“Deep at that,” he said. He leaned over and peered down into it. “Smells bad, too.”
North of the well stood what appeared to be the only building to have escaped the destruction of the Cataclysm. It was finely constructed of pure white stone, supported by tall, slender columns. Large golden double doors gleamed in the moonlight.
“That was a temple to the ancient gods,” Raistlin said, more to himself than anyone else. But Goldmoon, standing near him, heard his soft whisper.
“A temple?” she repeated, staring at the building. “How beautiful.” She walked toward it, strangely fascinated.
Tanis and the rest searched the grounds and found no other buildings intact. Fluted columns lay on the ground, their broken pieces aligned to show their former beauty. Statues lay broken and, in some cases, grotesquely defaced. Everything was old, so old it made even the dwarf feel young.
Flint sat down on a column. “Well, we’re here.” He blinked at Raistlin and yawned. “What now, mage?”
Raistlin’s thin lips parted, but before he could reply, Tasslehoff yelled, “Draconian!”
Everyone spun around, weapons in their hands. A draconian, ready to move, was glaring at them from the edge of the well.
“Stop it!” Tanis shouted. “It will alert others!”
But before anyone could reach it, the draconian spread its wings and flew into the well. Raistlin, his golden eyes flaring in the moonlight, ran to the well and peered over the edge. Raising his hand as if to cast a spell, he hesitated, then dropped his hand limply to his side. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t think. I can’t concentrate. I must sleep!”
“We’re all tired,” Tanis said wearily. “If something’s down there, it warned it. There’s nothing we can do now. We’ve got to rest.”
“It has gone to warn something,” Raistlin whispered. He huddled in his cloak and stared around, his eyes wide. “Can’t you feel it? Any of you? Half-Elf? Evil about to waken and come forth.”
Silence fell.
Then Tasslehoff climbed up on the stone wall and peered down. “Look! The draconian is floating down, just like a leaf. His wings don’t flap—”
“Be quiet!” Tanis snapped.
Tasslehoff glanced at the half-elf in surprise—Tanis’s voice sounded strained and unnatural. The half-elf was staring at the well, his hands clenching nervously. Everything was still. Too still. The storm clouds massed to the north, but there was no wind. Not a branch creaked, not a leaf stirred. The silver moon and the red cast twin shadows that made things seen from the corner of the eye unreal and distorted.
Then, slowly, Raistlin backed away from the well, raising his hands before him as if to ward off some dreadful danger.
“I feel it, too.” Tanis swallowed. “What is it?”
“Yes, what is it?” Tasslehoff, leaning over, stared eagerly into the well. It looked as deep and dark as the mage’s hourglass eyes.
“Get him away from there!” Raistlin cried.
Tanis, infected by the mage’s fear and his own growing sense that something was terribly wrong, started to run for Tas. Even as he began to move, though, he felt the ground shake beneath his feet. The kender gave a startled cry as the ancient stone wall of the well cracked and gave way beneath him. Tas felt himself sliding into the terrible blackness below him. He scrabbled frantically with his hands and feet, trying to clutch the crumbling rocks. Tanis lunged desperately, but he was too far away.
Riverwind had started moving when he heard Raistlin’s cry, and the tall man’s long, swift strides carried him quickly to the well. Catching hold of Tas by his collar, the Plainsman plucked him from the wall just as the stones and mortar tumbled down into the blackness below.
The ground trembled again. Tanis tried to force his numb mind to figure out what was happening. Then a blast of cold air burst from the well. The wind swept dirt and leaves from the courtyard into the air, stinging his face and eyes.
“Run!” Tanis tried to yell, but he choked on the foul stench erupting from the well.
The columns left standing after the Cataclysm began to shake. The companions stared fearfully at the well. Then Riverwind tore his gaze away. “Goldmoon …” he said, looking around. He dropped Tas to the ground. “Goldmoon!” He stopped as a high-pitched shriek rose from the depths of the well. The sound was so loud and shrill that it pierced the head. Riverwind searched frantically for Goldmoon, calling her name.
