Her anger calmed. Riverwind—had he been angry all those long years he searched for answers? All he had found was this staff, and it brought only more questions. No, he hadn’t been angry, she thought. His faith is strong. I am the weak one. Riverwind was willing to die for his faith. It seems I must be willing to live—even if it means living without him.
Goldmoon leaned her head against the golden doors, their metal surface cool to her skin. Reluctantly, she made her bitter decision. I will go forward, mother—though if Riverwind dies, my heart dies, too. I ask only one thing: If he dies, let him know, somehow, that I will continue his search.
Leaning upon her staff, the Chieftain of the Que-shu pushed open the golden doors and entered the temple. The doors shut behind her at the precise moment the black dragon burst from the well.
Goldmoon stepped inside soft, enfolding darkness. She could see nothing at first, but a memory of being held very close in her mother’s warm embrace played through her mind. A pale light began to shine around her. Goldmoon saw she was under a vast dome that rose high above an intricately inlaid tile floor. Beneath the dome, in the center of the room, stood a marble statue of singular grace and beauty. The light in the room emanated from this statue. Goldmoon, entranced, moved toward it. The statue was of a woman in flowing robes. Her marble face bore an expression of radiant hope, tempered with sadness. A strange amulet hung around her neck.
“This is Mishakal, goddess of healing, whom I serve,” said her mother’s voice. “Listen to her words, my daughter.”
Goldmoon stood directly in front of the statue, marveling at its beauty. But it seemed unfinished, incomplete. Part of the statue was missing, Goldmoon realized. The marble woman’s hands were curved, as if they had been holding a long slender pole, but the hands were empty. Without conscious thought, with only the need to complete such beauty, Goldmoon slid her staff into the marble hands.
It began to gleam with a soft blue light. Goldmoon, startled, backed away. The staff’s light grew into a blinding radiance. Goldmoon shielded her eyes and fell to her knees. A great and loving power filled her heart. She bitterly regretted her anger.
“Do not be ashamed of your questioning, beloved disciple. It was your questioning that led you to us, and it is your anger that will sustain you through the many trials ahead. You come seeking the truth and you shall receive it.
“The gods have not turned away from man—it is man who turned away from the true gods. Krynn is about to face its greatest trial. Men will need the truth more than ever. You, my disciple, must return the truth and power of the true gods to man. It is time to restore the balance of the universe. Evil now has tipped the scales. For as the gods of good have returned to man, so have the gods of evil—constantly striving for men’s souls. The Queen of Darkness has returned, seeking that which will allow her to walk freely in this land once more. Dragons, once banished to the nether regions, walk the land.”
Dragons, thought Goldmoon dreamily. She found it difficult to concentrate and grasp the words that flooded her mind. It would not be until later that she would fully comprehend the message. Then she would remember the words forever.
“To gain the power to defeat them, you will need the truth of the gods, this is the greatest gift of which you were told. Below this temple, in the ruins haunted by the glories of ages past, rest the Disks of Mishakal; circular disks made of gleaming platinum. Find the Disks and you can call upon my power, for I am Mishakal, goddess of healing.
“Your way will not be easy. The gods of evil know and fear the great power of the truth. The ancient and powerful black dragon, Khisanth, known to men as Onyx, guards the Disks. Her lair is in the ruined city of Xak Tsaroth below us. Danger lies ahead of you if you choose to try and recover the Disks. Therefore I bless this staff. Present it boldly, never wavering, and you shall prevail.”
The voice faded. It was then Goldmoon heard Riverwind’s death cry.
Tanis entered the temple and felt as if he had walked backward into memory. The sun was shining through the trees in Qualinost. He and Laurana and her brother, Gilthanas, were lying on the riverbank, laughing and sharing dreams after some childish game. Happy childhood days had been few for Tanis—the half-elf learned early that he was different from the others. But that day had been a day of golden sunshine and warm friendship. The remembered peace washed over him, easing his grief and horror.
He turned to Goldmoon, standing silently beside him. “What is this place?”
