Dragons of Spring Dawning

by Margaret Weis

  Kitiara flung Laurana in front of her. Stumbling, the elfwoman fell to her knees before the Queen. Her golden hair had come loose from its bindings and tumbled about her in a shining wave that was—to Tanis’s fevered mind—the only light in the vast dark chamber.

  You have done well, Lord Kitiara, came the Dark Queen’s unheard voice, and you will be well rewarded. We will have the elf escorted to the Death Chambers, then I will grant your reward.

  “Thank you, Majesty.” Kitiara bowed. “Before our business concludes, I have two favors I beg you grant me.” Thrusting out her hand, she caught Tanis in her strong grip. “I would first present one who seeks service in your great and glorious army.”

  Kitiara laid a hand on Tanis’s shoulder, indicating with a firm pressure that he was to kneel. Unable to purge that last glimpse of Laurana from his mind, Tanis hesitated. He could still turn from the darkness. He could stand by Laurana’s side and they would face the end together.

  Then he sneered.

  How selfish have I become, he asked himself bitterly, that I would even consider sacrificing Laurana in an attempt to cover my own folly? No, I alone will pay for my misdeeds. If I do nothing more that is good in this life, I will save her. And I will carry that knowledge with me as a candle to light my path until the darkness consumes me!

  Kitiara’s grip on him tightened painfully, even through the dragonscale armor. The brown eyes behind the dragonhelm began to smolder with anger.

  Slowly, his head bowed, Tanis sank to his knees before Her Dark Majesty.

  “I present your humble servant, Tanis Half-Elven,” Kitiara resumed coolly, although Tanis thought he could detect a note of relief in her voice. “I have named him commander of my armies, following the untimely death of my late commander, Bakaris.”

  Let our new servant come forward, came the voice into Tanis’s mind.

  Tanis felt Kit’s hand on his shoulder as he rose, drawing him near. Swiftly she whispered, “Remember, you are Her Dark Majesty’s property now, Tanis. She must be utterly convinced or even I will not be able to save you, and you will not be able to save your elfwoman.”

  “I remember,” Tanis said without expression. Shaking free of Kitiara’s grip, the half-elf walked forward to stand on the very edge of the platform, below the Dark Queen’s throne.

  Raise your head. Look upon me, came the command.

  Tanis braced himself, asking for strength from deep inside him, strength he wasn’t certain he possessed. If I falter, Laurana is lost. For the sake of love, I must banish love. Tanis lifted his eyes.

  His gaze was caught and held. Mesmerized, he stared at the shadowy form, unable to free himself. There was no need to fabricate awe and a horrible reverence, for that came to him as it comes to all mortals who glimpse Her Dark Majesty. But even as he felt compelled to worship, he realized that, deep inside, he was free still. Her power was not complete. She could not consume him against his will. Though Takhisis fought not to reveal this weakness, Tanis was conscious of the great struggle she waged to enter the world.

  Her shadowy form wavered before his eyes, revealing herself in all her guises, proving she had control over none. First she appeared to him as the five-headed dragon of Solamnic legend. Then the form shifted and she was the Temptress—a woman whose beauty men might die to possess. Then the form shifted once again. Now she was the Dark Warrior, a tall and powerful Knight of Evil, who held death in his mailed hand.

  But even as the forms shifted, the dark eyes remained constant, staring into Tanis’s soul, eyes of the five dragon heads, eyes of the beautiful Temptress, eyes of the fearful Warrior. Tanis felt himself shrivel beneath the scrutiny. He could not bear it, he did not have the strength. Abjectly he sank once more to his knees, groveling before the Queen, despising himself as behind him he heard an anguished, choking cry.

  9

  Horns of doom.

  L umbering down the northern corridor in search of Berem, Caramon ignored the startled yells and calls and grasping hands of prisoners reaching out from the barred cells. But there was no sight of Berem and no sign of his passing. He tried asking the other prisoners if they had seen him, but most were so unhinged by the tortures they had endured that they made no sense and, eventually, his mind filled with horror and pity, Caramon left them alone. He kept walking, following the corridor that led him ever downward. Looking around, he wondered in despair how he would ever find the crazed man. His only consolation was that no other corridors branched off from this central one. Berem must have come this way! But if so, where was he?

