Dragons of Autumn Twilight

by Margaret Weis

  “No, not evil. Certainly not,” Tasslehoff said hurriedly. “It’s kind of a long story, you see, but we’re obviously not going anywhere in a big hurry and you’re obviously not either, so I’ll tell it to you.

  “To begin with, we were in the Inn of the Last Home in Solace. You probably don’t know it. I’m not sure how long it’s been there, but it wasn’t around during the Cataclysm and it sounds like you were. Well, there we were, listening to the old man talking of Huma and he—the old man, not Huma—told Goldmoon to sing her song and she said what song and then she sang and a Seeker decided to be a music critic and Riverwind, that’s the tall man over there—shoved the Seeker into the fire. It was an accident—he didn’t mean to. But the Seeker went up like a torch! You should have seen it! Anyway, the old man handed me the staff and said hit him and I did and the staff turned to blue crystal and the flames died and—”

  “Blue crystal!” The spectre’s voice echoed hollowly from Raistlin’s throat as he began to walk toward them. Tanis and Sturm both jumped forward, grabbing Tas and dragging him out of the way. But the spectre seemed intent only on examining the group. His flickering eyes focused on Goldmoon. Raising a pale hand, he motioned her forward.

  “No!” Riverwind tried to prevent her from leaving his side, but she pushed away gently and walked over to stand before the spectre, the staff in her hand. The ghostly army encircled them.

  Suddenly the spectre drew his sword from its pallid sheath. He held it high overhead and white light tinged with blue flame flickered from the blade.

  “Look at the staff!” Goldmoon gasped.

  The staff glowed pale blue, as if answering the sword.

  The ghostly king turned to Raistlin and reached his pale hand toward the entranced mage. Caramon gave a hoarse bellow and broke free of Tanis’s grip. Drawing his sword, he lunged at the undead warrior. The blade pierced the flickering body, but it was Caramon who screamed in pain and dropped, writhing, to the ground. Tanis and Sturm knelt beside him. Raistlin stared ahead, his expression unchanged, unmoving.

  “Caramon, where—” Tanis held him, trying frantically to see where the big man was injured.

  “My hand!” Caramon rocked back and forth, sobbing, his left hand—his sword hand—thrust tightly under his right arm.

  “What’s the matter?” Tanis asked. Then, seeing the warrior’s sword on the ground, he knew: Caramon’s sword was rimed with frost.

  Tanis looked up in horror and saw the spectre’s hand close tightly around Raistlin’s wrist. A shudder wracked the mage’s frail body; his face twisted in pain, but he did not fall. The mage’s eyes closed, the lines of cynicism and bitterness smoothed away and the peace of death descended on him. Tanis watched in awe, only partially aware of Caramon’s hoarse cries. He saw Raistlin’s face transform again, this time imbued with ecstasy. The mage’s aura of power intensified until it glowed around him with an almost palpable brilliance.

  “We are summoned,” Raistlin said. The voice was his own and yet like none Tanis had ever heard him use. “We must go.”

  The mage turned his back on them and walked into the woods, the ghostly king’s fleshless hand still grasping his wrist. The circle of undead parted to let him pass.

  “Stop them,” Caramon moaned. He staggered to his feet.

  “We can’t!” Tanis fought to restrain him, and finally the big man collapsed in the half-elf’s arms, weeping like a child. “We’ll follow him. He’ll be all right. He’s magi, Caramon—we can’t understand. We’ll follow—”

  The eyes of the undead flickered with an unholy light as they watched the companions pass them and enter the forest. The spectral army closed ranks behind them.

  The companions stepped into a raging battle. Steel rang; wounded men shrieked for help. So real was the clash of armies in the darkness that Sturm drew his sword reflexively. The tumult deafened him; he ducked and dodged unseen blows that he knew were aimed at him. He swung his sword in desperation at black air, knowing that he was doomed and there was no escape. He began to run, and he suddenly stumbled out of the forest into a barren, wasted glade. Raistlin stood before him, alone.

  The mage’s eyes were closed. He sighed gently, then collapsed to the ground. Sturm ran to him, then Caramon appeared, nearly knocking Sturm over to reach his brother and gather him tenderly in his arms. One by one, the others ran as if driven into the glade. Raistlin was still murmuring strange, unfamiliar words. The spectres vanished.

