“Lean on me, my brother,” he said softly.
The vast vaulted ceiling of the Hall of Audience split wide. Huge blocks of stone crashed down into the Hall, crushing everything that lived beneath them. Instantly the chaos in the Hall degenerated into terror-stricken panic. Ignoring the stern commands of their leaders, who reinforced these commands with whips and sword thrusts, the draconians fought to escape the destruction of the Temple, brutally slaughtering anyone—including their own comrades—who got in their way. Occasionally some extremely powerful Dragon Highlord would manage to keep his bodyguard under control and escape. But several fell, cut down by their own troops, crushed by falling rock, or trampled to death.
Tanis fought his way through the chaos and suddenly saw what he had prayed the gods to find, a head of golden hair that gleamed in Solinari’s light like a candle flame.
“Laurana!” he cried, though he knew he could not be heard in the tumult. Frantically he slashed his way toward her. A flying splinter of rock tore into one cheek. Tanis felt warm blood flow down his neck, but the blood, the pain had no reality and he soon forgot about it as he clubbed and stabbed and kicked the milling draconians in his struggle to reach her. Time and again, he drew near her, only to be carried away by a surge in the crowd.
She was standing near the door to one of the antechambers, fighting draconians, wielding Kitiara’s sword with the skill gained in long months of war. He almost reached her as—her enemies defeated—she stood alone for a moment.
“Laurana, wait!” he shouted above the chaos.
She heard him. Looking over at him, across the moonlit room, he saw her eyes calm, her gaze unwavering.
“Farewell, Tanis,” Laurana called to him in elven. “I owe you my life, but not my soul.”
With that, she turned and left him, stepping through the doorway of the antechamber, vanishing into the darkness beyond.
A piece of the Temple ceiling crashed to the stone floor, showering Tanis with debris. For a moment, he stood wearily, staring after her. Blood dripped into one eye. Absently he wiped it away, then, suddenly, he began to laugh. He laughed until tears mingled with the blood. Then he pulled himself together and, gripping his blood-stained sword, disappeared into the darkness after her.
“This is the corridor they went down, Raist—Raistlin.” Caramon stumbled over his brother’s name. Somehow, the old nickname no longer seemed to suit this black-robed, silent figure.
They stood beside the jailor’s desk, near the body of the hobgoblin. Around them, the walls were acting crazily, shifting, crumbling, twisting, rebuilding. The sight filled Caramon with vague horror, like a nightmare he could not remember. So he kept his eyes fixed firmly on his brother, his hand clutched Raistlin’s thin arm thankfully. This, at least was flesh and blood, reality in the midst of a terrifying dream.
“Do you know where it leads?” Caramon asked, peering down the eastern corridor.
“Yes,” Raistlin replied without expression.
Caramon felt fear clutch at him. “You know … something’s happened to them—”
“They were fools,” Raistlin said bitterly. “The dream warned them”—he glanced at his brother—“as it warned others. Still, I may be in time, but we must hurry. Listen!”
Caramon glanced up the stairwell. Above him he could hear the sounds of clawed feet racing to stop the escape of the hundreds of prisoners set free by the collapse of the dungeons. Caramon put his hand on his sword.
“Stop it,” Raistlin snapped. “Think a moment! You’re dressed in armor still. They’re not interested in us. The Dark Queen is gone. They obey her no longer. They are only after booty for themselves. Keep beside me. Walk steadily, with purpose.”
Drawing a deep breath, Caramon did as he was told. He had regained some of his strength and was able to walk without his brother’s help now. Ignoring the draconians—who took one look at them, then surged past—the two brothers made their way down the corridor. Here the walls still changed their shapes, the ceiling shook, and the floors heaved. Behind them they could hear ghastly yells as the prisoners fought for their freedom.
“At least no one will be guarding this door,” Raistlin reflected, pointing ahead.
“What do you mean?” Caramon asked, halting and staring at his brother in alarm.
“It’s trapped,” Raistlin whispered. “Remember the dream?”
Turning deathly pale, Caramon dashed down the corridor toward the door. Shaking his hooded head, Raistlin followed slowly after. Rounding the corner, he found his brother crouching beside two bodies on the floor.
