by Kevin Stein
“And there’s an army of these things!” he said with a groan.
In his room in Barnstoke Hall, Raistlin removed several black bags from his pack-flat pouches heavily lined with fur and other soft materials. He opened one of them to reveal an array of bottles and tubes, capped with cork and stoppered with rubber blocks, containing a variety of colored liquids and crystals and powders. Unfolding a brass frame used to store chemicals while working, he took the containers out from their holding straps and placed them into their proper locations-solids in front, liquids at the back.
Another pouch produced a shallow mixing dish with matching pestle and a glass bottle of clear liquid with a wick jutting from the top. From another he drew a melting pan and stand, and a smaller pan with a handle covered in wound leather. A third contained holding stands, tiny metal chains, and various silvered tools.
The mage erected the apparatus on top of the table. Reaching into his voluminous robes, he pulled out a hollow gold tube, as long as one of his gold fingers, unadorned by symbol or rune, and placed it next to the pan.
Raistlin sat in a chair, placing his hands on his knees, fists clenched in concentration. He began to search through his memories for the proper potion-an elixir that would suit his purpose. Ingredients began to filter through his mind as he allowed the discipline of alchemy to take control of his consciousness, his knowledge of the world and familiarity with the art drawing out an answer.
A pinch of white powder as the base, another of black to equalize, blood from all parties, the symbols of sympathetic magic, dust taken at great risk to spirit and body, clear crystals to bend, green to expand, red to destroy, heat to forge, a cylinder of gold to cool.
“And alcohol,” Raistlin concluded, coming out of his near-trance.
He stood and set to work, putting the bottles he was not going to use back into their holding straps, closing the pouch and setting it aside for safety. With a long fingernail, he drew a measured amount of rough, white powder, most of which had clung together into small clumps, from a bottle and tapped it out onto the melting pan.
He lit the wick on the squat clear bottle, summoning up a dancing yellow flame. Taking a dark bottle from the rack, Raistlin carefully removed the rubber stopper, revealing a small spoon pushed into the bottom. Removing an amount equal to the white powder, he mixed them together with a wooden rod-a thin stick no wider than a leaf of grass-and spread the now gray mixture into a thin ring with an open center.
Throwing the stick far across the room with a flick of his wrist, the mage wiped a small bead of sweat that had formed on his brow. He tried to keep his thoughts and purpose straight, clear and free from influence, but-looking at the materials before him-he caught his breath, hands trembling. His eyes closed tight for a moment.
His will held. He opened his eyes.
The mage removed three more bottles from the rack, each containing crystal shards of varying sizes and shapes-one was clear, another green, and the third red. He removed a piece of the clear crystal and placed it on the shallow dish, crushing it against the metal with the marble hammer. He wiped the debris from the tool on his sleeve. Doing the same with the other crystals, he began to measure the amounts he thought he would need with the edge of his little finger-a bit of red gone, add a little more green, too much clear, then, not enough.
Raistlin was conscious of time passing and fought down the impulse to hurry, crushing additional rock and taking it away until the balance was finally correct. He took all the clear powder and combined it with uneven parts of the others-more green than red-rubbing it against his thumb and forefinger until their individual colors became part of the whole, inseparable. He added the new mixture into the confines of the gray-powder ring on the melting pan.
Wiping his hands on his red robes, Raistlin rubbed his eyes, which were beginning to ache from the strain. Then, with a silver knife, he scraped the blood off the gold ring Earwig had worn. The mage worked quickly, dropping the dried flakes into the small pan with the leather handle.
He reached for another stoppered bottle. This one was coated with black patches, as if it were diseased. Raistlin opened it with more care than any previous bottle, drawing back at the stench that rose out from it like a wraith. Holding the container in his fist, leaving only the mouth and end exposed, he tapped its back.
A cloud of darkness reached forward and engulfed the blood, discoloring the dried fluid to a darker shade. The mage tilted the bottle back up and placed the top on it again just as the rest of the contents began to writhe out, grasping for the promise of another’s life.
Raistlin let out a long sigh, relieved to be free of the deadly dust. Setting the pan down, he took the remaining crystals and dumped them into a crucible, holding the vessel with a pair of metal tongs over the flame, watching as they melted together.
When they began to glow from the heat, he dropped the dried blood in, the flakes instantly disappearing with a puff of dirty smoke.
“Wait! There’s something missing,” he whispered, catching his error. Searching through his materials, he grew increasingly frustrated. “I cannot find it! And without the stone, this won’t work!”
Raistlin clutched a hand to his chest in frustration, tearing at the cloth, when he suddenly noticed something hard and round in one of his inner pockets-a disk on a chain. Hastily, he removed the object.
“The charm of good fortune the woman gave me,” he murmured. “I must definitely reconsider my position on the superstitious beliefs of peasants.”
Grasping the pestle, he smashed the amulet to pieces and picked out the stones he needed, throwing them into the crucible where they melted almost instantly. He poured the new substance onto a shallow plate, spreading it thin and letting it cool. Cracking noises filled the air. The substance shattered into fine dust as red as rubies, black at the center.
