Dragons of the Hourglass Mage

by Weis Margaret

  “Enough!” Par-Salian cried, shaken. He looked at the others. “I ask you both plainly: Can we fight this death knight without our magic?”

  Ladonna had gone deathly pale. Her lips set in a tight, straight line, she sank down in a chair.

  Justarius looked defiant at first; then, his face haggard, he gave an abrupt shake of his head. “I am from Palanthas,” he said. “I have heard tales of Lord Soth, and if a tenth of them are true, it would be perilous to fight him even if we had our magic. Without … we do not stand a chance.”

  “Mark my words, if we make this bargain with Majere, we will live to regret it,” Ladonna said.

  “But at least you will live,” murmured Raistlin.

  He drew from his belt a small leather pouch and dumped the contents onto the floor. Marbles of all colors rolled out onto the soft carpeting. Ladonna, staring at them, gave an incredulous laugh.

  “He is making fools of us,” she said.

  Par-Salian was not so sure. He watched Raistlin’s long, slender fingers, delicate and sensitive, sort through the marbles until he found the one he sought. He lifted the marble and held it in the palm of his hand and began to chant.

  The marble grew in size until it filled the palm of Raistlin’s hand. Colors swirled and shimmered inside the crystal globe. Par-Salian, looking in, saw reptilian eyes, looking out.

  “A dragon orb!” he said, amazed.

  Par-Salian drew nearer, fascinated. He had read about the famed dragon orbs. Five orbs had been created during the Age of Dreams by mages of all three orders who had come together then, as they had come together in his day, to fight the Queen of Darkness. Two of the orbs had been kept at the ill-fated Towers of Losarcum and Daltigoth and had been destroyed in the explosions that had leveled those Towers.

  One of the orbs had dropped out of knowledge, only to be discovered by Knights of Solamnia in the High Clerist’s Tower. The Golden General, Laurana, had used the orb to hold the Tower against an assault by evil dragons. That orb had been lost in the battle.

  Another orb had been given for safe-keeping to the wizard Feal-Thas, who had kept it locked up in Icewall for many centuries. The orb’s strange and tragic journey had led to its destruction by a kender at the meeting of the Whitestone Council.

  The orb Par-Salian looked at, the last one in existence, was controlled by Raistlin Majere. How was that possible? Par-Salian was a powerful wizard, perhaps one of the most powerful ever to have lived, and he wondered if he would have the courage to lay his hands on the orb that could seize hold of a wizard’s mind and keep him enthralled, caught forever in a twisted, living nightmare, as it had done the wretched Lorac. The young mage, Raistlin Majere, had dared to do so, and he had succeeded in bending the orb to his will.

  As Par-Salian gazed into the orb, both fascinated and repelled, he had his answer. He could see the figure of a man, an old, old man, barely skin and bones, more dead than alive. The old man’s fists were clenched in fury, he seemed to be shouting, screaming in rage, but his screams went unheard.

  Par-Salian looked in amazement and awe at Raistlin, who gave a confirming nod.

  “You are right, Master of the Conclave. The prisoner is Fistandantilus. I would tell you the story, but there is no time. You must all be quiet. Speak no word. Make no movement. Do not even breathe.”

  Raistlin placed his hands upon the dragon orb. He cried out in pain as hands reached out from the orb and grasped hold of him. He closed his eyes and gasped.

  “I command you, Viper, summon Cyan Bloodbane,” said Raistlin. His voice was a gasp. He shuddered, yet he kept his hands firmly on the orb.

  “Bloodbane is a green dragon!” Ladonna said. “He lied! He means to kill us!”

  “Hush!” Par-Salian ordered.

  Raistlin was intent upon the orb, listening to an unheard voice, the voice of the orb, and apparently he did not like what it was saying.

  “You cannot relax your guard!” he said angrily, speaking to the dragon within the orb. “You must not set him free!”

  The hands of the orb tightened on Raistlin’s, and he gasped in pain from either the strengthening grip or the agony of the decision he was being asked to make.

  “So be it,” Raistlin said at last. “Summon the dragon!”