“That is a story whose telling must wait,” Goldmoon answered. With a light hand on Tanis’s arm, she drew him across the shimmering tile floor until they both stood before the shining marble statue of Mishakal. The blue crystal staff cast a brilliant glow throughout the chamber.
But even as Tanis’s lips parted in wonder, a shadow darkened the room. He and Goldmoon turned toward the door. Caramon and Sturm entered, bearing the body of Riverwind between them on the makeshift litter. Flint and Tasslehoff—the dwarf looking old and weary, the kender unusually subdued—stood on either side of the litter, an odd sort of honor guard. The somber procession moved slowly inside. Behind them came Raistlin, his hood pulled over his head, his hands folded in his robes—the spectre of death itself.
They moved across the marble floor, intent on the burden they bore, and came to a halt before Tanis and Goldmoon. Tanis, looking down at the body at Goldmoon’s feet, shut his eyes. Blood had soaked through the thick blanket, spreading in great dark splotches across the fabric.
“Remove the blanket,” Goldmoon commanded. Caramon looked at Tanis pleadingly.
“Goldmoon—” Tanis began gently.
Suddenly, before anyone could stop him, Raistlin bent down and tore the blood-stained blanket from the body.
Goldmoon gave a strangled gasp at the sight of Riverwind’s tortured body, turning so pale that Tanis reached out a steadying hand, fearing she might faint. But Goldmoon was the daughter of a strong, proud people. She swallowed, drew a deep, shuddering breath. Then she turned and walked up to the marble statue. She lifted the blue crystal staff carefully from the goddess’s hands, then she returned to kneel beside Riverwind’s body.
“Kan-tokah,” she said softly. “My beloved.” Reaching out a shaking hand, she touched the dying Plainsman’s forehead. The sightless face moved toward her as if he heard. One of the blackened hands twitched feebly, as if he would touch her. Then he gave a great shudder and lay perfectly still. Tears streamed unheeded down Goldmoon’s cheeks as she lay the staff across Riverwind’s body. Soft blue light filled the chamber. Everyone the light touched felt rested and refreshed. The pain and exhaustion from the day’s toil left their bodies. The horror of the dragon’s attack lifted from their minds, as the sun burns through fog. Then the light of the staff dimmed and faded. Night settled over the temple, lit once more only by the light emanating from the marble statue.
Tanis blinked, trying once more to re-accustom his eyes to the dark. Then he heard a deep voice.
“Kan-tokah neh sirakan.”
He heard Goldmoon cry out in joy. Tanis looked down at what should have been Riverwind’s corpse. Instead, he saw the Plainsman sit up, holding out his arms for Goldmoon. She clung to him, laughing and crying at the same time.
“And so,” Goldmoon told them, coming to the end of her story, “we must find a way down into the ruined city that lies somewhere below the temple, and we must remove the Disks from the dragon’s lair.”
They were eating a frugal dinner, sitting on the floor in the main chamber of the temple. A quick inspection of the building revealed that it was empty, although Caramon told of finding draconian tracks on the staircase, as well as the tracks of some other creature the warrior couldn’t identify.
It was not a large building. Two worship rooms were located on opposite sides of the hallway that led to the main chamber where the statue stood. Two circular rooms branched off the main chamber to the north and south. They were decorated with frescoes that were now covered with fungus and f
aded beyond recognition. Two sets of golden double doors led to the east. Caramon reported finding a staircase there that led down into the wrecked city below. The faint sound of surf could be heard, reminding them that they were perched on top of a great cliff, overlooking Newsea.
The companions sat, each preoccupied with his own thoughts, trying to assimilate the news Goldmoon had given them. Tasslehoff, however, continued to poke around the rooms, peering into dark corners. Finding little of interest, the kender grew bored and returned to the group, holding an old helmet in his hand. It was too big for him; kenderfolk never wore helmets anyway, considering them bothersome and restrictive. He tossed it to the dwarf.
“What’s this?” Flint asked suspiciously, holding it up to the light cast by Raistlin’s staff. It was a helm of ancient design, well crafted by a skilled metalsmith. Undoubtedly a dwarf, Flint decided, rubbing his hands over it lovingly. A long tail of animal hair decorated the top. Flint tossed the draconian helm he had been wearing to the floor. Then he put the new-found helm on his head. It fit perfectly. Smiling, he took it off, once more admiring the workmanship. Tanis watched him with amusement.
