waking hours as well, turning all he ate or drank to ashes in his mouth.
But they would not depart. Master of Past and Present!” Raistlin laughed hollowly—bitter, mocking laughter. “I am Master of nothing! All this power, and I am trapped! Trapped! Following in his footsteps, knowing that every second that passes has passed before! I see people I’ve never seen, yet I know them! I hear the echo of my own words before I speak them! This face! His hands pressed against his cheeks. This face! His face! Not mine! Not mine! Who am I? I am my own executioner!”
by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
DRAGONLANCE CHRONICLES
Dragons of Autumn Twilight
Dragons of Winter Night
Dragons of Spring Dawning
DRAGONLANCE LEGENDS
Time of the Twins
War of the Twins
Test of the Twins
The Second Generation
Dragons of Summer Flame
THE WAR OF SOULS
Dragons of a Fallen Sun
Dragons of a Lost Star
DRAGONLANCE® LEGENDS
Volume Two
WAR OF THE TWINS
©1986 TSR, Inc.
©2000 Wizards of the Coast LLC
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC.
DRAGONLANCE, D&D, Wizards of the Coast, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.
All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Cover art by Matt Stawicki
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-190765
eISBN: 978-0-7869-5442-1
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v3.1_r1
This book is dedicated to you who are sharing our journeys through Krynn. Thank you, reader, for walking this path with us.
—Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Book 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Book 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Book 3
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
BOOK 1
The River Flows On …
The dark waters of time swirled about the archmage’s black robes, carrying him and those with him forward through the years.
The sky rained fire, the mountain fell upon the city of Istar, plunging it down, down into the depths of the ground. The sea waters, taking mercy on the terrible destruction, rushed in to fill the void. The great Temple, where the Kingpriest was still waiting for the gods to grant him his demands, vanished from the face of the world. Even those sea elves who ventured into the newly-created Blood Sea of Istar looked in wonder at the place where the Temple had stood. There was nothing there now but a deep black pit. The sea water within was so dark and chill that even these elves, born and bred and living beneath the water, dared not swim near it.
But there were many on Ansalon who envied the inhabitants of Istar. For them at least, death had come swiftly.
For those who survived the immediate destruction on Ansalon, death came slowly, in hideous aspect—starvation, disease, murder …
War.
CHAPTER
1
hoarse, bellowing yell of fear and horror shattered Crysania’s sleep. So sudden and awful was the yell and so deep her sleep that, for a moment, she could not even think what had wakened her. Terrified and confused, she stared around, trying to understand where she was, trying to discover what had frightened her so that she could scarcely breathe.
She was lying on a damp, hard floor. Her body shook convulsively from the chill that penetrated her bones; her teeth chattered from the cold. Holding her breath, she sought to hear something or see something. But the darkness around was thick and impenetrable, the silence was intense.
She let go her breath and tried to draw another, but the darkness seemed to be stealing it away. Panic gripped her. Desperately she tried to structure the darkness, to people it with shapes and forms. But none came to her mind. There was only the darkness and it had no dimension. It was eternal.…
Then she heard the yell again and recognized it as what had awakened her. And, though she came near gasping in relief at the sound of another human voice, the fear she heard in that yell echoed in her soul.
Desperately, frantically trying to penetrate the darkness, she forced herself to think, to remember.…
There had been singing stones, a chanting voice—Raistlin’s voice—and his arms around her. Then the sensation of stepping into water and being carried into a swift, vast darkness.
Raistlin! Reaching out a trembling hand, Crysania felt nothing near her but damp, chill stone. And then memory returned with horrifying impact. Caramon lunging at his brother with the flashing sword in his hand.… Her words as she cast a clerical spell to protect the mage.… The sound of a sword clanging on stone.
But that yell—it was Caramon’s voice! What if he—
“Raistlin!” Crysania called fearfully, struggling to her feet. Her voice vanished, disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness. It was such a terrible feeling that she dared not speak again. Clasping her arms about her, shivering in the intense cold, Crysania’s hand went involuntarily to the medallion of Paladine that hung around her neck. The god’s blessing flowed through her.
“Light,” she whisp
ered and, holding the medallion fast, she prayed to the god to light the darkness.
Soft light welled from the medallion between her fingers, pushing back the black velvet that smothered her, letting her breathe. Lifting the chain over her head, Crysania held the medallion aloft. Shining it about her surroundings, she tried to remember the direction from which the yell had come.
