Injured and dazed, Palin searched frantically for his staff, which lay somewhere beneath the dead dragon. The lengthening shadow darkened all around him. He looked up. The giant’s black, empty eyes—now able to see clearly—were focused on Usha.
Palin scrambled to his feet.
“Usha, look out! Run!” he cried.
She didn’t hear him over the giant’s roar. Either that, or she was ignoring him. Desperately keeping her gaze fixed on the bloodstained ground, she tried to salvage a drop to place into the halves of the Graygem.
Palin abandoned the fallen staff, ran to help Usha.
He never made it.
Chaos swept down an enormous hand that seemed to catch hold of the wind as it came, dragged the wind along. A blast of hot air smote Palin, hurled him backward, slammed him into the body of the dragon. Pain burst in his skull.
“Usha,” he murmured, sick and dizzy. He fought to stand, and, in his mind, he was on his feet, but his body lay in the dragon’s blood. His own blood trickled warm down his face, and he was a speck of dust in one of the giant’s empty eyes, and then he was nothing.
Tasslehoff tossed objects from his pouch left and right, littering the ground around him. A bit of blue crystal, a piece of petrified vallenwood, a lock from a griffin’s mane, a dead lizard on a leather thong, a faded rose, a white ring with two red stones, a white chicken feather …
“Where is that dratted spoon?” he cried in frustration.
“Usha! Leave it, Lass! Run!” Dougan screamed.
“What’s going on? What’s happening?” Tas lifted his head, eager to see. “Am I missing something?”
Usha crouched, piteously digging in the dirt, tears streaming down her face. Palin was a huddled doll, lying in a pool of dragon’s blood.
The giant’s huge, booted feet shuffled, rolled over the ground with the rumbling, grinding sound of gigantic boulders, crushing the bodies of the dead knights, the dying dragons. Usha and Palin lay directly in the giant’s path.
A cold fist—hurtful, like the giant’s fist—squeezed the kender’s heart.
“He’s going to squash them!” Tas cried. “Squash them flat! This … this is worse than Lord Soth! My friends can’t be squashed flat. There’s got to be somebody big around to stop him!”
Tas looked about wildly, searching for a knight or a dragon or even a god to help. The knights and dragons who were left alive were fighting their own desperate battles. As for Dougan, the dwarf was a huddled heap, his head bowed, his hands flaccid in his lap, moaning, “My fault. My fault.…”
Tas stood up and, as he did, he realized suddenly that he was the tallest, the biggest person around. (Left standing.) (Aside from the giant.) A feeling of pride swelled the kender’s heart, burst the clutch of the chill hand that had been squeezing the life out of it.
Tasslehoff flung his pouches aside. Drawing his knife—the knife that Caramon had once dubbed Rabbitslayer—the kender ran toward his fallen friends, using the speed and agility that is born to the kender race and is one reason they have managed to survive in a world of angry minotaur, infuriated shopkeepers, and enraged sheriffs.
Tasslehoff flung his small body in front of Usha. With a kender cry of defiance, “Take that!” he plunged the knife called Rabbitslayer into Chaos’s big toe.
The magical knife pierced the leather of the giant’s boot, struck flesh.
Blood spurted. The god jerked his injured foot up, prepared to stomp on the insignificant, infuriating creature who had injured him.
Chaos smashed his foot into the ground.
Clouds of dust rose. Tasslehoff disappeared.
“Tas!” Usha cried out in grief and anger. She started to try to rescue her friend, when she heard Dougan give a tremendous shout.
“You’ve done it, Lass! Look down! Look at the Graygem!”
Usha, dazed, looked.
A single drop of blood glistened in the center of one half of the Graygem.
“Close the two halves, Lass!” Dougan was on his feet, jumping up and down. “Close them! Quickly!”
Chaos shrieked and thundered around her. His flames scorched her. His winds tried to flatten her. She was going to die, but it didn’t matter. Palin was dead. The cheerful kender was dead. The dark and stern knight was dead. Prot was dead. All were dead, and nothing more remained. Hope was dead.