  Peering into cells, stumbling around corners, Caramon almost missed a big hobgoblin guard, who lunged out at him. Swinging his sword irritably, annoyed at the interruption, Caramon swept the creature’s head off and was on his way before the body hit the stone floor.

  Then he heaved a sigh of relief. Hurrying down a staircase, he had nearly stepped on the body of another dead hobgoblin. Its neck had been twisted by strong hands. Plainly, Berem had been here, and not long ago. The body was not yet cold.

  Certain now he was on the man’s trail, Caramon began to run. The prisoners in the cells he passed were nothing but blurs to the big warrior as he ran by. Their voices shrilled in his ears, begging for freedom.

  Let them loose, and I’d have an army, Caramon thought suddenly. He toyed with the idea of stopping a moment and unlocking the cell doors, when suddenly he heard a terrible howling sound and shouting coming from somewhere ahead of him.

  Recognizing Berem’s roar, Caramon plunged ahead. The cells came to an end, the corridor narrowed to a tunnel that cut a deep spiral well into the ground. Torches glimmered on the walls, but they were few and spaced far between. Caramon ran down the tunnel, the roar growing louder as he drew closer. The big warrior tried to hurry, but the floor was slick and slimy, the air became danker and heavy with moisture the farther down he went. Afraid he might slip and fall, he was forced to slow his pace. The shouts were closer, just ahead of him. The tunnel grew lighter, he must be coming near the end.

  And then he saw Berem. Two draconians were slashing at him, their swords gleaming in the torchlight. Berem fought them off with his bare hands as light from the green gemstone lit the small enclosed chamber with an eerie brilliance.

  It was a mark of Berem’s insane strength that he had held them off this long. Blood ran freely from a cut across his face and flowed from a deep gash in his side. Even as Caramon dashed to his aid, slipping in the muck, Berem grasped a draconian’s sword blade in his hand just as its point touched his chest. The cruel steel bit into his flesh, but he was oblivious to pain. Blood poured down his arm as he turned the blade and—with a heave—shoved the draconian backward. Then he staggered, gasping for breath. The other draconian guard closed in for the kill.

  Intent upon their prey, the guards never saw Caramon. Leaping out of the tunnel, Caramon remembered just in time not to stab the creatures or he risked losing his sword. Grabbing one of the guards in his huge hands, he twisted its head, neatly snapping its neck. Dropping the body, he met the other draconian’s savage lunge with a quick chopping motion of his hand to the creature’s throat. It pitched backward.

  “Berem, are you all right?” Caramon turned and was starting to help Berem when he suddenly felt a searing pain rip through his side.

  Gasping in agony, he staggered around to see a draconian behind him. Apparently it had been hiding in the shadows, perhaps at hearing Caramon’s coming. Its sword thrust should have killed, but it was aimed in haste and slanted off Caramon’s mail armor. Scrabbling for his own sword, Caramon stumbled backward to gain time.

  The draconian didn’t intend giving him any. Raising its blade, it lunged at Caramon.

  There was a blur of movement, a flash of green light, and the draconian fell dead at Caramon’s feet.

  “Berem!” Caramon gasped, pressing his hand over his side. “Thanks! How—”

  But the Everman stared at Caramon without recognition. Then, nodding slowly, he turned and st
arted to walk away.

  “Wait!” Caramon called. Gritting his teeth against the pain, the big man jumped over the draconian bodies and hurled himself after Berem. Clutching his arm, he dragged the man to a stop. “Wait, damn it!” he repeated, holding on to him.

  The sudden movement took its toll. The room swam before his eyes, forcing Caramon to stand still a moment, fighting the pain of his injury. When he could see again, he looked around, getting his bearings.

  “Where are we?” he asked without expecting an answer, just wanting Berem to hear the sound of his voice.

  “Far, far below the Temple,” Berem replied in a hollow tone. “I am close. Very close now.”