  “Raist!” Caramon sobbed brokenly.

  The mage’s eyelids flickered and opened. “The spell … drained me.…” he whispered. “I must rest.…”

  “And rest ye shall!” boomed a voice—a living voice!

  Tanis breathed a sigh of relief even as he put his hand on his sword. Quickly he and the others jumped protectively in front of Raistlin, turning to face outward, staring into the darkness. Then the silver moon appeared, suddenly, as if a hand had produced it from beneath a black silk scarf. Now they could see the head and shoulders of a man standing amid the trees. His bare shoulders were as large and heavy as Caramon’s. A mane of long hair curled around his neck; his eyes were bright and glittered coldly. The companions heard a rustling in the brush and saw the flash of a spear tip being raised, pointing at Tanis.

  “Put thy puny weapons down,” the man warned. “Ye be surrounded and have not a chance.”

  “A trick,” Sturm growled, but even as he spoke there was a tremendous crashing and cracking of tree limbs. More men appeared, surrounding them, all armed with spears that glinted in the moonlight.

  The first man strode forward then, and the companions stared in amazement, their hands on their weapons going slack.

  The man wasn’t a man at all, but a centaur! Human from the waist up, he had the body of a horse from the waist down. He cantered forward with easy grace, powerful muscles rippling across his barrel chest. Other centaurs moved into the path at his commanding gesture. Tanis sheathed his sword. Flint sneezed.

  “Thee must come with us,” the centaur ordered.

  “My brother is ill,” Caramon growled. “He can’t go anywhere.”

  “Place him upon my back,” the centaur said coolly. “In fact, if any of you be tired, thee may ride to where we go.”

  “Where are you taking us?” Tanis asked.

  “Thee is in no position to ask questions.” The centaur reached out and prodded Caramon’s back with his spear. “We travel far and fast. I suggest thee ride. But fear not.” He bowed before Goldmoon, extending his foreleg and touching his hand to his shaggy hair. “Harm will not come to thee this night.”

  “Can I ride, Tanis, please?” begged Tasslehoff.

  “Don’t trust them!” Flint sneezed violently.

  “I don’t trust them,” Tanis muttered, “but we don’t seem to have a whole lot of choice in the matter—Raistlin can’t walk. Go on, Tas. The rest of you, too.”

  Caramon, scowling at the centaurs suspiciously, lifted his brother in his arms and set him upon the back of one of the half-man, half-animals. Raistlin slumped forward weakly.

  “Climb up,” the centaur said to Caramon. “I can bear the weight of thee both. Thy brother will need thy support, for we ride swiftly tonight.”

  Flushing with embarrassment, the big warrior clambered onto the centaur’s broad back, his huge legs dangling almost to the ground. He put an arm around Raistlin as the centaur galloped down the path. Tasslehoff, giggling with excitement, jumped onto a centaur and promptly slid off the other side into the mud. Sturm, sighing, picked up the kender and set him on the centaur’s back. Then, before Flint could protest, the knight lifted the dwarf up behind Tas. Flint tried to speak but could only sneeze as the centaur moved away. Tanis rode with the first centaur, who seemed to be the leader.

  “Where are you taking us?” Tanis asked again.

  “To the Forestmaster,” the centaur answered.

  “The Forestmaster?” Tanis repeated. “Who is he, one like yourselves?”

  “
She is the Forestmaster,” the centaur replied and began to canter down the trail.

  Tanis started to ask another question, but the centaur’s quickened pace jolted him, and he nearly bit through his tongue as he came down hard on the centaur’s back. Feeling himself start to slide backward as the centaur trotted faster and faster, Tanis threw his arms around the centaur’s broad torso.

  “Nay, thee doesn’t need to squeeze me in two!” The centaur glanced back, his eyes glittering in the moonlight. “It be my job to see thee stays on. Relax. Put thy hands on me rump to balance thyself. There, now. Grip with thy legs.”

  The centaurs left the trail and plunged into the forest. The moonlight was immediately swallowed up by the dense trees. Tanis felt branches whip past, swiping at his clothing. The centaur never swerved or slowed in his gallop, however, and Tanis could only assume he knew the trail well, a trail the halfelf couldn’t see.