“Tika!” Caramon moaned. Brushing back the red curls from the still, white face, he felt for the lifebeat in her neck. His eyes closed a moment in thankfulness, then he reached out to touch the kender. “And Tas … No!”
Hearing his name, the kender’s eyes opened slowly, as if the lids were too heavy for him to lift.
“Caramon …” Tas said in a broken whisper. “I’m sorry.…”
“Tas!” Caramon gently gathered the small, feverish body into his big arms. Holding him close, he rocked him back and forth. “Shh, Tas, don’t talk.”
The kender’s body twitched in convulsions. Glancing around in heartbroken sorrow, Caramon saw Tasslehoff’s pouches lying on the floor, their contents scattered like toys in a child’s playroom. Tears filled Caramon’s eyes.
“I tried to save her …” Tas whispered, shuddering with pain, “but I couldn’t.…”
“You saved her, Tas!” Caramon said, choking. “She’s not dead. Just hurt. She’ll be fine.”
“Really?” Tas’s eyes, burning with fever, brightened with a calmer light, then dimmed. “I’m—I’m afraid I’m not fine, Caramon. But—but it’s all right, really. I—I’m going to see Flint. He’s waiting for me. He shouldn’t be out there, by himself. I don’t know how … he could have left without me anyway.…”
“What’s the matter with him?” Caramon asked his brother as Raistlin bent swiftly over the kender, whose voice had trailed off into incoherent babbling.
“Poison,” said Raistlin, his eyes glancing at the golden needle shining in the torchlight. Reaching out, Raistlin gently pushed on the door. The lock gave and the door turned on its hinges, opening a crack.
Outside, they could hear shrieks and cries as the soldiers and slaves of Neraka fled the dying Temple. The skies above resounded with the roars of dragons. The Highlords battled among themselves to see who would come out on top in this new world. Listening, Raistlin smiled to himself.
His thoughts were interrupted by a hand clutching his arm.
“Can you help him?” Caramon demanded.
Raistlin flicked a glance at the dying kender. “He is very far gone,” the mage said coldly. “It will sap some of my strength, and we are not out of this yet, my brother.”
“But you can save him?” Caramon persisted. “Are you powerful enough?”
“Of course,” Raistlin replied, shrugging.
Tika stirred and sat up, clutching her aching head. “Caramon!” she cried happily, then her gaze fell upon Tas. “Oh, no …” she whispered. Forgetting her pain, she laid her blood-stained hand upon the kender’s forehead. The kender’s eyes flared open at her touch, but he did not recognize her. He cried out in agony.
Over his cries, they could hear the sound of clawed feet, running down the corridor.
Raistlin looked at his brother. He saw him holding Tas in the big hands that could be so gentle.
Thus he has held me, Raistlin thought. His eyes went to the kender. Vivid memories of their younger days, of carefree adventuring with Flint … now dead. Sturm, dead. Days of warm sunshine, of the green budding leaves on the vallenwoods of Solace … Nights in the Inn of the Last Home … now blacked and crumbling, the vallenwoods burned and destroyed.
“This is my final debt,” Raistlin said. “Paid in full.” Ignoring the look of thankfulness that flooded Caramon’s face, he instructed, “Lay him down. You must deal with the draconians. Thi
s spell will take all my concentration. Do not allow them to interrupt me.”
Gently Caramon laid Tas down on the floor in front of Raistlin. The kender’s eyes had fixed in his head, his body was stiffening in its convulsive struggles. His breath rattled in his throat.
“Remember, my brother,” Raistlin said coldly as he reached into one of the many secret pockets in his black robes, “you are dressed as a dragonarmy officer. Be subtle, if possible.”
“Right.” Caramon gave Tas a final glance, then drew a deep breath. “Tika,” he said, “stay still. Pretend you’re unconscious—”
Tika nodded and lay back down, obediently closing her eyes. Raistlin heard Caramon clanking down the corridor, he heard his brother’s loud, booming voice, then the mage forgot his brother, forgot the approaching draconians, forgot everything as he concentrated upon his spell.
