THE SOULFORGE dtrc-1

by Margaret Weis

  Raistlin searched his mind frantically for his carefully worded, oft-rehearsed speech. He couldn't recall any of it. Dazed by debilitating fear, he unrolled the scroll and looked at it, hoping it might give him some clue.

  The letters of the magical words glowed faintly, pleasantly, as if they had been illuminated, the brush tipped with fire. The warmth of the magic spread from the scroll through his chilled fingers and brought with it reassurance. He possessed the ability to cast the spell, the skill to wield the magic. He would work his will on these people, hold them under his sway.

  The knowledge enflamed him. An updraft of power consumed his fear.

  His voice, when he spoke, was unfamiliar. Generally soft-spoken, he had not expected to sound so strong. He pitched his voice to where the acoustics would best amplify his words, and the result was dramatic. He startled even himself.

  "Citizens of Haven," he called, "friends and neighbors. I stand before you to warn you that you are being duped!"

  Mutterings and murmurs rumbled through the crowd. Some were angry, shouted for him to stop insulting the god. Others were annoyed, worried that he was going to disrupt the promised miracle. A few clapped, urged him on. They'd come to see a show, and this guaranteed that they'd get more than their money's worth. People craned their necks to see him, many stood up in their seats.

  The priests and priestesses in the arena looked uncertainly at their leader, wondering what to do. At a signal from the High Priest, they raised their voices to try to drown out Raistlin's words with their chanting. Caramon was on his feet, standing protectively beside his brother, keeping a baleful eye upon the acolytes, who had grabbed torches and were hastening down the aisle toward them.

  Raistlin paid no attention to the uproar. He was watching Judith. She had ceased her spell-casting. Locating him in the crowd, she stared at him. In the semidarkness, she did not recognize him. She saw his white robes, however, and immediately recognized her own danger. She was confounded, but only for a moment. Quickly she regained her composure.

  "Beware the wizard!" she cried. "Seize him and take him away. His kind are forbidden in the temple. He comes to work his evil magic among us!"

  "Let us hear more about evil magic. Widow Judith," Raistlin shouted.

  She knew him then. Her face suffused with the blood of her rage. Her eyes widened, the white rims visible around the dilated pupils. Her pallid lips moved without speech. She stared at him, and he was appalled at the hatred he saw in her eyes, appalled and alarmed. His conviction wavered.

  She sensed him faltering, and her lips parted in a terrible smile. She did what she should have done at first. Disdainfully she turned from him, ignored him.

  The acolytes clattered down the steps toward him. Fortunately some of the audience had moved into the aisle, hoping to see better, and were blocking the way. Caramon, fists clenched, was ready to hold the acolytes off, but it would be only a matter of time before he was overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

  "I can prove my accusations are true!" Raistlin cried. His voice cracked. People began to boo and hiss.

  Embarrassed, feeling his audience slipping away, he struggled to retain his desperate hold. "The woman who calls herself a High Priestess performs what she calls a miracle. I say it is magic, and to prove it, I will cast the very same spell. Watch as I bring you another so-called god! Behold!"

  Raistlin did not need the scroll. The words of the spell were in his blood. The magic formed a pool of fire around his fast-beating heart, his blood carried the magic into every part of his body. He recited the words of magic, pronouncing each correctly and precisely, reveling in the exhilarating sensation as the magic flowed like molten steel through his fingers, his hands, his arms.

  Drawing on the energies of those watching him, utilizing even the hatred and fury of his enemies to his own advantage, Raistlin cast forth the magic. The spell streamed out of him, seemed to uplift him, carry him along on radiating waves of heat and fire.

  A giant appeared before the audience. A fearful giant, a giant with a topknot, wearing green plaid pants and a purple silk shirt, a giant draped with pouches, a giant trying his very best to look as if he appreciated the enormity of the situation.

  "Behold!" Raistlin called again. "The Giant Kender of Balifor!"

  People gasped, then someone tittered. Someone else giggled, the nervous giggle of tense situations. The giant kender began moving down the aisle, his face so solemn and serious that his nose quivered with the effort.