Tanis was stunned by the noise. Unable to move, he saw Sturm, hand on his sword, slowly back away from the well. He saw Raistlin—the mage’s ghastly face glistening metallic yellow, his golden eyes red in the red moon’s light—scream something Tanis couldn’t hear. He saw Tasslehoff staring at the well in wide-eyed wonder. Sturm ran across the courtyard, scooped up the kender under one arm, and ran on to the trees. Caramon ran to his exhausted brother, caught him up, and headed for cover. Tanis knew some monstrous evil was coming up out of the well, but he could not move. The words “run, fool, run” screamed in his brain.
Riverwind, too, stayed near the well, fighting the fear that was growing within him: he couldn’t find Goldmoon! Distracted by rescuing the kender from tumbling into the well, he had not seen Goldmoon approach the unbroken temple. He looked around wildly, struggling to keep his balance as the ground shook beneath his feet. The high-pitched shrieking noise, the throbbing and trembling of the ground, brought back hideous, nightmarish memories. “Death on black wings.” He began to sweat and shake, then forced his mind to concentrate on Goldmoon. She needed him; he knew—and he alone knew—that her show of strength only masked her fear, doubt, uncertainty. She would be terribly afraid, and he had to find her.
As the stones of the well began to slide, Riverwind moved away and caught sight of Tanis. The half-elf was shouting and pointing past Riverwind toward the temple. Riverwind knew Tanis was saying something, but he couldn’t hear above the shrieking sound. Then he knew! Goldmoon! Riverwind turned to go to her, but he lost his balance and fell to his knees. He saw Tanis start to run toward him.
Then the horror burst from the well, the horror of his fevered nightmares. Riverwind closed his eyes and saw no more.
It was a dragon.
Tanis, in those first few moments when the blood seemed to drain from his body, leaving him limp and lifeless, looked at the dragon as it burst forth from the well and thought, “How beautiful … how beautiful.…”
Sleek and black, the dragon rose, her glistening wings folded close to her sides, her scales gleaming. Her eyes glowed red-black, the color of molten rock. Her mouth opened in a snarl, teeth flashing white and wicked. Her long, red tongue curled as she breathed the night air. Clear of the well’s confines, the dragon spread her wings, blotting out stars, obliterating moonlight. Each wing was tipped with a pure, white claw that shone blood-red in the light of Lunitari.
Fear such as Tanis had never imagined shriveled his stomach. His heart throbbed painfully; he couldn’t catch his breath. He could only stare in horror and awe and marvel at the creature’s deadly beauty. The dragon circled higher and higher into the night sky. Then, just as Tanis felt the paralyzing fear start to recede, just as he began to fumble for his bow and arrows, the dragon spoke.
One word she said—a word in the language of magic—and a thick, terrible darkness fell from the sky, blinding them all. Tanis instantly lost all grasp on where he was. He only knew there was a dragon above him about to attack. He was powerless to defend himself. All he could do was crouch down, crawl among the rubble, and try desperately to hide.
Deprived of his sense of sight, the half-elf concentrated on his sense of hearing. The shrieking noise had stopped as the darkness fell. Tanis could hear the slow, gentle flap of the dragon’s leathery wings and knew it was circling above them, rising gradually. Then he couldn’t hear even the flapping anymore; the wings had quit beating. He visualized a great, black bird of prey, hovering alone, waiting.
Then there was a very gentle rustling sound, the sound of leaves shi
vering as the wind rises before a storm. The sound grew louder and louder until it was the rushing of wind when the storm hits, and then it was the shrieking of the hurricane. Tanis pressed his body close against the crumbled well and covered his head with his arms.
The dragon was attacking.
She could not see through the darkness she had cast, but Khisanth knew that the intruders were still in the courtyard below. Her minions, the draconians, had warned her that a group walked the land, carrying the blue crystal staff. Lord Verminaard wanted that staff, wanted it kept safe with her, never to be seen in human lands. But she had lost it, and Lord Verminaard had not been pleased. She had to get it back. Therefore, Khisanth had waited an instant before casting her darkness spell, studying the intruders carefully, searching for the staff. Unaware that already it had passed beyond her sight, she was pleased. She had only to destroy.