Removing a luminous white pearl from an inner pocket, Raistlin held it firmly in one hand while he took out a gray-green leaf from another. Prizing the kender’s clenched jaws open, Raistlin placed the leaf beneath Tasslehoff’s swollen tongue. The mage studied the pearl for a moment, calling to mind the complex words of the spell, reciting them to himself mentally until he was certain he had them in their proper order and knew the correct pronounciation of each. He would have one chance, and one chance only. If he failed, not only would the kender die, but he might very well die himself.
Placing the pearl upon his own chest, over his heart, Raistlin closed his eyes and began to repeat the words of the spell, chanting the lines six times, making the proper changes in inflection each time. With a thrill of ecstasy, he felt the magic flow through his body, drawing out a part of his own life force, capturing it within the pearl.
The first part of the spell complete, Raistlin held the pearl poised above the kender’s heart. Closing his eyes once more, he recited the complex spell again, this time backward. Slowly he crushed the pearl in his hand, scattering the iridescent powder over Tasslehoff’s rigid body. Raistlin came to an end. Wearily he opened his eyes and watched in triumph as the lines of pain faded from the kender’s features, leaving them filled with peace.
Tas’s eyes flew open.
“Raistlin! I—plooey!” Tas spit out the green leaf. “Yick! What kind of nasty thing was that? And how did it get into my mouth?” Tas sat up dizzily, then he saw his pouches. “Hey! Who’s been messing with my stuff?” Glancing up at the mage accusingly, his eyes opened wide. “Raistlin! You have on Black Robes! How wonderful! Can I touch them? Oh, all right. You needn’t glare at me like that. It’s just that they look so soft. Say, does this mean you’re truly bad now? Can you do something evil for me, so I can watch? I know! I saw a wizard summon a demon once. Could you do that? Just a small demon? You could send him right back. No?” Tas sighed in disappointment. “Well—hey, Caramon, what are those draconians doing with you? And what’s the matter with Tika? Oh, Caramon, I—”
“Shut up!” Caramon roared. Scowling ferociously at the kender, he pointed at Tas and Tika. “The mage and I were bringing these prisoners to our Highlord when they turned on us. They’re valuable slaves, the girl especially. And the kender is a clever thief. We don’t want to lose them. They’ll fetch a high price in the market in Sanction. Since the Dark Queen’s gone, it’s every man for himself, eh?”
Caramon nudged one of the draconians in the ribs. The creature snarled in agreement, its black reptilian eyes fastened greedily on Tika.
“Thief!” shouted Tas indignantly, his shrill voice ringing through the corridor. “I’m—” He gulped, suddenly falling silent as a supposedly comatose Tika gave him a swift poke in the ribs.
“I’ll help the girl,” Caramon said, glaring at the leering draconian. “You keep an eye on the kender and, you over there, help the mage. His spellcasting has left him weak.”
Bowing with respect before Raistlin, one of the draconians helped him to his feet. “You two”—Caramon was marshaling the rest of his troops—“go before us and see that we don’t have any trouble reaching the edge of town. Maybe you can come with us to Sanction—” Caramon continued, lifting Tika to her feet. Shaking her head, she pretended to regain consciousness.
The draconians grinned in agreement as one of them grabbed hold of Tas by the collar and shoved him toward the door.
“But my things!” wailed Tas, twisting around.
“Keep moving!” Caramon growled.
“Oh, well,” the kender sighed, his eyes lingering fondly on his precious possessions lying scattered on the bloodstained floor. “This probably isn’t the end of my adventuring. And—after all—empty pockets hold more, as my mother used to say.”
Stumbling along behind the two draconians, Tas looked up into the starry heavens. “I’m sorry, Flint,” he said softly. “Just wait for me a little longer.”
13
Kitiara.
As Tanis entered the antechamber, the change was so startling that for a minute it was almost incomprehensible. One moment he had been fighting to stand on his feet in the midst of a mob, the next he was in a cool dark room, similar to the one he and Kitiara and her troops had waited in before entering the Hall of Audience.
