“Riverwind!”
Goldmoon’s cry woke the Plainsman from his terror. Turning, he saw her backing into the forest, keeping the cloaked clerics away with the staff. He grabbed one of the clerics from behind and threw him heavily to the ground. Another jumped at him while a third sprang toward Goldmoon.
There was a blinding blue flash.
A moment ahead of Tanis’s cry, Sturm had realized the clerics had set a trap and drew his sword. He had seen, through the slats of the old wooden cart, a clawed hand grabbing for the staff. Lunging forward, he had gone to back up Riverwind. But the knight was totally unprepared for the Plainsman’s reaction at sight of the creature in the cart. Sturm saw Riverwind stagger backward, helpless, as the creature grabbed a battle-axe in its uninjured hand and sprang directly at the barbarian. Riverwind made no move to defend himself. He just stared, his weapon dangling in his hand.
Sturm plunged his sword into the creature’s back. The thing screamed and whirled around to attack, wrenching the sword from the knight’s hand. Slavering and gurgling in its dying rage, the creature wrapped its arms around the startled knight and bore him into the muddy road. Sturm knew the thing that grasped him was dying and fought to beat down the terror and revulsion he felt at the touch of its slimy skin. The screaming stopped, and he felt the creature go rigid. The knight shoved the body over and quickly started to pull his sword from the creature’s back. The weapon didn’t budge! He stared at it in disbelief, then yanked on the sword with all his might, even putting his booted foot against the body to gain leverage. The weapon was stuck fast. Furious, he beat at the creature with his hands, then drew back in fear and loathing. The thing had turned to stone!
“Caramon!” Sturm yelled as another of the strange clerics leaped toward him, swinging an axe. Sturm ducked, felt a slashing pain, and then was blinded when blood flowed into his eyes. He stumbled, unable to see, and a crushing weight bore him to the ground.
Caramon, standing near the front of the cart, started to go to Goldmoon’s aid when he heard Sturm’s cry. Then two of the creatures bore down on him. Swinging his shortsword to force them to keep their distance, Caramon drew his dagger with his left hand. One cleric jumped for him and Caramon slashed out, his blade biting deep into flesh. He smelled a foul, rotting stench and saw a sickly green stain appear on the cleric’s robes, but the wound appeared just to enrage the creature. It kept coming, saliva dripping from jaws that were the jaws of a reptile—not a man. For a moment, panic engulfed Caramon. He had fought trolls and goblins, but these horrible clerics completely unnerved him. He felt lost and alone, then he heard a reassuring whisper next to him.
“I am here, my brother.” Raistlin’s calm voice filled his mind.
“About time,” Caramon gasped, threatening the creature with his sword. “What sort of foul clerics are these?”
“Don’t stab them!” Raistlin warned swiftly. “They’ll turn to stone. They’re not clerics. They are some sort of reptile man. That is the reason for the robes and hoods.”
Though different as light and shadow, the twins fought well as a team. They exchanged few words during battle, their thoughts merging faster than tongues could translate. Caramon dropped his sword and dagger and flexed his huge arm muscles. The creatures, seeing Caramon drop his weapons, charged forward. Their rags had fallen loose and fluttered about them grotesquely. Caramon grimaced at the sight of the scaled bodies and clawed hands.
“Ready,” he said to his brother.
“Ast tasark simiralan krynawi,” said Raistlin softly, and he threw a handful of sand into the air. The creatures stopped their wild rush, shook their heads groggily as magical sleep stole over them … but then blinked their eyes. Within moments, they had regained their senses and started forward again!
“Magic resistant!” Raistlin murmured in awe. But that brief interlude of near sleep was long enough for Caramon. Encircling their scrawny, reptilian necks with his huge hands, the warrior swept their heads together. The bodies tumbled to the ground—lifeless statues. Caramon looked up to see two more clerics crawling over the stony bodies of their brethren, curved swords gleaming in their wrapped hands.
“Stand behind me,” ordered Raistlin in a hoarse whisper. Caramon reached down and grabbed dagger and sword. He dodged behind his brother, fearful for his twin’s safety, yet knowing Raistlin could not cast his spell if he stood in the way.