The attacking dragon dropped from the sky, her leathery wings curving back like the blade of a black dagger. She dove straight for the well, where she had seen the intruders running for their lives. Knowing that they would be paralyzed by dragonfear, Khisanth was certain she could kill them all with one pass. She opened her fanged mouth.
Tanis heard the dragon coming nearer. The great rushing sound grew louder and louder, then stopped for an instant. He could hear huge tendons creaking, lifting and spreading giant wings. Then he heard a great gasping sound as of air being drawn into a gaping throat, then a strange sound that reminded him of steam escaping from a boiling kettle. Something liquid splashed near him. He could hear rocks splitting and cracking and bubbling. Drops of the liquid splashed on his hand, and he gasped as a searing pain penetrated his being.
Then Tanis heard a scream. It was a deep-voiced scream, a man’s scream—Riverwind. So terrible, so agonized was the scream that Tanis dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from adding his own voice to that horrible wail and revealing himself to the dragon. The screaming seemed to go on and on and then it died into a moan. Tanis felt the rush of a large body swoosh past him in the darkness. The stones he pressed his body against shook. Then the tremor of the dragon’s passage sank lower and lower into the depths of the well. Finally the ground was still.
There was silence.
Tanis drew a painful breath and opened his eyes. The darkness was gone. The stars shone; the moons glowed in the sky. For a moment the half-elf could do nothing but breathe and breathe again, trying to calm his shaking body. Then he was on his feet, running toward a dark form lying in the stone courtyard.
Tanis was the first to reach the Plainsman’s body. He took one look, then choked and turned away.
What remained of Riverwind no longer resembled anything human. The man’s flesh had been seared from his body. The white of bone was clearly visible where skin and muscle had melted from his arms. His eyes ran like jelly down the fleshless, cadaverous cheeks. His mouth gaped open in a silent scream. His ribcage lay exposed, hunks of flesh and charred cloth clinging to the bones. But—most horrible—the flesh on his torso had been burned away, leaving the organs exposed, pulsing red in the garish red moonlight.
Tanis sank down, vomiting. The half-elf had seen men die on his sword. He had seen them hacked to pieces by trolls. But this … this was horribly different, and Tanis knew the memory of this would haunt him forever. A strong arm gripped him by the shoulders, offering silent comfort and sympathy and understanding. The nausea passed. Tanis sat back and breathed. He wiped his mouth and nose, then tried to force himself to swallow, gagging painfully.
“You all right?” Caramon asked with concern.
Tanis nodded, unable to speak. Then he turned at the sound of Sturm’s voice.
“May the true gods have mercy! Tanis, he’s still alive! I saw his hand move!” Sturm choked. He could say no more.
Tanis rose to his feet and walked shakily toward the body. One of the charred and blackened hands had risen from the stones, plucking horribly at the air.
“End it!” Tanis said hoarsely, his throat raw from bile. “End it! Sturm—”
The knight had already drawn his sword. Kissing the hilt, he raised the blade to the sky and stood before Riverwind’s body. He closed his eyes and mentally withdrew into an old world where death in battle had been glorious and fine. Slowly and solemnly, he began to recite the ancient Solamnic Death Chant. As he spoke the words that laid hold of the warrior’s soul and transported it to realms of peace beyond, he reversed the blade of the sword and held it poised above Riverwind’s chest.
“Return this man to Huma’s breast
Beyond the wild, impartial skies;
Grant to him a warrior’s rest
And set the last spark of his eyes
Free from the smothering clouds of wars,
Upon the torches of the stars.
Let the last surge of his breath
Take refuge in the cradling air
Above the dreams of ravens, where
Only the hawk remembers death.
Then let his shade to Huma rise,
Beyond the wild, impartial skies.”
The knight’s voice sank.
Tanis felt the peace of the gods wash over him like cool, cleansing water, easing his grief and submerging the horror. Caramon, beside him, wept silently. As they watched, moonlight flashed on the sword blade.
Then a clear voice spoke. “Stop. Bring him to me.”
Both Tanis and Caramon sprang up to stand in front of the man’s tortured body, knowing that Goldmoon must be spared this hideous sight. Sturm, lost in tradition, came back to reality with a start and reversed his killing stroke. Goldmoon stood, a tall, slender shadow silhouetted against the golden, moonlit doors of the temple. Tanis started to speak, but he felt suddenly the cold hand of the mage grip his arm. Shivering, he jerked away from Raistlin’s touch.
