by Kevin Stein
He walked inside, staring about curiously. The floor was smooth and hard, and in the middle of the chamber sat a huge circular stone dais, taller than the kender.
“And that’s big!” he exclaimed, moving up to the stone, running his hands along its smooth, unmarked surface. “What’s it for? I know! It must be the way out.”
It wasn’t. Earwig moved around the circumference of the disk, using his hoopak as he did in the cell, searching for a secret door or hidden opening. Finding nothing, he looked over the rest of the room.
The torches were held in sconces set into the wall at regular intervals, ten in all. He tried to remove one, but didn’t have the strength to lift the pole out of its holder. The light they cast was yellow, like the sun on a hazy day. They gave off no heat and no smoke.
“Magic,” said the kender knowingly, and was bitterly disappointed that he couldn’t take one with him.
The chamber was small, and there was very little to see and no way out except the way he’d come, and that led to tunnels. His stomach growled more insistently.
“I’m trying to get us out of here, darn it!” said the kender to that unhappy portion of his anatomy. “And I could concentrate a lot better if you’d leave me alone!”
Earwig leaned against the dais, irritably tapping on it with the golden ring on his finger.
“Now what do I do?” he asked aloud.
Who calls? A voice rang in his head, hissing the words as a snake spits venom.
“Wow!” said the kender, awed.
The room began to grow dark. The torches dimmed in their holders. The gray mist turned black.
Who calls? the voice asked again.
“Me!” Earwig yelled in excitement. “My name’s Earwig Lockpicker.” He paused, then asked politely, “What’s yours?”
The space above him filled with points of light, nodes and motes swirling in a pool of darkness. The kender suddenly realized that he was seeing the stars in Krynn’s night sky, and the foremost constellation shown was-
What do you want of me, Wearer of the Ring?
“You don’t sound very friendly,” Earwig pointed out, in case the voice was interested. The stars kept swirling around him, he was starting to feel dizzy. “And after I’ve come all this way-”
What do you want of me? the voice thundered.
“Uh,” said Earwig, growing more and more confused. He thought it was a marvelous experience, watching the stars spin, but his stomach didn’t seem at all impressed. “Uh, I think I want to leave.…”
We leave through the gate!
“Good, now we’re getting somewhere. Where’s the gate?”
You know I cannot reveal its location! That would bring them to our door!
“First a gate, now a door.” The kender was growing dizzier and dizzier. He wondered if he might have consumed more Celebration Punch than he thought.
You must wait and take no part! Do not interfere with our agents lest you bring them to our door! They will find- They will find- They will- They-”
The voice faded away to a whisper, then disappeared completely. The dark closed in on the kender. He couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t hear anything.
His stomach rumbled loudly. “Oh, shut up,” said Earwig miserably. The ring burned his hand. He scratched at it violently, fingers clawing his flesh until he felt something warm and sticky run down his wrist.
“Stop it!” he cried frantically. “Stop it! Stop it!”
A carriage took the twins to the edge of the city, where they exited through Southgate.
“Good riddance,” said one of the guards.
“Don’t bother coming back,” added another.
“How are we going to get in the gate again?” Caramon asked.
Raistlin glanced behind him. “There are only four of them, my brother.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Caramon, flexing his sword arm.
The twins turned their steps in the direction the barmaid had indicated and soon left the city behind them.
“ ‘A journey by day, the map of a friend, and fair weather is all I crave,’ ” said a voice.
Caramon turned, his sword rattling in its sheath.
“Peace, my brother,” said Raistlin.
Bast was leaning up against a tree, his arms crossed in front of his chest. The shadow from his curling hair fell over his features, making his countenance appear even darker.
“You are well read,” Raistlin said, planting the Staff of Magius into the soft ground.
“Willians is a favorite of mine.” Bast moved over to the twins. He seemed to flow rather than walk. His footsteps were as silent as night stealing over the world.