  “Yeah,” Caramon agreed without understanding. Keeping a fast hold on Berem, he continued to look around. The stone stairs he had come down ended in a small circular chamber. A guardroom, he realized, seeing an old table and several chairs sitting beneath a torch on the wall. It made sense. The draconians down here must have been guards. Berem had stumbled on them accidentally. But what could the draconians have been guarding?

  Caramon glanced quickly around the small stone chamber but saw nothing. The room was perhaps twenty paces in diameter, carved out of rock. The spiral stone stairs ended in this room and—across from them—an archway led out. It was toward this archway Berem had been walking when Caramon caught hold of him. Peering through the arch, Caramon saw nothing. It was dark beyond, so dark Caramon felt as if he were staring into the Great Darkness the legends spoke of. Darkness that had existed in the void long before the gods created light.

  The only sound he could hear was the gurgling and splash of water. An underground stream, he thought, which accounted for the humid air. Stepping back a pace, he examined the archway above him.

  It was not carved out of the rock as was the small chamber they were in. It had been built of stone, crafted by expert hands. He could see vague outlines of elaborate carvings that had once decorated it, but he could make nothing out. They had long ago been worn away by time and the moisture in the air.

  As he studied the arch, hoping for a clue to guide him, Caramon nearly fell as Berem clutched at him with sudden, fierce energy.

  “I know you!” the man cried.

  “Sure,” Caramon grunted. “What in the name of the Abyss are you doing down here?”

  “Jasla calls …” Berem said, the wild look glazing his eyes once more. Turning, he stared into the darkness beyond the archway. “In there, I must go.… Guards … tried to stop me. You come with me.”

  Then Caramon realized that the guards must have been guarding this arch! For what reason? What was beyond? Had they recognized Berem or were they simply acting under orders to keep everyone out? He didn’t know the answers to any of these questions, and then it occurred to him that the answers didn’t matter. Neither did the questions.

  “You have to go in there,” he said to Berem. It was a statement, not a question. Berem nodded and took a step forward eagerly. He would have walked straight into the darkness if Caramon hadn’t jerked him back.

  “Wait, we’ll need light,” the big man said with a sigh. “Stay put!” Patting Berem on the arm, then keeping his gaze fixed on him, Caramon backed up until his groping hand came into contact with a torch on the wall. Lifting it from its sconce, he returned to Berem.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said heavily, wondering how long he could keep going before he collapsed from pain and loss of blood. “Here, hold that a minute.” Handing Berem the torch, he tore off a strip of cloth from the ragged remains of Berem’s shirt and bound it firmly around the wound in his side. Then, taking the torch back, he led the way beneath the arch.

  Passing between the stone supports, Caramon felt something brush across his face. “Cobweb!” he muttered, pawing at it in disgust. He glanced around fearfully, having a dread of spiders. But there was nothing there. Shrugging, he thought no more of it and continued through the arch, drawing Berem after him.

  The air was split with trumpet blasts.

  “Trapped!” Caramon said grimly.

  “Tika!” Tas gasped proudly as they ran down the gloomy dungeon corridor. “Your plan worked.” The kender risked a glance over his shoulder. “Yes,” he said breathlessly, “I think they’re all following us!”

  “Wonderful,” muttered Tika. Somehow she hadn’t expected her plan to work quite so well. No other plans she had ever made in her life had worked out. Wouldn’t you know this would be a first? She, too, cast a quick glance over her shoulder. There must be six or seven draconians chasing after them, their long curved swords in their clawed hands.

  Though the claw-footed draconians could not run as swiftly as either the girl or the kender, they had incredible endurance. Tika and Tas had a good head start, but it wasn’t going to last. She was already panting for breath, and there was a sharp pain in her side that made her want to double over in agony.

  But every second I keep running gives Caramon a little more time, she told herself. I draw the draconians just that much farther away.

  “Say, Tika”—Tas’s tongue was hanging out of his mouth, his face, cheerful as always, was pale with fatigue—“do you know where we’re going?”