  Soon the pace began to slacken and the centaur finally came to a stop. Tanis could see nothing in the smothering darkness. He knew his companions were near only because he could hear Raistlin’s shallow breathing, Caramon’s jingling armor, and Flint’s unabated sneezing. Even the light from Raistlin’s staff had died.

  “A powerful magic is laid on this forest,” the mage whispered weakly when Tanis asked him about it. “This magic dispels all others.”

  Tanis’s uneasiness grew. “Why are we stopping?”

  “Because thee art here. Dismount,” the centaur ordered gruffly.

  “Where is here?” Tanis slid off the centaur’s broad back onto the ground. He stared around him but could see nothing. Apparently the trees kept even the smallest glimmer of moonlight or starlight from penetrating through to the trail.

  “Thee stands in the center of Darken Wood,” the centaur replied. “And now I bid thee farewell—or fare evil, depending on how the Forestmaster judges thee.”

  “Wait a minute!” Caramon called out angrily. “You can’t just leave us here in the middle of this forest, blind as newborn kittens—”

  “Stop them!” Tanis ordered, reaching for his sword. But his weapon was gone. An explosive oath from Sturm indicated the knight had discovered the same thing.

  The centaur chuckled. Tanis heard hooves beat into soft earth and tree branches rustled. The centaurs were gone.

  “Good riddance!” Flint sneezed.

  “Are we all here?” Tanis asked, reaching out his hand and feeling Sturm’s strong, reassuring grasp.

  “I’m here,” piped Tasslehoff. “Oh, Tanis, wasn’t it wonderful? I—”

  “Hush, Tas!” Tanis snapped. “The Plainsmen?”

  “We’re here,” said Riverwind grimly. “Weaponless.”

  “No one has a weapon?” Tanis asked. “Not that it would do us much good in this cursed blackness,” he amended bitterly.

  “I have my staff,” Goldmoon’s low voice said softly.

  “And a formidable weapon that is, daughter of Que-shu,” came a deep voice. “A weapon for good, intended to combat illness and injury and disease.” The unseen voice grew sad. “In these times it will also be used as a weapon against the evil creatures who seek to find and banish it from the world.”

  11

  The Forestmaster.

  A peaceful interlude.

  Who are you?” Tanis called. “Show yourself!”

  “We will not harm you,” bluffed Caramon.

  “Of course you won’t.” Now the deep voice was amused. “You have no weapons. I will return them when the time is propitious. No one brings weapons into Darken Wood, not even a knight of Solamnia. Do not fear, noble knight. I recognize your blade as ancient and most valuable! I will keep it safe. Forgive this apparent lack of trust, but even the great Huma laid the Dragonlance at my feet.”

  “Huma!” Sturm gasped. “Who are you?”

  “I am the Forestmaster.” Even as the deep voice spoke, the darkness parted. A gasp of awe, gentle as a spring wind, swept the company as they stared before them. Silver moonlight shone brightly on a high rock ledge. Standing on the ledge was a unicorn. She regarded them coolly, her intelligent eyes gleaming with infinite wisdom.

  The unicorn’s beauty pierced the heart. Goldmoon felt swift tears spring to her eyes and she was forced to close them against the animal’s magnificent radiance. Her fur was the silver of moonlight, her horn was shining pearl, her mane like seafoam. The head might have been sculpted from glistening marble, but no human or even dwarven hand could capture the elegance and grace that lived in the fine lines of the powerful neck and muscular chest. The legs were strong but delicate, the hooves small and cloven like those of a goat. In later days, when Goldmoon walked dark paths and her heart was bleak with despair and hopelessness, she had only to shut her eyes and remember the unicorn to find comfort.

  The unicorn tossed her head and then lowered it in grave welcome. The companions, feeling awkward and clumsy and confused, bowed in return. The unicorn suddenly whirled and left the rock ledge, cantering down the rocks toward them.

  Tanis, feeling a spell lifted from him, looked around. The bright silver moonlight lit a sylvan glade. Tall trees surrounded them like giant, beneficent guardians. The half-elf was aware of a deep abiding sense of peace here. But there was also a waiting sadness.

  “Rest yourselves,” the Forestmaster said as she came among them. “You are tired and hungry. Food will be brought and fresh water for cleansing. You may put aside your watchfulness and fears for this evening. Safety exists here, if it exists anywhere in this land tonight.”