“What do you want? And don’t tell me that I already know what you want,” Raistlin added dryly.
“But you do. I want to accompany you to the wizard’s cave.”
Caramon tensed. He could still feel the mysterious power emanating from the man. “We don’t need any com-” the big man began.
“Come along then,” Raistlin interrupted as though Caramon had not spoken. The mage pulled the hood of his red robes over his face.
The lands surrounding Mereklar were rich with crops and food-bearing trees, planted there since the first people inhabited the city. Wheat, corn, and various grains lay in measured patterns, interspersed between regular groves of bushes and other plants. But there were no farmers in the fields, and tools lay scattered about, as if they had been discarded hurriedly. The travelers ignored these sights, moving on the main road leading from the great south gate until they came to a lake.
“We turn east here,” said Bast.
“If my friend has come to any harm,” began Caramon hotly, “I’ll-”
The man in black turned, fixed him with his blue eyes. “No,” he said. “You won’t.”
Caramon didn’t argue.
It was midday when they reached the end of the planted lands, coming to a forest. They paused to observe the path that ran through the trees, the tracks of animals, and the leaves of previous winters scattered about. The smell of sap and flowers wafted among the scattered sunshine like a light perfume.
Raistlin walked forward, crushing branches under his heel. His brother followed, making more noise. Bast, however, padded after the twins without disturbing a blade of grass or leaf on the ground.
Suddenly the mage stopped and moved over to a tree. He bent down, studying the grass.
“What is it?” Caramon asked.
Raistlin pulled a flower from the roots of the tree. He held it up for the others to see. “A black lily.”
Caramon sniffed at it and wrinkled his nose. “It smells like … death.”
The sorcerer nodded, holding the flower up for Bast to inspect. The man in black did not appear interested. Shrugging, Raistlin, holding the lily carefully in his hand, stepped off the path into the woods.
“This way,” he said. He glanced at Bast. “Right?”
“The decision is yours,” said Bast. “I do not make use of this entrance. But you should, mage. You will find it … interesting.”
Raistlin’s eyes flickered. “What do you want of me?”
“Nothing. Everything. It all depends now, doesn’t it?”
The mage swept past the man in black and headed deeper into the forest. Following his brother, Caramon saw a carpet of darkness spread on the green floor, a path of black lilies. The mouth of a cave was visible in the distance-a circle of stones set in the shape of an animal’s paw.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” the fighter asked, starting forward.
The Staff of Magius swept out, rapping him lightly on the chest. “We will proceed with caution, my brother,” Raistlin said softly. “This is the tomb of a wizard!”
The three moved up the path slowly-the mage in front, then the fighter, then Bast. Though it was midday, the sun’s rays were blocked by the thick trees and the ancient stones and rocks. Chill air flowed from the cave’s entrance.
Caramon rubbed his arms. “Trust tha
t dratted kender to get himself in a place like this. It would serve him right if he had to get himself out. I suppose we go inside?”
“Of course!” Raistlin held the black staff over his head with one hand and whispered, “Shirak.” The pale blue orb in the golden dragon’s claw burst with light. The illumination did not reach far into the cavern, however.
Caramon started to draw his sword, but Raistlin shook his head. “Steel will do you no good here, my brother. Other skills are called for now.”
Raistlin bent to enter the cave’s mouth, motioning for the others to follow. The cave was not very large or very high, and Caramon had some difficulty standing. Despite what his brother had told him, he removed the bastard sword from his back and carried the weapon in both hands. He saw, by the staff’s light, curved walls and ceiling, extending back ten paces before smoothing out into the dirt floor.
In the middle of the cavern stood a replica of Mereklar. “Another model?” he asked, bending over to get a closer look. “It’s exactly the same as the model at Lord Brunswick’s.”
“Not exactly,” said Raistlin.
Caramon stared at it, and his eyes widened. “Where’s Shavas’s house?” The warrior’s head jerked up, and he grew suddenly cold and scared. “Where is it?”