She had quick impressions of shattered, blackened furniture, cobwebs, books lying scattered about the floor, bookshelves falling off walls. But these were almost as frightening as the darkness itself; it was the darkness that gave them birth. These objects had more right to this place than she.
And then the yell came again.
Her hand shaking, Crysania turned swiftly toward the sound. The light of the god parted the darkness, bringing two figures into shockingly stark relief. One, dressed in black robes, lay still and silent on the cold floor. Standing above that unmoving figure was a huge man. Dressed in blood-stained golden armor, an iron collar bolted around his neck, he stared into the darkness, his hands outstretched, his mouth open wide, his face white with terror.
The medallion slipped from Crysania’s nerveless hand as she recognized the body lying huddled at the feet of the warrior.
“Raistlin!” she whispered.
Only as she felt the platinum chain slither through her fingers, only as the precious light around her wavered, did she think to catch the medallion as it fell.
She ran across the floor, her world reeling with the light that swung crazily from her hand. Dark shapes scurried from beneath her feet, but Crysania never noticed them. Filled with a fear more suffocating than the darkness, she knelt beside the mage.
He lay face down upon the floor, his hood cast over his head. Gently, Crysania lifted him, turning him over. Fearfully she pushed the hood back from his face and held the glowing medallion above him. Fear chilled her heart.
The mage’s skin was ashen, his lips blue, his eyes closed and sunken into his hollow cheekbones.
“What have you done?” she cried to Caramon, looking up from where she knelt beside the mage’s seemingly lifeless body. “What have you done?” she demanded, her voice breaking in her grief and her fury.
“Crysania?” Caramon whispered hoarsely.
The light from the medallion cast strange shadows over the form of the towering gladiator. His arms still outstretched, his hands grasping feebly at the air, he bent his head toward the sound of her voice. “Crysania?” he repeated again, with a sob. Taking a step toward her, he fell over his brother’s legs and plunged headlong to the floor.
Almost instantly, he was up again, crouched on his hands and knees, his breath coming in quick gasps, his eyes still wide and staring. He reached out his hand.
“Crysania?” He lunged toward the sound of her voice. “Your light! Bring us your light! Quickly!”
“I have a light, Caramon! I—Blessed Paladine!” Crysania murmured, staring at him in the medallion’s soft glow. “You are blind!”
Reaching out her hand, she took hold of his grasping, twitching fingers. At her touch, Caramon sobbed again in relief. His clinging hand closed over hers with crushing strength, and Crysania bit her lip with the pain. But she held onto him firmly with one hand, the medallion with the other.
Rising to her feet, she helped Caramon to his. The warrior’s big body shook, and he clutched at her in desperate terror, his eyes still staring straight ahead, wild, unseeing. Crysania peered into the darkness, searching desperately for a chair, a couch … something.
And then she became aware, suddenly, that the darkness was looking back.
Hurriedly averting her eyes, keeping her gaze carefully within the light of her medallion, she guided Caramon to the only large piece of furniture she saw.
“Here, sit down,” she instructed. “Lean up against this.”
She settled Caramon on the floor, his back against an ornately carved wooden desk that, she thought, seemed vaguely familiar to her. The sight brought a rush of painful, familiar memories—she had seen it somewhere. But she was too worried and preoccupied to give it much thought.
“Caramon?” she asked shakily. “Is Raistlin d—Did you kill—” Her voice broke.
“Raistlin?” Caramon turned his sightless eyes toward the sound of her voice. The expression on his face grew alarmed. He tried to stand. “Raist! Where—”
“No. Sit back!” Crysania ordered in swift anger and fear. Her hand on his shoulder, she shoved him down.
Caramon’s eyes closed, a wry smile twisted his face. For a moment, he looked very like his twin.
“No, I didn’t kill him!” he said bitterly. “How could I? The last thing I heard was you cry out to Paladine, then everything went dark. My muscles wouldn’t move, the sword fell from my hand. And then—”
But Crysania wasn’t listening. Running back to where Raistlin lay a few feet from them, she knelt down beside the mage once again. Holding the medallion near his face, she reached her hand inside the black hood to feel for the lifebeat in his neck. Closing her eyes in relief, she breathed a silent prayer to Paladine.
“He’s alive!” she whispered. “But then, what’s wrong with him?”
“What is wrong with him?” Caramon asked, bitterness and fear still tinging his voice. “I can’t see—”
Flushing almost guiltily, Crysania described the mage’s condition.