  Caramon, his eyes lighting up at the mention of food, eased his brother to the ground. Raistlin sank into the grass against the trunk of a tree. His face was deathly pale in the silver moonlight, but his breathing was easy. He did not seem ill so much as just terribly exhausted. Caramon sat next to him, looking around for food. Then he heaved a sigh.

  “Probably more berries anyway,” the warrior said unhappily to Tanis. “I crave meat—roasted deer haunch, a nice sizzling bit of rabbit—”

  “Hush,” Sturm remonstrated softly, glancing at the Forestmaster. “She’d probably consider roasting you first!”

  Centaurs came out of the forest bearing a clean, white cloth, which they spread on the grass. Others placed clear crystal globe lights on the cloth, illuminating the forest.

  Tasslehoff stared at the lights curiously. “They’re bug lights!”

  The crystal globes held thousands of tiny bugs, each one having two brightly glowing spots on its back. They crawled around inside the globes, apparently content to explore their surroundings.

  Next, the centaurs brought bowls of cool water and clean white cloths to bathe their faces and hands. The water refreshed their bodies and minds as it washed away the stains of battle. Other centaurs placed chairs, which Caramon stared at dubiously. They were crafted of one piece of wood that curved around the body. They appeared comfortable, except that each chair had only one leg!

  “Please be seated,” said the Forestmaster graciously.

  “I can’t sit in that!” the warrior protested. “I’ll tip over.” He stood at the edge of the tablecloth. “Besides, the tablecloth is spread on the grass. I’ll sit on the grass with it.”

  “Close to the food,” muttered Flint into his beard.

  The others glanced uneasily at the chairs, the strange crystal bug lamps, and the centaurs. The Chieftain’s Daughter, however, knew what was expected of guests. Although the outside world might have considered her people barbarians, Goldmoon’s tribe had strict rules of politeness that must be religiously observed. Goldmoon knew that to keep your host waiting was an insult to both the host and his bounty. She sat down with regal grace. The one-legged chair rocked slightly, adjusting to her height, crafting itself for her alone.

  “Sit at my right hand, warrior,” she said formally, conscious of the many eyes upon them. Riverwind’s face showed no emotion, though he was a ludicrous sight trying to bend his tall body to sit in the seemingly fragile chair. But, once seated, he
leaned back comfortably, almost smiling in disbelieving approval.

  “Thank you all for waiting until I was seated,” Goldmoon said hastily, to cover the others’ hesitation. “You may all sit now.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” began Caramon, folding his arms across his chest. “I wasn’t waiting. I’m not going to sit in these weird chair—” Sturm’s elbow dug sharply into the warrior’s ribs.

  “Gracious lady,” Sturm bowed and sat down with knightly dignity.

  “Well, if he can do it, so can I,” muttered Caramon, his decision hastened by the fact that the centaurs were bringing in food. He helped his brother to a seat and then sat down gingerly, making certain the chair bore his weight.

  Four centaurs positioned themselves at each of the four corners of the huge white cloth spread out upon the ground. They lifted the cloth to the height of a table, then released it. The cloth remained floating in place, its delicately embroidered surface as hard and sturdy as one of the solid tables in the Inn of the Last Home.

  “How splendid! How do they do that?” Tasslehoff cried, peering underneath the cloth. “There’s nothing under there!” he reported, his eyes wide.

  The centaurs laughed uproariously and even the Forestmaster smiled. Next the centaurs laid down plates made of beautifully cut and polished wood. Each guest was given a knife and fork fashioned from the horns of a deer. Platters of hot roasted meat filled the air with a tantalizing smoky aroma. Fragrant loaves of bread and huge wooden bowls of fruit glistened in the soft lamplight.

  Caramon, feeling secure in his chair, rubbed his hands together. Then he grinned broadly and picked up his fork. “Ahhhh!” He sighed in appreciation as one of the centaurs set before him a platter of roasted deer meat. Caramon plunged his fork in, sniffing in rapture at the steam and juice that gushed forth from the meat. Suddenly he realized everyone was staring at him. He stopped and looked around.

  “Wha—?” he asked, blinking. Then his eyes rested on the Forestmaster and he flushed and hurriedly removed his fork. “I … I beg your pardon. This deer must have been someone you knew—I mean—one of your subjects.”