The sorcerer arched his back, feeling the vertebrae crack from stiffness. He had finally come to a point where he could relax for a moment. But even as he did so, he felt time running from between his fingers. He raised the melting pan onto its stand and chains, moving carefully so as not to disturb the powder ring. Scraping the red powder into a curved half-tube with a tapering tip, he slowly formed symbols of power against the white circle in the pan, one atop the other. When it was completed, he let the tube drop to the floor.
“The final stage,” Raistlin whispered.
He erected another stand around the melting pan, two wire legs with a connecting bar at the top. He pulled two metal link chains-covered in some black, slippery substance from an opaque bottle-and hung them from the legs, placing the gold tube into the curve at the lowest point, and stoppered the top with a golden cap.
Lifting a small silver bell and hammer from the third pouch, he struck the bell with the hammer, listening carefully as its clear sound eventually died out. He struck again, nodding when there was silence.
The bell rang a third time-the clear, scintillating sound penetrating through the night. The mage listened as the echo slowly grew fainter and fainter, fading and disappearing until nothing was left.
Raistlin removed the cap and blew cool air through the tube. The symbols on the melting pan boiled and faded, melding and mixing into one another until their forms intertwined into a single sigil of power. Created through the destruction of its elements, the sigil settled against its white background and then rose upward in a flash as the gray ring flared alive with flame. Its essence coated the tube.
The mage replaced the cap, doused the flame, and leaned on the Staff of Magius for support. He breathed heavily, and lowered his head in fatigue. The ritual was complete.
Raistlin peered into the tube, saw that opaque brown crystals had formed on its inner surface-the proper result. No expression of satisfaction crossed his features, however. He raised the cowl up over his head, hiding the golden mask of his face in the darkness of his robes.
Chapter 25
Earwig stared in wonder into the Great Eye, which seemed to be
reversed down here-it was black, glimmering with red and a small white dot in the center. Bolts of power arced through the cloudless heavens, reaching out with forked fingers to touch unknown spaces. He thought he might watch that wonderful sight forever-or least the next ten minutes-but an irritating voice inside him kept nagging at him to do something.
“But what, that’s the question? Oh, I remember! I’m supposed to meet Caramon in the center of town.”
Earwig was starting to turn the corner when he almost ran headlong into a group of twisted, demented-looking cats.
The creatures certainly looked interesting. Earwig was considering going up and introducing himself when he remembered that he was on another Very Important Mission. He backed up hurriedly, therefore, sliding with kender agility into a shadow so that the cats wouldn’t be tempted to stop and chat.
A loud noise made him look around curiously. It was a carriage, rumbling past, drawn by nothing at all that the kender could see.
“Gee,” he sighed, watching, “that looks like fun. And it’s heading in the direction I want to go. I guess they wouldn’t mind if I tagged along.”
Earwig dashed out, ran in back of the coach, caught hold, and perched himself on the rear. Kicking his feet, he gazed around happily.
The conveyance raced on, metal-banded wheels clashing noisily against the white stone of the city. He recognized the road they were approaching as Southgate Street. Here the carriage came to a halt. Earwig hopped off and looked around at the front. Three creatures jumped out, stretching lazily, arching their long backs in the manner of cats. Two drank from bottles they wore strapped to shining harnesses. When they were done, they shook their heads violently and grimaced.
“Celebration Punch,” Earwig remarked in sympathetic understanding.
He was about to step forward and inquire the way to the center of the city, or perhaps ask if any of these guys had seen Caramon, when the demented-looking cats jumped back into the carriage. Before the kender could get back on, it careened off down the street.
“Hey!” yelled Earwig, waving his arms. “You forgot me!”
Caramon jumped from rooftop to rooftop, stopping occasionally to catch his breath and rest. He still felt slightly nauseated from the poison and weak from loss of blood. He leaned out over the edge of the roof and saw that he was on Eastgate Street. He had only about another block to go.
“Time to move again. I hope Earwig and Bast are already there so that we can destroy that thing and get the hell out of here.”
Caramon gripped his sword, lowering himself as quickly and quietly as he could manage to the next house. He heard a scraping sound, then silence, then snuffling, as if an animal was following a track. His heart began to beat so hard that he could feel it in his ears.
Caramon forced himself to stay hidden, to wait. He longed to leap up, swinging his sword, and take the demon by surprise. But, considering its speed and incredible senses, he wasn’t sure if that were possible.
A scarlet beam pierced the warrior’s left shoulder, leaving an exit hole out the front of his armor. Wisps of smoke rose from his smoldering shirt. Another bolt seared across his arm as he tried to dodge out of the line of fire. Hoping to distract the creature, he drew a dagger from his belt and threw.
The demon ducked, giving Caramon time to lunge forward, driving his blade into its chest. The demon fell dead.
Fight over, Caramon felt the pain of his wound. The sound of rushing water filled his ears, and the black sky disappeared, lost before the darkness that was covering his eyes. Locking his knees, fearing he might faint, he attempted to keep himself from falling over.
The attempt failed.
He was lying prone, legs stretched out. The temptation to close his eyes and rest until the pain and fear went away was almost overpowering.