  "Summon Belzor!" cried one wit. "Sic Belzor on the kender!" "My money's on the kender!" cried another.

  Gales of merriment rippled through the crowd, most of whom had come to see a spectacle and were feeling well rewarded. A few of the faithful cried out in anger, demanded that the wizard cease his sacrilege, but the laughter, once started, was difficult to halt.

  Laughter-a weapon as deadly as any spear.

  "In this corner, Belzor." cried out someone.

  Roars of laughter. Four acolytes had made it down the stairs, were attempting to seize hold of Raistlin. Caramon pushed the acolytes back, knocking them aside with his bare hands.

  Their neighbors, who were enjoying the show and didn't want it to end, joined in the shoving match. Some of the faithful sided with the acolytes. Three men who had come to the temple straight from the beer tent leapt eagerly into the fray, not caring whose side they took. A small riot erupted around Raistlin.

  Shouts and screams and cries drew the attention of the Haven town guards who were in attendance. They had been glancing nervously at their captain, fearing that at any moment they might be ordered to arrest the giant kender. The captain himself was considerably baffled. He had sudden visions of the giant kender incarcerated in the Haven jail, with most of his torso and his topknotted head and shoulders sticking up through the hole they would have to cut in the roof.

  Under these circumstances, a riot-plain and simple-was extremely welcome. Ignoring the giant kinder, the captain ordered his men to quell the riot.

  The giant kender continued to march down the aisle, but few were paying attention to him anymore. By this time, most of the people in the arena were on their feet.

  The prudent, seeing that the situation was quickly getting dangerously out of hand, gathered up their families and headed for the exits.

  Thrill-seekers stood on their seats, trying to obtain a better view. Young men in the audience charged gleefully across the arena to take part in the fight. Several children, escaping their frantic mothers, were in hot pursuit of the giant kender.

  A group of visiting dwarves were taking on all corners and swearing that this was the best religious meeting they had attended since before the time of the Cataclysm.

  Raistlin stood on the marble seat, where he had taken refuge. The knowledge that he had wrought this confusion, that he had fomented this chaos, appalled him. And then, it thrilled him.

  He tasted the power and its taste was sweet, sweeter to him than love, sweeter than gain. Raistlin saw for himself the fatal flaws in his fellow mortals. He saw their greed and prejudice, their gullibility, their perfidy, their baseness. He despised them for it, and he knew, in that instant, that he could make use of such flaws for his own ends, whatever those ends might be. He could use his power for good, if he chose. He could use it for ill.

  He turned, in his triumph, to the High Priestess.

  She was gone. Kitiara was gone, too, Raistlin realized in consternation.

  He caught hold of the back of Caramon's shirt-the only part of him he could reach-and gave it a jerk. Caramon was wrestling two of the acolytes. He held one at arm's length, his hand at the throat of another. All the while he was telling them over and over that they should just settle down and leave honest people alone. The jerk on his collar half-strangled Caramon, caused him to twist his head around.

  "Let them go!" Raistlin shouted. "Come with me!"

  Fists flailed around them, men heaved and shoved and shouted and swore. In their attempt to restore o
rder, the guards increased the confusion. Raistlin took a moment to search the crowd for Sturm, but couldn't find him. The giant kender had disappeared, the spell faded as the audience's readiness to believe in the illusion subsided. Tasslehoff, returned to his normal size, was buried beneath an avalanche of small boys.

  The magic was gone from Raistlin as well, leaving him drained, as if he had cut open an artery, spilled his life's blood. Every movement took an effort, every word spoken required concentrated thought. He longed desperately to curl up under a soft blanket and sleep, sleep for days. But he dared not. Yet when he took a step, he swayed and nearly fell.

  Caramon took firm hold of his brother's arm. "Raist, you look terrible! What's the matter? Are you sick? Here, I'll carry you."

  "You will not! Shut up and listen to me!" Raistlin had neither the time nor the energy to waste on Caramon's nonsense.

  He started to thrust aside Caramon's supportive arm, then realized that he might well collapse without it. "Help me walk, then. Not that way, ninny! The door beneath the snake! We must find Judith!"

  Caramon glowered. "Find that witch? What for? Good riddance. The Abyss take her!"