“Where is the house of the Lady Shavas?” Raistlin asked, glancing at Bast. “Perhaps you could tell us.”
The man in black shook his head slowly. “No. I cannot tell you. But he can,” he said, pointing.
A sudden gust of wind made Caramon shudder. The cave grew dark, the light from the Staff of Magius covered by a hidden hand that blocked its illumination. A shadowy form at the rear of the cave coalesced into a man shrouded in black robes. His hands were bone, covered with rotting flesh. There were no eyes in the hollow sockets, yet Caramon knew the dead wizard could see them.
The warrior’s throat constricted as if the skeletal hands had clutched his windpipe. He tried to move, to keep near his brother to protect him, but he felt invisible ropes and coils wrap around his limbs.
Raistlin walked toward the wizard, holding the black staff in front of him. Reaching out, the wizard touched Raistlin’s forehead with a spectral finger. The mage went flying violently backward, his body crashing into the model of Mereklar.
Caramon strained against his prison, using all his strength and will to break free. But his legs were held by great chains, his arms pinioned to his sides by heavy weights. The warrior looked to Bast, pleading with him to help, but the black-skinned man stood motionless-a seemingly disinterested spectator.
Raistlin struggled to his feet from the wreckage of the model. Leaning on his staff, gazing at the wraith with narrowed eyes, he gritted his teeth and started again to walk toward him.
“You are brave, Red Robes. I admire that. We could have understood one another, I think. Look. Look behind you.”
Raistlin turned. The model was perfectly whole again. Three glowing white lines stretched from each gate to the center of the city, where a domed building stood, also glowing with power. Lines extended along the walls of the city, creating a triangle divided into three sections.
A loud moaning sound rose in the cave, writhing in the air as if it were something alive, dying down to a voice filled with wrath.
“Hear my words! You wear the mask of gold, but another wears a mask of flesh. Do not be deceived, for you have seen its true complexion. It was my downfall. If you falter, it will be yours.”
The wraith vanished. Raistlin collapsed, falling unconscious. Caramon saw Bast bending over his brother, and the warrior-freed from enchantment-lurched forward.
Something small and furry leaped at him from out of the shadows. Startled, Caramon staggered backward and hit his head on a rock. Pain shot through his head. He fell and lay, stunned, unable to move. Dimly, he heard voices.…
“Do I get rid of them, my lord?”
“No, they may yet be of some use. We can always destroy them later. The kender?”
“We lost him, my lord.”
“I told you to guard him carefully!”
“He appeared harmless.…”
“He is. The ring is not.”
“Your orders, my lord?”
“Let these two go. I have business elsewhere. Time runs short, and there are still seven left. Keep your eyes on these two.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Caramon shook his head to clear it. Putting a hand up, he tried to rub away the pain. “Raist?” he called, sitting.
His brother lay unconscious on the ground. Near him, curled up by his side, purring loudly, was a large tabby cat.
Chapter 20
“Raist!” Caramon glancing askance at the tabby cat, bent over his brother. “Raist, are you all right?” he asked helplessly. If his twin was suffering from some sort of magical affliction, Caramon had no idea what he would do.
Raistlin’s eyelids fluttered. He opened them and gazed around as if trying to recall where he was. Suddenly remembering, he sat bolt upright.
“How long was I unconscious?”
“Not long. Only a few moments.”
The mage looked sharply around. “Where’s Bast?”
“Gone, I guess,” said Caramon uneasily, remembering the dimly heard conversation, wondering if he’d dreamed it.
Raistlin gripped his brother’s arm. “Help me up.”
“Should you? What happened? That wizard-”
“No time for questions! Help me up! We must return to the city!”
“The city? How? They won’t let us in the gate!”
“It may be easier than you suppose, my brother,” said Raistlin grimly. “It may be far too easy.”
Raistlin was right. The gate was deserted. The guards had fled their posts.