Usha brought her two hands together, brought the two halves of the Graygem together with the blood of Chaos trapped between, then …
Silence.
Silence and darkness.
Usha could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing, not even ground beneath her. The only solid object she could sense was the Graygem, its cold, sharp, faceted edges.
The jewel began to glow with a soft gray light.
Usha dropped it, but the gem did not fall.
The Graygem rose from her grasp, rose higher and higher into the darkness and then, suddenly, the gem exploded.
Millions of shards of sparkling crystal burst outward, expanding, pitting the darkness with pinpricks of light.
They were stars. New stars, strange stars.
A moon rose, a single moon, a pale moon. Its face was benign, yet uncaring.
By the moon’s light, Usha could see.
Chaos was gone. Dougan was gone. All around Usha were the bodies of the dead. She searched among the dead until she found Palin.
Putting her arms around him, Usha lay down beside him. She rested her head on his breast, shut her eyes, shut out the sight of the strange stars, the cold moon, and sought to find Palin in the darkness.
32
Rain. autumn.
Farewell.
drop of cool water fell on his forehead.
It was raining, a gentle rain, cool and soft. Palin lay in the wet grass, his eyes closed, thinking that it would be a dreary, gray, and gloomy day for a ride, that his older brother would complain bitterly about the rain, prophesying that it would rust his armor and ruin his sword; that his other brother would laugh and shake the drops from his hair and comment on them all smelling of wet horse.
And I will remind them that we need the rain, that we should be thankful the drought is broken …
The drought.
The sun.
The burning, blazing sun.
My brothers are dead.
The sun will not set.
Memory returned, horrifying and pain-filled. The liquid falling on him was not rain, but blood. The clouds were the shadow of the giant, towering over him. Palin opened his eyes fearfully, stared up into the leaves of a vallenwood tree, leaves that were dripping wet with rain, leaves that were just starting to change color, transforming into the warm reds and golds of autumn.
Palin sat up, gazed around in vast confusion. He was lying in a field that must be near his homeland, for the vallenwood grows in only one place on Ansalon, and that is Solace. Yet, what was he doing here? Only moments before, he had been dying in the Abyss.
In the distance he saw the Inn of the Last Home, his home, standing safe and sound. A thin curl of smoke rose from the home fire, drifting—sweet-smelling—up through the falling rain.
He heard a whimper near him, looked down.
Usha lay at his side, curled up like a child, one arm flung protectively over her head. She was dreaming, and her dreams were terrible.
Gently, he touched her shoulder. She stirred and called his name. “Palin! Where are you?”
“Usha, it’s me. I’m here,” he said softly.
She opened her eyes, saw him. She reached out her arms, clasped him, held him close.
“I thought you were dead. I was alone, all alone, and the stars were all different, and you were dead …”
“I’m fine,” Palin said, and was astonished to know that he was fine, when the last thing he remembered was agonizing pain.
He smoothed back the beautiful silver hair, gazed into the golden eyes that were red-rimmed with tears.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I
… wasn’t hurt. The giant … Tas … Oh, dear gods!” Usha thrust away Palin’s hands, staggered to her feet. “Tas! The giant!”
She turned, caught her breath in a sob.
Palin looked past her, and now he saw the dead.
The bodies of the Knights of Solamnia lay next to the bodies of the dark Knights of Takhisis. Of all those who had ridden forth into the Abyss to do battle with Chaos and his dread legions, not one had survived. The warriors lay in state, each man with his hands clasped over his chest, each face smooth and peaceful, all trace of blood, fear, and pain washed away by the gentle rain that fell on them all alike.
Peering through the rain, Palin saw movement, saw something stir. He’d been mistaken. One of the knights still lived. Palin hastened swiftly past the rows of dead. Drawing nearer, he recognized Steel.
The knight’s face was covered with blood. He was on his knees, so weak he could barely hold himself upright. He placed the cold hand of a young Solamnic Knight over his chest. Then, his strength failing him, Steel fell into the wet, brown grass.