Raistlin stared intently at the creatures, who—recognizing a magic-user—slowed and glanced at each other, hesitant to approach. One dropped to the ground and crawled under the cart. The other sprang forward, sword in hand, hoping to impale the mage before his spell was cast, or at least break the concentration that was so necessary to the spellcaster. Caramon bellowed. Raistlin seemed not to hear or see any of them. Slowly he raised his hands. Placing his thumbs together, he spread his thin fingers in a fanlike pattern and spoke, “Kair tangus miopiar.” Magic coursed through his frail body, and the creature was engulfed in flame.
Tanis, recovering from his initial shock, heard Sturm’s yell and crashed through the brush out onto the road. He swung the flat of his sword blade like a club and struck the creature that had Sturm pinned to the ground. The cleric fell over with a shriek and Tanis was able to drag the wounded knight into the brush.
“My sword,” Sturm mumbled, dazed. Blood poured down his face; he tried unsuccessfully to wipe it away.
“We’ll get it,” Tanis promised, wondering how. Looking down the road, he could see more creatures swarming out of the woods and heading toward them. Tanis’s mouth was dry. We’ve got to get out of here, he thought, fighting down panic. He forced himself to pause and draw a deep breath. Then he turned to Flint and Tasslehoff who had run up behind him.
“Stay here and guard Sturm,” he instructed. “I’m going to get everyone together. We’ll head back into the woods.”
Not waiting for an answer, Tanis dashed out into the road, but then the flames from Raistlin’s spell flared out and he was forced to fling himself to the ground.
The cart began to smoke as the straw pallet the creature had been lying on inside caught fire.
“Stay here and guard Sturm. Humpf!” Flint muttered, getting a firm grip on his battle-axe. For the moment, the creatures coming down the road did not seem to notice the dwarf or the kender or the wounded knight lying in the shadows of the trees. Their attention was on the two small knots of battling warriors. But Flint knew it was only a matter of time. He planted his feet more firmly. “Do something for Sturm,” he said to Tas irritably. “Make yourself useful for once.”
“I’m trying,” Tasslehoff replied in a hurt tone. “But I can’t get the bleeding stopped.” He wiped the knight’s eyes with a moderately clean handkerchief. “There, can you see now?” he asked anxiously.
Sturm groaned and tried to sit up, but pain flashed through his head and he sank back. “My sword,” he said.
Tasslehoff looked over to see Sturm’s two-handed weapon sticking out of the back of the stone cleric. “That’s fantastic!” the wide-eyed kender said. “Look, Flint! Sturm’s sword—”
“I know, you fog-brained idiot kender!” Flint roared as he saw a creature running toward them, its blade drawn.
“I’ll just go get it,” Tas said cheerfully to Sturm as he knelt beside him. “I won’t be a moment.”
“No—” Flint yelled, realizing the attacking cleric was out of Tas’s line of vision. The creature’s wicked, curved sword lashed out in a flashing arc, aimed for the dwarf’s neck. Flint swung his axe, but at that moment, Tasslehoff—his eyes on Sturm’s sword—rose to his feet. The kender’s hoopak staff struck the dwarf in the back of the knees, causing Flint’s legs to buckle beneath him. The creature’s sword whistled harmlessly overhead as the dwarf gave a startled yell and fell over backward on top of Sturm.
Tasslehoff, hearing the dwarf shout, looked back, astonished at an odd sight: a cleric was attacking Flint and, for some reason, the dwarf was lying on his back, legs flailing, when
he should have been up fighting.
“What are you doing, Flint?” Tas shouted. He nonchalantly struck the creature in the midsection with his hoopak, struck it again on the head as it toppled forward, and watched it fall to the ground, unconscious.
“There!” he said irritably to Flint. “Do I have to fight your battles for you?” The kender turned and headed back toward Sturm’s sword.
“Fight! For me!” The dwarf, sputtering with rage, struggled wildly to stand up. His helm had slipped over his eyes, blinding him. Flint shoved it back just as another cleric bowled into him, knocking the dwarf off his feet again.
Tanis found Goldmoon and Riverwind standing back to back, Goldmoon fending off the creatures with her staff. Three of them lay dead at her feet, their stony remains blackened from the staff’s blue flame. Riverwind’s sword was caught fast in the guts of another statue. The Plainsman had unslung his only remaining weapon—his short bow—and had an arrow nocked and ready. The creatures were, for the moment, hanging back, discussing their strategy in low, indecipherable tones. Knowing they must rush the Plainsmen in a moment, Tanis leaped toward them and smote one of the creatures from behind, using the flat of his sword, then made a backhand swing at another.