“Do as she says,” the mage hissed. “Carry him to her.”
Tanis’s face contorted with fury at the sight of Raistlin’s expressionless face, uncaring eyes.
“Take him to her,” Raistlin said coldly. “It is not for us to choose death for this man. That is for the gods.”
16
A bitter choice.
The greatest gift.
Tanis stared at Raistlin. Not the quiver of an eyelid betrayed his feelings—if the mage had any feelings. Their eyes met and, as always, Tanis felt that the mage saw more than was visible to him. Suddenly Tanis hated Raistlin, hated him with a passion that shocked the half-elf, hated him for not feeling this pain, hated him and envied him at the same time.
“We must do something!” Sturm said harshly. “He’s not dead and the dragon may return!”
“Very well,” Tanis said, his voice catching in his throat. “Wrap him in a blanket.… But give me a moment alone with Goldmoon.”
The half-elf walked slowly across the courtyard. His footsteps echoed in the stillness of the night as he climbed marble steps to a wide porch where Goldmoon stood in front of the shining golden doors. Glancing behind him, Tanis could see his friends wrapping blankets from their packs around tree limbs to make a battlefield stretcher. The man’s body was nothing more than a dark, shapeless mass in the moonlight.
“Bring him to me, Tanis,” Goldmoon repeated as the halfelf came up to her. He took hold of her hand.
“Goldmoon,” Tanis said, “Riverwind is horribly injured. He is dying. There is nothing you can do—not even the staff—”
“Hush, Tanis,” Goldmoon said gently.
The half-elf fell silent, seeing her clearly for the first time. In astonishment, he realized that the Plainswoman was tranquil, calm, uplifted. Her face in the moonlight was the face of the sailor who has fought the stormy seas in his fragile boat and drifted at last into peaceful waters.
“Come inside the temple, my friend,” Goldmoon said, her beautiful eyes looking intently into Tanis’s. “Come inside and bring Riverwind to me.”
Goldmoon had not heard the approach of the dragon, had not seen its attack on Riverwind. When the
y entered the broken courtyard of Xak Tsaroth, Goldmoon had felt a strange and powerful force drawing her into the temple. She walked across the rubble and up the stairs, oblivious to everything but the golden doors shimmering in the silver-red moonlight. She approached them and stood before them for a moment. Then she became aware of the commotion behind her and heard Riverwind calling her name. “Goldmoon …” She paused, unwilling to leave Riverwind and her friends, knowing a terrible evil was rising from the well.
“Come inside, child,” a gentle voice called to her.
Goldmoon lifted her head and stared at the doors. Tears came to her eyes. The voice was her mother’s. Tearsong, priestess of Que-shu, had died long ago, when Goldmoon was very young.
“Tearsong?” Goldmoon choked. “Mother—”
“The years have been many and sad for you, my daughter”—her mother’s voice was not heard so much as felt in her heart—“and I fear your burden will not soon ease. Indeed, if you continue on you will leave this darkness only to enter a deeper darkness. Truth will light your way, my daughter, though you may find its light shines dimly in the vast and terrible night ahead. Still, without the truth, all will perish and be lost. Come here inside the temple with me, daughter. You will find what you seek.”
“But my friends, Riverwind.” Goldmoon looked back at the well and saw Riverwind stumble on the shaking cobblestones. “They cannot fight this evil. They will die without me. The staff could help! I cannot leave!” She started to turn back as the darkness fell.
“I can’t see them! … Riverwind! … Mother, help me,” she cried in agony.
But there was no answer. This isn’t fair! Goldmoon screamed silently, clenching her fists. We never wanted this! We only wanted to love each other, and now—now we may lose that! We have sacrificed so much and none of it has made any difference. I am thirty years old, mother! Thirty and childless. They have taken my youth, they have taken my people. And I have nothing to show in return. Nothing—except this! She shook the staff. And now I am being asked once again to give still more.
Dragons of Autumn Twilight Page 19