Palin bent down beside him. A glance took in the scorched, shattered, bloodstained armor, the pallid face, the labored breathing.
“Steel,” Palin called softly. “Cousin.”
Steel opened his eyes, which were shadowed and dimming. “Majere …” He smiled briefly, fleetingly. “You fought well.”
Palin took hold of the dark knight’s hand. The flesh was chill. “Is there anything I can do for you? To give you ease?”
Steel’s head turned, his gaze shifted. “My sword.”
Palin found it, lying near the fallen knight. He lifted the weapon, placed the hilt in Steel’s hand.
Steel shut his eyes. “Lay me with the others.”
“I will, Cousin,” said Palin, through his tears, “I will.”
Steel’s fingers closed over the sword’s hilt. He tried, once more, to lift it. “Est Sularus …” His last breath whispered the Solamnic words, My honor. His last sigh carried with it the conclusion, “oth Mithas,” is my life.
“Palin.” Usha stood at his side.
Palin raised his head, wiped away the rain and the tears. “What? Have you found Tas?”
“Come see,” Usha said softly.
He rose to his feet. His robes were soaked with rain, but the air was warm for the beginning of autumn. He walked past the bodies of the knights, wondered, now that he thought of it, what had become of the dragons.
And then, with a pang of fear, he remembered his staff and the spellbook.
But there they both were, the Staff of Magius lying in the grass, the spellbook nearby. The red leather binding on the spellbook was blackened and charred. Palin touched it gingerly, lifted the cover. No pages remained inside. They had all been consumed, destroyed in the last spell.
Palin sighed, thinking of the great loss. Yet he was certain that Magius would have been pleased to know that his magic had helped defeat Chaos. Palin picked up the staff, was startled and vaguely alarmed to note that the staff had a strange feel about it. The wood, which had always before been warm and inviting to the touch, was cool, rough and uneven. The staff was uncomfortable to hold, felt wrong in his hand. He laid it back down, relieved to let go of it, wondered what was wrong.
He walked over to where Usha was standing, staring down at a pile of scattered pouches. Palin forgot about the staff as he bent over the kender’s most prized possessions.
He sorted through the various objects. He didn’t recognize any of them; not surprising, with a kender’s pack, but he had almost managed to convince himself that these pouches belonged to some other kender, had been abandoned by their owner (probably to enable the kender to flee faster) until he lifted one pouch. A bundle of maps tumbled out.
“These are Tasslehoff’s,” he said, fear cold in his heart. “But where is he? He never would have left them behind.”
“Tas!” Usha called, searching. “Palin, look! Here’s his hoopak. It’s … it’s lying in a pile of … chicken feathers.”
Palin moved aside the chicken feathers. There, beneath the hoopak and the feathers, was a handkerchief with the initials FB, a silver spoon (of elven make and design), and a knife, stained dark with blood.
“He is gone!” Usha sobbed. “He never would have left his spoon behind!”
Palin looked up the road, the road that ran eagerly along until it joined another road, and another road after that, coming together, branching apart, but always traveling onward, going everywhere, only to lead, at the very end, back home.
The road was suddenly a blur.
“There’s only one reason Tas would have left his most prized possessions behind,” Palin said softly. “He’s found something more interesting.”
The gentle rain ceased its fall. The gray day faded to dark night. The strange stars came out, scattered over the sky like a handful of seeing stones tossed on black cloth. The pale and uncaring moon rose, lit their way.
Palin looked up at the stars, at the single moon. He shivered, lowered his eyes, and met the golden-eyed gaze of Raistlin.
“Uncle!” Palin was pleased, yet ill at ease.
The staff no longer supported him. It was heavy and burdensome. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong.
“Have you come to stay with us, now that the war is at an end? The war is over, isn’t it?” he asked anxiously.
“This war is over,” Raistlin added dryly. “There will be others, but they are not my concern. And, no, I have not come to stay. I am tired. I will return to my long sleep. I merely stopped on my way to say good-bye.”
Palin gazed at his uncle in disappointment. “Must you go? There’s still so much I have to learn.”