“Listen, do you hear it?” Raistlin asked, tilting his head.
Caramon shook his head. “No, I don’t hear a thing.”
“Exactly. There is no sound in the city.”
Caramon drew the bastard sword from his back with a single motion, feeling ‘warrior’s fear’ creep into his limbs. He listened more closely now, and did hear something, something that was moving closer to their present location with great speed.
“Raist, come on!” he yelled, grabbing his brother and pulling him through the gate, into an alley, ducking behind old barrels and boxes. He recognized the sound now, the sound of terror and hatred, the need to destroy the misunderstood.
“We’ll find ’em! First Lord Manion. Now Lord Brunswick!”
“The wizard wears long red robes!”
“The big one’s got more muscles than a horse!”
The mob surged past them. Raistlin frowned in irritation. “I don’t have time for this. I must see Councillor Shavas.”
Caramon stared at him. “But- You think she tried to kill you!”
“No, my brother. Not kill me. You see, Caramon,” Raistlin said, with a soft sigh, “I think that I am at last beginning to understand.”
“I’m glad you are. I don’t understand a damn thing! Well, we better get started, before they come back.”
“No, my brother. Not we. I must go alone.”
“But-”
“Return to Barnstoke Hall. There may be news of the kender. If what you say you overheard is true, he has probably escaped. Caramon”-Raistlin looked at him intently-“beware the ring he wears!”
And then, before Caramon could say a word, the mage was gone, slipping into the shadows of late afternoon, gliding down the street like a wraith.
Lady Masak closed the record book, shuddering slightly at what she’d read. With an unsteady hand, she placed the text back on the shelf among the others of its kind, the rows and rows of gold-inlaid dates shining brightly in the afternoon sunlight. She sat down in her white chair, sipping at a cup of steaming tea.
The room was very long, colored gray by stains and paints, and dominated by a single table that stretched its expanse. The only chair was the one the Director of Records occupied. Over a thousand b
ooks filled the hall-the legacy of the citizens and council members of Mereklar since the city was discovered.
The woman cocked her head suddenly and turned her gaze out the window to the city below. She’d heard something, or thought she had. It sounded like a scream.
Lady Masak placed the cup of tea onto its saucer and reached under the table, pulling out a triangular roll of cloth, black and worn with age. Unfolding the wrap, she lifted a wand from its coverings, balancing the object with a finger. One end of it bent down from the line of its construction and was covered with sigla burned into the dark wood. The other end was surrounded by a band of metal, seamless and perfect-a ring that left the tip exposed, revealing a deep, circular gouge. The lady looked down the object’s length and smiled.
A loud noise came from downstairs. She pushed the chair back from the table, then crossed in silence to the door. Lady Masak put her ear to the wood.
A hand smashed through, reaching for her throat. The woman brought the end of the wand down onto the clutching black fingers, cracking bone and ripping tendons. The hand withdrew, seemingly injured from the blow, pulling out of the hole it had created.
Lady Masak backed up, behind the chair. No sound came from the other side of the door. The woman raised the wand, pointed the metal-shod tip toward the portal, and concentrated. A bright red beam flashed out from the gouge, struck the door, and disintegrated the wood, sending smoke and dust through the air in a choking cloud.
Lady Masak remained standing where she was, listening intently for the intruder. Glass shattered behind her. Too late, she tried to turn. A blow sent her sprawling against the table, her back rent open by tearing claws. She twisted around, bringing the wand up. Another bolt of crimson arced out from the gouge, but the panther had leaped lightly to one side. The red flame hit the city’s records, setting them ablaze.
The lady concentrated, sweeping the beam across the library, the wand transforming her lust to kill into reality.
Another strike to her back sent her sprawling across the floor. The wand flew from her grasp. She reached out blindly for the weapon, hidden by a cloak of smoke and fire that filled the room. A booted foot smashed down on her arm, snapping it at the elbow.