  Tika shook her head. She hadn’t breath left to speak. She felt herself slowing, her legs were like lead. Another look back showed her that the draconians were gaining. Quickly she glanced around, hoping to find another corridor branching off from this main one, or even a niche, a doorway—any kind of hiding place. There was nothing. The corridor stretched before them, silent and empty. There weren’t even any cells. It was a long, narrow, smooth, and seemingly endless stone tunnel that sloped gradually upward.

  Then a sudden realization nearly brought her up short. Slowing, gasping for breath, she stared at Tas, who was only dimly visible in the light of smoking torches.

  “The tunnel … it’s rising …” She coughed.

  Tas blinked at her uncomprehendingly, then his face brightened.

  “It leads up and out!” he shouted jubilantly. “You’ve done it, Tika!”

  “Maybe …” Tika said, hedging.

  “Come on!” Tas yelled in excitement, finding new energy. Grabbing Tika’s hand, he pulled her along. “I know you’re right, Tika! Smell”—he sniffed—“fresh air! We’ll escape … and find Tanis … and come back and … rescue Caramon—”

  Only a kender could talk and run headlong down a corridor while being chased by draconians at the same time, Tika thought wearily. She was being carried forward by sheer terror now, she knew. And soon that would leave her. Then she would collapse here in the tunnel, so tired and aching she wouldn’t care what the draconians—

  Then, “Fresh air!” she whispered.

  She had honestly thought Tas was lying just to keep her going. But now she could feel a soft whisper of wind touch her cheek. Hope lightened her leaden legs. Glancing back, she thought she saw the draconians slowing. Maybe they realize they’ll never catch us now! Exultation swept over her.

  “Hurry, Tas!” she yelled. Together they both raced with renewed energy up the corridor, the sweet air blowing stronger and stronger all the time.

  Running headfirst around a corner, they both came up short so suddenly that Tasslehoff skidded on some loose gravel and slammed up against a wall.

  “So this is why they slowed down,” Tika said softly.

  The corridor came to an end. Two barred wooden doors sealed it shut. Small windows set into the doors, covered with iron gratings, allowed the night air to blow into the dungeon. She and Tas could see outside, they could see freedom—but they could not reach it.

  “Don’t give up!” Tas said after a moment’s pause. Recovering quickly, he ran over and pulled on the doors. They were locked.

  “Drat,” Tas muttered, eyeing the doors expertly. Caramon might have been able to batter his way through them, or break the lock with a blow of his sword. But not the kender, not Tika.

  As Tas bent down to examine the lock, Tika leaned against a wall, weari
ly closing her eyes. Blood beat in her head, the muscles in her legs knotted in painful spasms. Exhausted, she tasted the bitter salt of tears in her mouth and realized she was sobbing in pain and anger and frustration.

  “Don’t, Tika!” Tas said, hurrying back to pat her hand. “It’s a simple lock. I can get us out of here in no time. Don’t cry, Tika. It’ll only take me a little while, but you ought to be ready for those draconians if they come. Just keep them busy—”

  “Right,” Tika said, swallowing her tears. Hurriedly she wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then, sword in hand, she turned to face the corridor behind them while Tas took another look at the lock.

  It was a simple, simple lock, he saw with satisfaction, guarded by such a simple trap he wondered why they even bothered.

  Wondered why they even bothered … Simple lock … simple trap … The words rang in his mind. They were familiar! He’d thought them before.… Staring up at the doors in astonishment, Tas realized he’d been here before! But no, that was impossible.

  Shaking his head irritably, Tas fumbled in his pouch for his tools. Then he stopped. Cold fear gripped the kender and shook him like a dog shakes a rat, leaving him limp.

  The dream!

  These had been the doors he saw in the Silvanesti dream! This had been the lock. The simple, simple lock with the simple trap! And Tika had been behind him, fighting … dying.…

  “Here they come, Tas!” Tika called, gripping her sword in sweating hands. She cast him a quick glance over her shoulder. “What are you doing? What are you waiting for?”

  Tas couldn’t answer. He could hear the draconians now, laughing in their harsh voices as they took their time reaching their captives, certain the prisoners weren’t going anyplace. They rounded the corner and Tas heard their laughter grow louder when they saw Tika holding the sword.