“That is true, Nephew. That will be true to the day you die, even if you are an old, old man. What’s wrong with the staff? You’re holding it as if it pains you to touch it.”
“There’s something the matter with it,” Palin said, fear growing in him, fear of things guessed at, suspected, but unknown.
“Give it to me,” Raistlin said softly.
Palin handed over the staff with a sudden reluctance.
Raistlin took it, gazed at it admiringly. His thin hand stroked the wood, caressed it. “Shirak,” he whispered.
The light of the staff glowed, but then the glow began to dim, darken. The light flickered and died.
Palin gazed in dismay at the staff, then looked up at the single moon. His heart constricted in fear.
“What is happening?” he cried in terror.
“Ah, perhaps I can answer that, young man.”
An old wizard, dressed in mouse-colored robes, with a disreputable, broken-pointed hat, came tottering along the road from the direction of the Inn of the Last Home. The wizard wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Fine ale,” he was heard to remark, “some of Caramon’s best. This will be an excellent year.” Sighing, he shook his head. “I’m sure gonna miss that.”
“Greetings, Old One,” Raistlin said, leaning on the staff, smiling.
“What? Eh? Is that some sort of comment on my age?” The wizard glared from beneath bushy brows.
He turned to Palin, caught sight of the kender’s handkerchief, which Palin had tucked into his belt. The wizard’s beard bristled.
“That’s mine!” he shrieked, and made a grab for the handkerchief. Retrieving it, he exhibited the cloth. “There’s my initials. FB. It stands for … Mmmmm. Foos ball. No, doesn’t sound quite right. Flubber. No …”
“Fizban,” said Palin.
“Where?” The old man whipped around. “Drat him, he’s always following me.”
“Fizban!” Usha stared at him in wonder. “I know about you! The Protector told me. You’re really Paladine!”
“Never heard of him!” the old man stated testily. “People are always mistaking the two of us, but I’m much better looking!”
“You’re not dead!” Palin said thankfully. “Chaos said you were dead. That is, he said Paladine was dead.”
Fizban was forced to pause a moment, to consider the matter. “Nope, don’t think so.” He frowned. “You didn’t leave me in a pile of chicken feathers again?”
Palin was comforted, cheered, no longer afraid. “Tell us what has happened, sir. We won, didn’t we? Chaos was defeated?”
Fizban smiled, sighed. The befuddled expression smoothed away, leaving an old man, benign, sad, grieving, yet triumphant.
“Chaos was defeated, my son. He was not destroyed. The Father of All and of Nothing could never be destroyed. You forced him to flee this world. He agreed to do so, but at a high price. He will leave Krynn, but his children must leave as well.”
“You’re … not going, are you?” Usha cried. “You can’t!”
“The others have already gone,” Fizban said quietly. “I came to give you my thanks and”—he sighed again—“have a last glass of ale with my friends.”
“You can’t do this!” Palin said, dazed, disbelieving. “How can you leave us?”
“We make this sacrifice to save the creation we love, my son,” Fizban answered. He shifted his gaze to the bodies of the knights, to the handkerchief he held in his hand. “Just as they sacrificed to save what they loved.”
“I don’t understand!” Palin whispered, anguished. “What about the staff? What about my magic?” He pressed his hand over his heart. “I can’t feel it inside me anymore.”
Raistlin laid his hand on Palin’s shoulder. “I said that one day you would become the greatest mage who ever lived. You fulfilled my prophecy, Nephew. Magius himself was never able to cast that spell. I am proud of you.”
“But the book is destroyed …”
“It doesn’t matter,” Raistlin said, then shrugged. “Does it, Nephew?”
Palin stared, still not understanding. Then the meaning of what his uncle had told him penetrated, struck him to his very soul.
“There is no more magic in the world.…”
“Not as you know it. There may be other magic. It is up to you to find it.” Fizban said gently. “Now is begun what will be known on Krynn as the Age of Mortals. It will be the final age, I think. The final, the longest, and, perhaps, the best. Farewell, my son. Farewell, my daughter.”
Dragons of Summer Flame Page 68