  Par-Salian, staring into the orb, saw the colors swirl wildly. The tiny figure of Fistandantilus disappeared. Raistlin grimaced, but he kept his hands on the orb, concentrating his will on it, oblivious to what was happening around him.

  “Ladonna, are you mad? Stop!” Justarius cried.

  Ladonna paid no heed. Par-Salian saw a flash of steel and leaped at her. He managed to grab hold of her hand and tried to wrest away the knife. Ladonna turned on him, striking at him and slashing a bloody gash in his chest. Par-Salian staggered back, staring down at the red stain on his white robes.

  Ladonna lunged at Raistlin. He paid no heed. The orb began to glow with a bright, green, gaseous radiance. Tendril-like mists swirled out from the orb and wrapped around Ladonna’s body. She screamed and writhed. The smell was noxious. Par-Salian covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. Justarius began to gasp for air and stumbled to the window.

  “Do not harm them, Viper,” Raistlin murmured.

  The tendrils released their grip on Ladonna, who sagged back into a chair. Justarius was trying to catch his breath, staring out the window.

  “Par-Salian,” Justarius said and pointed. Par-Salian looked out.

  A dragon circled the Tower of High Sorcery, his massive body shining a sickly gray-green in the lambent light of a moonless sky.

  7

  Green Dragon. Dead knight.

  24th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  he ancient green dragon, Cyan Bloodbane, despised every being he had ever encountered in a life that spanned centuries. Mortal and immortal, dead and undead, gods and other dragons, he hated them all. Some, however, he hated more than others: elves, for one, and Solamnic Knights, for another. It had been a Solamnic Knight—one Huma Dragonsbane—who had ruined Cyan’s fun when, as a young dragon, he had taken part in the Second Dragon War.

  The detestable knight with his brain-searing, eye-burning dragonlance had driven Cyan’s Queen, Takhisis, back into the Abyss, first wringing from her a promise that all her dragons would have to leave the world, hide themselves in their lairs, and fall into an endless sleep.

  Cyan had tried hard to avoid that terrible fate, but he could not fight the gods, and he had succumbed like all the others to an enforced nap that had lasted for countless years. But first he had told his Queen what he thought of her.

  Several centuries later, he woke, still mad. Takhisis had appeased him by promising him he could avenge himself on the wicked elves, who had once had the nerve to raid his lair during the Second Dragon War, inflicting wounds on him that he was convinced still troubled him.

  The fool elf Lorac, King of Silvanesti, had stolen a dragon orb, and when he tried to use it to summon a dragon to save his beloved homeland from the armies of Dragon Highlord Salah-Kahn, Cyan had answered the call.

  The green dragon had come to Silvanesti to find that the dragon orb had wrapped Lorac in its terrible coils. Cyan could have slain the wretched elf, but where was the fun in that? Cyan had inflicted wounds that would grievously hurt every elf ever born, from then until the end of time. He had seized their beloved land. He had taken the heart-aching beauty of Silvanesti and twisted it and stabbed it, slashed it and burned it.

  He had tortured the trees and caused them to bleed and writhe in agony. He had blackened the lush meadows and transformed crystal lakes into foul and poisonous swamps. What was most enjoyable, he had whispered those nightmares into Lorac’s ear, forcing the elf king to watch the horror unfold before his eyes and making him believe that it was his doing.

  Tormenting Lorac had been fun for a while, but Cyan had soon grown bored. Silvanesti lay in tortured ruins. Lorac had gone mad. Cyan had perked up when a party of brigands and thieves led by Lorac’s daugh
ter, Alhana Starbreeze, arrived in Silvanesti. Cyan had enjoyed tormenting them, for a time. His fun had ended abruptly when a young wizard who still had eggshell on his head, as the saying went among dragons, had managed to break the orb’s hold—and Cyan’s—on Lorac.

  Cyan had at first been thrilled to watch the young wizard foolishly attempt to take control of the dragon orb. Foreseeing yet another mortal to torture, Cyan had been cruelly disappointed. Not only had Raistlin taken control of the orb, he had ordered the orb to take control of Cyan.