Caramon shrugged. “Exhausted by the spell casting,” he said, his voice expressionless. “And, remember, he was weak to begin with, at least so you told me. Sick from the nearness of the gods or some such thing.” His voice sank. “I’ve seen him like that before. The first time he used the dragon orb, he could scarcely move afterward. I held him in my arms—”
He broke off, staring into the darkness, his face calm now, calm and grim, “There’s nothing we can do for him,” he said. “He has to rest.”
After a short pause, Caramon asked quietly, “Lady Crysania, can you heal me?”
Crysania’s skin burned. “I—I’m afraid not,” she replied, distraught. “It—it must have been my spell that blinded you.” Once more, in her memory, she saw the big warrior, the blood-stained sword in his hand, intent on killing his twin, intent on killing her—if she got in his way.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, feeling so tired and chilled she was almost sick. “But I was desperate and … and afraid. Don’t worry, though,” she added, “the spell is not permanent. It will wear off, in time.”
Caramon sighed. “I understand,” he said. “Is there a light in this room? You said you had one.”
“Yes,” she answered. “I have the medallion—”
“Look around. Tell me where we are. Describe it.”
“But Raistlin—”
“He’ll be all right!” Caramon snapped, his voice harsh and commanding. “Come back here, near me. Do as I say! Our lives—his life—may depend on it! Tell me where we are!”
Looking into the darkness, Crysania felt her fear return. Reluctantly leaving the mage, she came back to sit beside Caramon.
“I—I don’t know,” she faltered, holding the glowing medallion high again. “I can’t see much of anything beyond the medallion’s light. But it seems to be some place I’ve been before, I just can’t place it. There’s furniture lying around, but it’s all broken and charred, as though it had been in a fire. There are lots of books scattered about. There’s a big wooden desk—you’re leaning against it. It seems to be the only piece of furniture not broken. And it seems familiar to me,” she added softly, puzzled. “It’s beautiful, carved with all sorts of strange creatures.”
Caramon felt beneath him with his hand. “Carpet,” he said, “over stone.”
“Yes, the floor is covered with carpet—or was. But it’s torn now, and it looks like something’s eaten it—”
She choked, seeing a dark shape suddenly skitter away from her light.
“What?” Caramon asked sharply.
“What’s been eating the carpet apparently,�
� Crysania replied with a nervous little laugh. “Rats.” She tried to continue, “There’s a fireplace, but it hasn’t been used in years. It’s all filled with cobwebs. In fact, the place is covered with cobwebs—”
But her voice gave out. Sudden images of spiders dropping from the ceiling and rats running past her feet made her shudder and gather her torn white robes around her. The bare and blackened fireplace reminded her of how cold she was.
Feeling her body tremble, Caramon smiled bleakly and reached out for her hand. Clasping it tightly, he said in a voice that was terrible in its calm, “Lady Crysania, if all we have to face are rats and spiders, we may count ourselves lucky.”
She remembered the shout of sheer terror that had awakened her. Yet he hadn’t been able to see! Swiftly, she glanced about. “What is it? You must have heard or sensed something, yet—”
“Sensed,” Caramon repeated softly. “Yes, I sensed it. There are things in this place, Crysania. Horrible things. I can feel them watching us! I can feel their hatred. Wherever we are, we have intruded upon them. Can’t you feel it, too?”
Crysania stared into the darkness. So it had been looking back at her. Now that Caramon spoke of it, she could sense something out there. Or, as Caramon said, some things!
The longer she looked and concentrated upon them, the more real they became. Although she could not see them, she knew they waited, just beyond the circle of light cast by the medallion. Their hatred was strong, as Caramon had said, and, what was worse, she felt their evil flow chillingly around her. It was like … like …
Crysania caught her breath.
“What?” Caramon cried, starting up.
“Sst,” she hissed, gripping his hand tightly. “Nothing. It’s just—I know where we are!” she said in hushed tones.
He did not answer but turned his sightless eyes toward her.
“The Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas!” she whispered.
“Where Raistlin lives?” Caramon looked relieved.
“Yes … no,” Crysania shrugged helplessly. “It’s the same room I was in—his study—but it doesn’t look the same. It looks like no one’s lived here for maybe a hundred years or more and—Caramon! That’s it! He said he was taking me to ‘a place and time when there were no clerics!’ That must be after the Cataclysm and before the war. Before—”
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