“Come on!” he shouted to the Plainsmen. “This way!”
Some of the creatures turned at this new attack; others hesitated. Riverwind fired an arrow and felled one, then he grabbed Goldmoon’s hand and together they ran toward Tanis, jumping over the stone bodies of their victims.
Tanis let them get past him, fending off the creatures with the flat of his sword. “Here, take this dagger!” he shouted to Riverwind as the barbarian ran by. Riverwind grabbed it, reversed it, and struck one of the creatures in the jaw. Jabbing upward with the hilt, he broke its neck. There was another flash of blue flame as Goldmoon used her staff to knock another creature out of the way. Then they were into the woods.
The wooden cart was burning fiercely now. Peering through the smoke, Tanis caught glimpses of the road. A shiver ran through him as he saw dark winged forms floating to the ground about a half mile away on either side of them. The road was cut off in both directions. They were trapped unless they escaped into the woods immediately.
He reached the place where he had left Sturm. Goldmoon and Riverwind were there, so was Flint. Where was everyone else? He stared around in the thick smoke, blinking back tears.
“Help Sturm,” he told Goldmoon. Then he turned to Flint, who was trying unsuccessfully to yank his axe out of the chest of a stone creature. “Where are Caramon and Raistlin? And where’s Tas? I told him to stay here—”
“Blasted kender nearly got me killed!” Flint exploded. “I hope they carry him off! I hope they use him for dog meat! I hope—”
“In the name of the gods!” Tanis swore in exasperation. He made his way through the smoke toward where he had last seen Caramon and Raistlin and stumbled across the kender, dragging Sturm’s sword back along the road. The weapon was nearly as big as Tasslehoff and he couldn’t lift it, so he was dragging it through the mud.
“How did you get that?” Tanis asked in amazement, coughing in the thick smoke that boiled around them.
Tas grinned, tears streaming down his face from the smoke in his eyes. “The creature turned to dust,” he said happily. “Oh, Tanis, it was wonderful. I walked up and pulled on the sword and it wouldn’t come out, so I pulled again and—”
“Not now! Get back to the others!” Tanis grabbed the kender and shoved him forward. “Have you seen Caramon and Raistlin?”
But just then he heard the warrior’s voice boom out of the smoke. “Here we are,” Caramon panted. He had his arm around his brother, who was coughing uncontrollably. “Have we destroyed them all?” the big man asked cheerfully.
“No, we haven’t,” Tanis replied grimly. “In fact, we’ve got to get away through the woods to the south.” He put his arm around Raistlin and together they hurried back to where the others were huddled by the road, choking in the smoke, yet thankful for its enveloping cover.
Sturm was on his feet, his face pale, but the pain in his head was gone and the wound had quit bleeding.
“The staff healed him?” Tanis asked Goldmoon.
She coughed. “Not completely. Enough so that he can walk.”
“It has … limits,” Raistlin said, wheezing.
“Yes—” Tanis interrupted. “Well, we’re heading south, into the woods.”
Caramon shook his head. “That’s Darken Wood—” he began.
“I know—you’d rather fight the living,” Tanis interrupted. “How do you feel about that now?”
The warrior did not answer.
“More of those creatures are coming from both directions. We can’t fight off another assault. But we won’t enter Darken Wood if we don’t have to. There’s a game trail not far from here we can use to reach Prayer’s Eye Peak. There we can see the road to the north, as well as all other directions.”
“We could go north as far as the cave. The boat’s hidden there.” Riverwind suggested.
“No!” yelled Flint in a strangled voice. Without another word, the dwarf turned and plunged into the forest, running south as fast as his short legs could carry him.
9
Flight! The white stag.
The companions stumbled through the thick woods as fast as they could and soon reached the game trail. Caramon took the lead, sword in hand, eyeing every shadow. His brother followed, one hand on Caramon’s shoulder, his lips set in grim determination. The rest came after, their weapons drawn.
But they saw no more of the creatures.
“Why aren’t they chasing us?” Flint asked after they had traveled about an hour.