  The green had struggled and fought, but the dragon orb was strong, and even he could not resist its call. And that was why he was in western Ansalon, flying high above some gods-forsaken tower, there to do the bidding of his hateful master. Cyan had no idea why he was there, for his master had not yet deigned to tell him. The dragon circled the Tower aimlessly, thinking that he could always divert himself by breathing his poisonous gas on the hapless wizards who were milling around in the courtyard below.

  Then Cyan heard the blare of trumpets. He knew that sound, and he hated it. He looked out across the hills and saw a Solamnic Knight riding toward him.

  Cyan Bloodbane knew nothing about death knights. If someone had told Cyan that this knight was cursed and that he was evil and that he and Cyan were fighting for the same cause, the dragon would have snorted a gaseous snort. A foul Solamnic Knight, cursed or uncursed, dead or undead, was a foul Solamnic Knight and must be destroyed.

  Cyan Bloodbane dived down out of the skies. He would use his dragonfear to terrify the knight, then his poisonous breath to kill him.

  Lord Soth was intent upon leading his undead warriors in a charge on the Tower’s walls. Concentrating on his attack, Soth paid no heed to what was happening in the skies above him. He did not so much as glance in the dragon’s direction. The dragonfear washed harmlessly over him.

  Cyan was disappointed. He had been counting on the dragon-fear to send the knight into a screaming panic, so he would have the pleasure of a little sport, chasing the knight around the fields, before finally killing him.

  Cyan began to dimly realize that this was no ordinary knight, and it was then he noticed that the blasted knight was already dead! Which was going to take much of the fun out of the killing of him. Cyan cast a few random spells at the knight, hurled a couple of magic missiles and tried to envelop him in a web, but nothing came of his effort. Cyan gnashed his teeth in frustration. He might not be able to slay the knight, but the dragon could certainly make his undead life unlivable.

  Soth, seeing magic missiles explode around him and cobweb dropping from the skies, was at first puzzled as to who was using the magic. It could not be the wizards. Their moons were gone. He lifted his head in time to see a green dragon diving on him like a stooping hawk, claws extended. Astonished beyond measure, wondering where the dragon had come from and why the beast was attacking him, Soth did not have time to try to explain. He didn’t have time to do much of anything except draw his sword. And that proved useless.

  Cyan Bloodbane caught hold of Soth in his claws and dragged the knight off his horse. The dragon carried Soth, who was slashing at him with the sword, into the heavens, then flung him to the ground. Cyan then flew headlong into the ranks of the charging undead warriors. He smashed into them bodily, ripping with his claws and snapping with his fangs, rending and tearing and scattering their bones or crunching them in his powerful jaws.

  By that time Soth had recovered and was back in the saddle. His sword flaring with unholy fire, he rode in pursuit of the dragon, who wheeled ponderously in the sky and flew again to the attack. The death knight struck the dragon a savage blow in the neck that caused Cyan to howl in rage and veer off. Sullenly circling, the dragon flew down for yet another strike.

  Lord Soth, wheeling on his black horse, raised his sword.

  “Thus does evil turn upon its own,” said Raistlin.

  Par-Salian turned from the window where he had been watching the strange battle. Raistlin had his eyes fixed upon the hour candle, which had only a small amount of wax left. He looked exhausted. Par-Salian could not imagine the strain on body and mind required to keep control of the orb.

  “I must take my leave,” Raistlin said. “It is nearly time.”

  “Time for what?” Par-Salian asked.

  “The end.” He shrugged. “Or the beginning.”

  He held the glowing dragon orb in his hand. The multicolored, swirling light shone on the golden skin and gleamed in the hourglass eyes. As Par-Salian stared at the dragon orb, he was struck by a sudden thought. He sucked in a breath, but before he could say anything, Raistlin was gone, disappearing as swiftly and quietly as he had come.

  “The dragon orb!” exclaimed Par-Salian, and the other two left off watching the battle to stare at him. “Of all the magical artifacts ever created, Takhisis feared those orbs the most. If she knew Majere had one, she would never permit him to keep it.”

  “More to the point, she would never permit him to use the orb’s magic,” Justarius agreed, realization and hope dawning.

  “So what does this mean, if anything?” Ladonna asked, looking from one to the other.