Glancing around swiftly, he saw he was alone. Although every instinct urged him to rush out of this room in his frantic search, Tanis forced himself to stop, catch his breath, and wipe away the blood gumming his eye shut. He tried to remember what he had seen of the entry into the Temple. The antechambers that formed a circle around the main Hall of Audience were themselves connected to the front part of the temple by a series of winding corridors. Once, long ago in Istar, these corridors must have been designed in some sort of logical order. But the distortion of the Temple had twisted them into a meaningless maze. Corridors ended abruptly when he expected them to continue, while those that led nowhere seemingly went on forever.
The ground rocked beneath his feet as dust drifted down from the ceiling. A painting fell from the wall with a crash. Tanis had no idea of where Laurana might be found. He had seen her come in here, that was all.
She had been imprisoned in the Temple, but that was below ground. He wondered if she had been at all cognizant of her surroundings when they brought her in, if she had any idea how to get out. And then Tanis realized that he himself had only a vague idea of where he was. Finding a torch still burning, he grabbed it and flashed it about the room. A tapestry-covered door swung open, hanging on a broken hinge. Peering through it, he saw it led into a dimly lit corridor.
Tanis caught his breath. He knew, now, how to find her!
A breath of air stirred in the hallway, fresh air—pungent with the odors of spring, cool with the blessed peace of night—touched his left cheek. Laurana must have felt that breath, she would guess that it must lead out of the Temple. Quickly Tanis ran down the hallway, ignoring the pain in his head, forcing his weary muscles to respond to his commands.
A group of draconians appeared suddenly in front of him, coming from another room. Remembering he still wore the dragonarmy uniform, Tanis stopped them.
“The elfwoman!” he shouted. “She must not escape. Have you seen her?”
This group hadn’t, apparently, by the tone of the hurried snarls. Nor had the next group Tanis encountered. But two draconians wandering the halls in search of loot had seen her, so they said. They pointed vaguely in the direction Tanis was already heading. His spirits rose.
By now, the fighting within the Hall had ended. The Dragon Highlords who survived had made good their escapes and were now among their own forces stationed outside the Temple walls. Some fought. Some retreated, waiting to see who came out on top. Two questions were on everyone’s mind. The first—would the dragons remain in the world or would they vanish with their Queen as they had following the Second Dragon War?
And, second—if the dragons remained, who would be their master?
Tanis found himself pondering these questions confusedly as he ran through the halls, sometimes taking wrong turns and cursing bitterly as he co
nfronted a solid wall and was forced to retrace his steps to where he could once again feel the air upon his face.
But eventually he grew too tired to ponder anything. Exhaustion and pain were taking their toll. His legs grew heavy, it was an effort to take a step. His head throbbed, the cut over his eye began to bleed again. The ground shook continually beneath his feet. Statues toppled from their bases, stones fell from the ceiling, showering him with clouds of dust.
He began to lose hope. Even though he was certain he was traveling in the only direction she could possibly have taken, the few draconians he passed now had not seen her. What could have happened? Was she—No, he wouldn’t think of that. He kept going, conscious either of the fragrant breath of air on his face or of smoke billowing past him.
The torches had started fires. The Temple was beginning to burn.
Then, while negotiating a narrow corridor and climbing over a pile of rubble, Tanis heard a sound. He stopped, holding his breath. Yes, there it was again—just ahead. Peering through the smoke and dust, he gripped his sword in his hand. The last group of draconians he had met were drunk and eager to kill. A lone human officer had seemed like fair game, until one of them remembered having seen Tanis with the Dark Lady. But the next time he might not be so lucky.
Before him, the corridor lay in ruins, part of the ceiling having caved in. It was intensely dark—the torch he held provided the only light—and Tanis wrestled with the need for light and the fear of being seen by it. Finally he decided to risk keeping it burning. He would never find Laurana if he had to wander around this place in the darkness.
He would have to trust to his disguise once again.
“Who goes there?” he roared out in a harsh voice, shining his torchlight boldly into the ruined hallway.
He caught a glimpse of flashing armor and a figure running, but it ran away from him, not toward him. Odd for a draconian … his weary brain seemed to be stumbling along about three paces behind him. He could see the figure plainly now, lithe and slender and running much too quickly.…
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