Tanis scratched his beard—he had been wondering about the same thing. “They don’t need to,” he said finally. “We are trapped. They’ve undoubtedly blocked all the exits from this forest. With the exception of Darken Wood …”
“Darken Wood!” Goldmoon repeated softly. “Is it truly necessary to go that way?”
“It may not be,” Tanis said. “We’ll get a look around from Prayer’s Eye Peak.”
Suddenly they heard Caramon, walking ahead of them, shout. Running forward, Tanis found Raistlin had collapsed.
“I’ll be all right,” the mage whispered. “But I must rest.”
“We can all use rest,” Tanis said.
No one answered. All sank down wearily, catching their breath in quick, sharp gasps. Sturm closed his eyes and leaned against a moss-covered rock. His face was a ghastly shade of grayish white. Blood had matted his long moustaches and caked his hair. The wound was a jagged slash, turning slowly purple. Tanis knew that the knight would die before he said a word of complaint.
“Don’t worry,” Sturm said harshly. “Just give me a moment’s peace.” Tanis gripped the knight’s hand briefly, then went to sit beside Riverwind.
Neither spoke for long minutes, then Tanis asked, “You’ve fought those creatures before, haven’t you?”
“In the broken city.” Riverwind shuddered. “It all came back to me when I looked inside the cart and saw that thing leering at me! At least—” He paused, shook his head. Then he gave Tanis a half-smile. “At least I know now that I’m not going insane. Those horrible creatures really do exist—I had wondered sometimes.”
“I can imagine,” Tanis murmured. “So these creatures are spreading all over Krynn, unless your broken city was near here.”
“No. I came into Que-shu out of the east. It was far from Solace, beyond the Plains of my homeland.”
“What do you suppose those creatures meant, saying they had tracked you to our village?” Goldmoon asked slowly, laying her cheek on his leather tunic sleeve, slipping her hand around his arm.
“Don’t worry,” Riverwind said, taking her hand in his. “The warriors there would deal with them.”
“Riverwind, do you remember what you were going to say?” she prompted.
“Yes, you are right,” Riverwin
d replied, stroking her silver-gold hair. He looked at Tanis and smiled. For an instant, the expressionless mask was gone and Tanis saw warmth deep within the man’s brown eyes. “I give my thanks to you, Half-Elven, and to all of you.” His glance flickered over everyone. “You have saved our lives more than once and I have been ungrateful. But”—he paused—“it’s all so strange!”
“It’s going to get stranger.” Raistlin’s voice was ominous.
The companions were drawing nearer Prayer’s Eye Peak. They had been able to see it from the road, rising above the forests. Its split peak looked like two hands pressed together in prayer—thus the name. The rain had stopped. The woods were deathly quiet. The companions began to think that the forest animals and birds had vanished from the land, leaving an eerie, empty silence behind. All of them felt uneasy—except perhaps Tasslehoff, and kept peering over their shoulders or drawing their swords at shadows.
Sturm insisted on walking rear guard, but he began lagging behind as the pain in his head increased. He was becoming dizzy and nauseated. Soon he lost all conception of where he was and what he was doing. He knew only that he must keep walking, placing one foot in front of the other, moving forward like one of Tas’s automatons.
How did Tas’s story go? Sturm tried to remember it through a haze of pain. These automatons served a wizard who had summoned a demon to carry the kender away. It was nonsense, like all the kender’s stories. Sturm put one foot in front of the other. Nonsense. Like the old man’s stories—the old man in the Inn. Stories of the White Stag and ancient gods—Paladine. Stories of Huma. Sturm clasped his hands on his throbbing temples as if he could hold his splitting head together. Huma …
As a boy, Sturm had fed on stories of Huma. His mother, daughter of a Knight of Solamnia, married to a Knight—had known no other stories to tell her son. Sturm’s thoughts turned to his mother, his pain making him think of her tender ministrations when he was sick or hurt. Sturm’s father had sent his wife and their son into exile because the boy—his only heir—was a target for those who would see the Knights of Solamnia banished forever from the face of Krynn. Sturm and his mother took refuge in Solace. Sturm made friends readily, particularly with one other boy, Caramon, who shared his interest in all things military. But Sturm’s proud mother considered the people beneath her. And so, when the fever consumed her, she had died alone except for her teenage son. She had commended the boy to his father—if his father still lived, which Sturm was beginning to doubt.
Dragons of Autumn Twilight Page 10