  "You don't know what you're saying, Caramon," Raistlin gasped, foreboding sending a shudder through him. "Come with me or I will go myself."

  "Sure, Raist," Caramon said, subdued, impressed by his brother's urgent tone. "Out of our way!" he cried, and punched a skinny town guardsman, who was trying ineffectually to get his hands around Caramon's thick neck.

  Caramon helped Raistlin climb down from the seats, assisted him over the rope used to keep the faithful from entering the arena.

  "Watch out for the vipers!" Raistlin warned, leaning on Caramon's strong arm. " The charm that held them is ended."

  Caramon gave the snakes, swaying in their baskets, a wide berth. The High Priest and his followers had wisely fled the arena, leaving the vipers behind. Even as Raistlin spoke his warning, one of the snakes slid out of its basket and slithered across the floor.

  People spilled into the arena, some trying to flee the melee, others seeking new opponents. A guard bumped into a brazier, spilling burning coals onto the straw which had been spread to deaden the noise. Gouts of flame shot up, wisps of smoke coiled into the air, further increasing the pandemonium as someone shouted hysterically that the building was on fire.

  "This way!" Raistlin gestured toward the narrow doorway inside the stone statue of the snake.

  The two entered a corridor of stone, lit by flickering torches. Several doors opened off the corridor on both sides. Raistlin looked into one of these, a large room, splendidly furnished, lit by hundreds of wax candles. In these rooms, Belzor's priests lived-lived well, by the looks of it-and worked. He had hoped to find Judith, but the room was empty, as was this part of the corridor. The followers of Belzor had deemed it wise to abandon the temple mob.

  Glancing around in haste, Raistlin discovered that not all the faithful had fled. A lone figure crouched in a shadowed corner. He drew near to see it was one of the priestesses. Either she was injured or she had collapsed out of fear. Whatever the reason, the other servants of Belzor had abandoned her, left her huddled against the stone wall, weeping bitterly.

  "Ask her where to find Judith!" Raistlin instructed. He deemed it wiser if he remained out of sight, hidden in the shadows behind his brother.

  Caramon gently touched the priestess on the hand, to draw her attention. She started at his touch, lifted her tear-streaked face to stare at him fearfully.

  "Where is the High Priestess?" Caramon asked.

  "It wasn't my fault. She lied to us!" the girl said, gulping. "I believed her." "Sure you did. Where-"

  A scream, a scream of anger, rising shrilly to fear, was suddenly cut off, in a horrible gurgle. Raistlin was chilled to the bone with horror at the dreadful sound. The girl screamed herself, covered her ears with her hands.

  "Where is Judith?" Caramon persisted. He had no idea what was going on, but he had his instructions. He wasn't going to let anything distract him. He shook the frightened girl.

  "Her waiting room. is down there." The girl whimpered. She crouched on her knees. "You have to believe me! I didn't know."

  Caramon didn't wait to hear more. Raistlin was already moving down the corridor in the direction the girl had indicated. Caramon caught up with his twin at the end of the hall. Here the corridor branched off, ran in two different directions, forming a Y. The torches on the left side of the corridor, the side where Judith's room was located, had been doused. That portion of the temple was in darkness.

  "We need light!" Raistlin commanded.

  Caramon grabbed a torch from an iron sconce on the wall. He held it high.

  Smoke from the burning straw in the arena had drifted through the doorway. The smoke slid in sinuous curls across the floor. The light shone on a single door which stood at the end of the dark corridor, gleamed off the symbol of the serpent made of gold which adorned the door.

  "Did you hear that scream, Raist?" Caramon whispered uneasily, coming to a halt.

  "Yes, and we weren't the only ones to hear it," Raistlin answered impatiently, casting his brother an annoyed glance. "What are you standing there for? Hurry up! People will be coming to investigate. We don't have much time."

  Raistlin continued walking down the hall. After a moment's hesitation, Caramon hurried to his brother's side.

  Raistlin rapped sharply on the door, only to find that it swung open at his touch. "I don't like this, Raist," Caramon said, nervous and shaken. "Let's go." Raistlin pushed on the door.