  “It means our survival is in the hands of Raistlin Majere,” said Par-Salian.

  And it seemed he could hear, hissing through the darkness, the young mage’s words.

  “Remember our bargain, Master of the Conclave!”

  8

  Black Maelstrom.

  24th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  he gods of magic, their moons gone from the skies, entered Dargaard Keep. Lord Soth was not there. He and his warriors were riding on the wings of fury to the Tower of Wayreth. The Forest of Wayreth was gone. The wizards who had gathered in the Tower for the Night of the Eye were bereft of their magic and would be vulnerable to the death knight’s horrific attack. Their joyous celebration might well end in bloody death and the destruction of their Tower.

  That could not be helped, however. Takhisis must be fooled into thinking that the moon gods had fallen victim to her plot, that they had battled the three new Gods of the Gray and been slain by them. Warned in advance by Raistlin Majere, the three had come to the Tower to meet those new gods and ambush them when they tried to enter the world.

  “Our world,” said Lunitari, and the other two echoed her.

  The banshees hid away in terror at the coming of the gods. Kitiara was in the bedroom, asleep, dreaming of the Crown of Power.

  The gods went at once to the chamber Raistlin had described to them, passing through stone and earth to reach it. They entered the vault and gathered around the sole object in the room, the Hourglass of Stars. They watched the sands of the future glitter and sparkle in the top half of the hourglass. The other was dark and empty.

  Suddenly Nuitari pointed. “A face in the darkness!” he said. “One of the interlopers is coming!”

  “I see one as well,” said Solinari.

  “And I see the third,” said Lunitari.

  The gods gathered the magic, drawing it from all parts of world, grasping the fire and the lightning bolt, the tempest and the hurricane, the blinding dark and the blinding light, and they entered the hourglass to challenge their foes.

  But when they were inside the blackness into which the stars fell, the gods of magic saw no foe. They saw only each other and, in the distance, the stars glittering far above them. As they watched, the stars began to spin, slowly at first, then faster, whirling around a black vortex, spiraling away from them.

  And all around them was darkness and silence, utter and eternal. They could no longer hear the song of the universe. They could no longer hear the voices of their fellow gods. They could no longer hear each other. Each could see the others falling away, being pulled into the emptiness. The three tried to reach out to each other, to grab hold, but they were falling much too fast. They desperately sought some way to escape, only to realize there was no escape.

  They had fallen into a maelstrom—a maelstrom in time that wou
ld keep spinning and spinning, dragging down the stars, one by one, until the end of all things.

  Their hands could not touch, but their thoughts could.

  A mirror image, Solinari thought bitterly. There are no other gods. We looked into the hourglass and saw ourselves.

  Trapped in time, Nuitari raved. Trapped for eternity. Raistlin Majere duped us. He betrayed us to Takhisis!

  No, thought Lunitari in sorrow and despair, Raistlin was duped as well.

  9

  Brother and sister. The Hourglass of Stars.

  24th Day, Month of Mishamont, Year 352 AC

  aistlin walked out of the corridors of magic and into Dargaard Keep. The glowing colors of the dragon orb in his hand were rapidly fading. The orb had shrunken to the size of a marble. He opened the pouch that hung at his side and dropped the orb into it.

  The room was dark and, mercifully, silent. The banshees had no reason to sing their terrible song, for the master of the keep was away. Soth would be away for some time, Raistlin imagined. Cyan Bloodbane was not one to give up, especially when his foe had drawn blood.

  The dragon would never be able to defeat the death knight. Soth would never be able to slay the dragon, for Cyan thought too well of himself to put himself in any true danger. So long as he could harass and torment his enemy, he would stay around to fight. Once the battle began to turn against him, the dragon would choose the better part of valor and leave the field to his foe.

  Raistlin entered Kitiara’s bed chamber. Kit lay in her bed. Her eyes were closed; her breathing was deep and even. Raistlin smelled the foul stench of dwarf spirits, and he guessed she had not fallen asleep as much as passed out, for his sister was still dressed. She wore a man’s shirt, slit at the neck, with long, full sleeves, and tight-fitting leather trousers. She was even still wearing her boots.