“Raist … must find Raist,” Caramon mumbled. Groaning, he forced himself to sit up and examine the wound. The burned shirt and armor had fallen away, revealing the hole, which was sealed by heat.
“At least it won’t get infected,” the fighter giggled and began to laugh. Recognizing that he was nearing hysteria, Caramon choked back his laughter. He staggered to his feet. There was no way he could leap over rooftops. Finding a stair, he stumbled to the street below.
Raistlin stood before Shavas’s estate. The stained-glass windows were more vibrant and alive than ever, casting lines and arcs of color that shot and darted against the ground. The sight no longer fascinated the mage, and he knocked on the entrance door loudly, rapping his knuckles against the wood.
No answer came to his hail, but the door opened before him, closing and locking when he had entered the hallway. The mage walked to the library. It was empty.
Just as well. That made it easier.
Moving to the sideboard, he lifted the bottle of brandywine and removed the stopper. Glancing back at the door, checking to see that he was alone and unobserved, he withdrew the tube from his robes. He took the cap off and started to pour the brown crystals into the bottle. His hand shook.
“If I make a mistake,” he said to himself coolly, “then it will be my last.” He dumped the contents of the tube into the bottle.
Replacing the stopper, he turned and regarded the game board, remembering where he had left off before leaving on his mission for the lady of the house.
Shavas had made a move after he had gone. His champion had been transformed into one of the undead.
“How very fitting,” Raistlin murmured.
Heavy double-doors opened on silent hinges, and perfume wafted into the room. Shavas entered. She was wearing a loose, enfolding gown of purest silk, as white as the curve of her shoulders. The cloth flowed with the graceful movement of her body like wandering wisps of cloud. She smiled at Raistlin. Her face glowed with an inner radiance. She looked as if she had just completed some great triumph and now sought relaxing entertainment.
“I am pleased that you returned, Raistlin,” she said, taking the chair across from the mage. “At last I see we understand each other.”
“Is that the reason for your apparent happiness, Councillor?”
“Councillor? Don’t insult me! I am no longer Councillor. There is, after all, nothing left to counsel.” She laughed at her joke.
“You seem very sure of yourself, my lady,” the mage corrected with emphasis. “The city has not yet fallen.” He moved a priest from its confines behind the lines of his knights and yeomen.
Shavas placed her fingertips on her own priest, deciding on a move. “There is no one to stop us. The people of Mereklar will soon be dead.” She slid the priest forward.
Her move put the mage in a precarious position. Raistlin leaned back, considering. “How long have you lived in this city?” he asked without looking up from the board.
“Oh, many years, many years-in one form or another. I was the first councillor. I will be the last,” the woman replied.
Raistlin looked up at her. The woman’s beautiful eyes gazed directly into the mage’s face.
Rising to his feet, Raistlin walked to the sideboard and picked up the brandy bottle. He poured himself a glass.
“Pour one for me, my love,” said Shavas.
Raistlin shivered at the sound of the word that slid so glibly from tempting lips. He poured a glass of brandy and handed it to her.
“A toast,” he said. “To the Lord of the Cats.”
Shavas gave a small, silvery laugh. “How droll you are!”
Raistlin lifted the glass of brandy to his lips and drank the burning liquid. Shavas drank deeply, her eyes gleaming above the rim of the goblet.
She moved to stand near the mage. Flames from the fire shone through the gossamer of her robes, exposing the curvature of her figure. Languidly, she reached above her head and released the cascading flow of her long brown hair, letting it fall about her face and shoulders.
“What do you want of me?” Raistlin asked. “I am not like my brother. I am not … attractive.”
“You are pow
erful, Raistlin. I always find power attractive. And you could become more powerful over time.”
“Time? …”
“Yes. We will have all the time in the world.”
“And how would we do that?” he asked, taking another drink from his glass.
“My magic is vast, stronger than almost any you have encountered before. I would be willing to … share it with you.”
“To what end?”
Shavas drank the brandy. Emptying her glass, she filled it again from the decanter and wandered about the library, running her fingers across the suits of armor standing guard in the room. Going to a bookcase, she lifted out a volume. The title, Brothers Majere, was stamped in gold on the back.
“You wear the red robes, mage, but you will not wear them forever. You do not have the patience to stand in the middle. You must make a choice, or your passions will tear you asunder.”
“That may be, but all in my own time. I repeat, what do you want of me?”
“It is, rather, what you want of me,” said Shavas, coming close and putting her soft hand on his arm. “I am offering you the chance to control your own destiny. I am offering you an alliance with the Dark Queen!”
Chapter 26
“The carriage is gone. Now, I’ll have to walk,” said the kender, disgruntled.
He started down the street, thinking just between himself and the fish market that it would have been a lot more fun if he and Caramon had come down here together when one of the ugly, twisted creatures popped out of a side street and came to stand in front of him.
“Hullo,” said the kender brightly, extending a hand. “My name’s Earwig-”
The creature raised its hand. It was holding a most fascinating-looking device, a wand of some sort. It began to glow bright red. Thinking the creature was offering the wand to him-since it was pointing it at him-the kender reached out and took it. “Thank you,” he said.
The creature, with a snarl, tried to snatch the wand back.