  The room was brightly lit. Twenty or thirty thick candles stood on a ledge of stone inside the small chamber. Thick velvet curtains, hung from an interior door, closed off another room in the back, probably Judith's sleeping chamber. Wine in a pewter goblet and bread and meat, sustenance intended for the priestess's refreshment after her performance, had been placed on a small wooden table.

  Judith no longer had need of food. Her performances were ended. The wizardess lay on the floor beneath the table. Blood covered the stone floor. Her throat had been slashed with such violence that the killer had almost severed the head from the neck.

  At the horrible sight, Caramon retched, covered his eyes with his hands.

  "Oh, Raist! I didn't mean it!" he mumbled, sickened. "About the Abyss! I didn't mean it!"

  "Nevertheless, my brother," Raistlin said, regarding the corpse with terrible calm, "we may safely assume that the Abyss is where the Widow Judith is now residing. Come, we should leave immediately. No one must find us here."

  As he started to turn away, he caught a flash out of the corner of his eye-torchlight glinting off metal. Looking closely, he saw a knife lying on the floor near the body. Raistlin knew that knife, he'd seen it before. He hesitated a split second, then, bending down, he snatched up the knife, slipped it into the sleeve of his robe.

  "Quickly, my brother! Someone's coming!"

  Outside, booted feet clattered; the girl was shrilly guiding the town guard to the High Priestess's chambers. Raistlin reached the door just as the captain of the guard entered, accompanied by several of his men. They stopped short at the sight of the body, alarmed and amazed. One guard turned away to be quietly sick in a corner.

  The captain was an old soldier who'd seen death in many hideous aspects and was not unduly shocked by this one. He stared first at Judith, whom he had come to question about bilking money out of the good citizens of Haven, then he turned a stern gaze to the two young men. He recognized them both immediately as the two who had precipitated the evening's disastrous events.

  Caramon, nearly as pale as the blood-drained corpse, said brokenly, "I-I didn't mean it."

  Raistlin kept quiet, thinking quickly. The situation was desperate, circumstances were against them.

  "What's this?" The captain pointed to a smear of blood on Raistlin's white robes.

  "I have some small reputation as a healer. I bent down to examine her." Raistlin started to add, "
to see if there were any signs of life." Glancing at the body, he realized how ludicrous that statement would sound. He clamped his mouth shut.

  He was acutely aware of the knife clutched tightly in his hand. The blood on the hilt was sticky, was gumming his fingers. He was repulsed, would have given anything to have been able to wash it off.

  Taking that knife had been an act of unbelievable stupidity. Raistlin cursed himself for his folly, couldn't imagine what had prompted him to do something so ill-judged. Some vague and instinctive desire to protect her, he supposed. She would have never done as much for him.

  "The weapon's not here," said the captain after another glance at Raistlin's bloodstained robes and a cursory look around the room. "Search them both."

  One of the guardsman seized hold of Raistlin, grabbed him roughly, pinned his arms. Another guard rolled up Raistlin's long sleeves, revealing the bloody knife, held fast in his blood-covered hand. The captain smiled, grimly triumphant.

  "First a giant kender, and now murder," he said. "You've had a busy night, young man."

  Chapter 17

  The Haven jail was not a particularly nice jail, as Tasslehoff had complained. Located near the sheriff's house, the jail had once been a horse barn. It was drafty and cold, the dirt floors were strewn with refuse. The place stank of both horse and human piss and dung, mingled with vomit from those who had indulged too freely in dwarf spirits at the fair.

  Raistlin didn't notice the smell, at least not after the first few seconds. He was too tired to notice. They could have hanged him-hanging being the penalty for murder in Haven-and he would not have protested. He sank down on a filthy straw mattress and fell into a sleep so deep that he didn't feel the rats skitter over his legs.

  His dreamless, untroubled sleep provided much conversation among the jail's two guards. One held that such sleep was indicative of a mind innocent of murder, for all knew that a guilty conscience could never slumber peacefully. The other guard, older, scoffed at this notion. It proved the young man to be a hardened criminal, since he could sleep that soundly with the blood of his victim still on his hands.