“That’s horsehair,” he said, pointing to the tassel.
“No, it’s not!” the dwarf protested, frowning. He sniffed at it, wrinkling his nose. Failing to sneeze, he glanced at Tanis in triumph. “It’s hair from the mane of a griffon.”
Caramon guffawed. “Griffon!” He snorted. “There’s about as many griffons on Krynn as there are—”
“Dragons,” interjected Raistlin smoothly.
The conversation died abruptly.
Sturm cleared his throat. “We’d better get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll take first watch.”
“No one need keep watch this night,” Goldmoon said softly. She sat close to Riverwind. The tall Plainsman had not spoken much since his brush with death. He had stared for a long time at the statue of Mishakal, recognizing the woman in blue light who had given him the staff, but he refused to answer any questions or discuss it.
“We are safe here,” Goldmoon affirmed, glancing at the statue.
Caramon raised his eyebrows. Sturm frowned and stroked his moustaches. Both men were too polite to question Goldmoon’s faith, but Tanis knew that neither warrior would feel safe if watches weren’t set. Yet there weren’t many hours left until dawn and they all needed rest. Raistlin was already asleep, wrapped in his robes in a dark corner of the chamber.
“I think Goldmoon is right,” Tasslehoff said. “Let’s trust these old gods, since it seems we have found them.”
“The elves never lost them; neither did the dwarves,” Flint protested, scowling. “I don’t understand any of this! Reorx is one of the ancient gods, presumably. We have worshiped him since before the Cataclysm.”
“Worship?” Tanis asked. “Or cry to him in despair because your people were shut out of the Kingdom under the Mountain. No, don’t get mad—” Tanis, seeing the dwarf’s face flush an ugly red, held up his hand. “The elves are no better. We cried to the gods when our homeland was laid waste. We know of the gods and we honor their memories—as one would honor the dead. The elven clerics vanished long ago, as did the dwarven clerics. I remember Mishakal the Healer. I remember hearing the stories of her when I was young. I remember hearing stories of dragons, too. Children’s tales, Raistlin would say. It seems our childhood has come back to haunt us—or save us, I don’t know which. I have seen two miracles tonight, one of evil and one of good. I must believe in both, if I am to trust the evidence of my senses. Yet …” The half-elf sighed. “I say we take turns on watch tonight. I am sorry, lady. I wish my faith were as strong as yours.”
Sturm took first watch. The rest wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay on the tile floor. The knight walked through the moonlit temple, checking the quiet rooms, more from force of habit than because he felt any threat. He could hear the wind blow chill and fierce outside, sweeping out from the north. But inside it was strangely warm and comfortable—too comfortable.
Sitting at the base of the statue, Sturm felt a sweet peacefulness creep over him. Startled, he sat bolt upright and realized, chagrined, that he had nearly fallen asleep on watch. That was inexcusable! Berating himself severely, the knight determined that he would walk his watch—the full two hours—as punishment. He started to rise, then stopped. He heard singing, a woman’s voice. Sturm stared around wildly, his hand on his sword. Then his hand slipped from the hilt. He recognized the voice and the song. It was his mother’s voice. Once more Sturm was with her. They were fleeing Solamnia, traveling alone except for one trusted retainer—and he would be dead before they reached Solace. The song was one of those wordless lullabies that were older than dragons. Sturm’s mother held her child close, and tried to keep her fear from him by singing this gentle, soothing song. Sturm’s eyes closed. Sleep blessed him, blessed all of the companions.
The light from Raistlin’s staff glowed brightly, keeping away the darkness.
17
The Paths of the Dead.
Raistlin’s new friends.
The sound of metal crashing against the tile floor jolted Tanis out of a deep sleep. He sat up, alarmed, his hand fumbling for his sword.
“Sorry,” Caramon said, grinning shamefacedly. “I dropped my breastplate.”
Tanis drew a deep breath that turned into a yawn, stretched, and lay back down on his blanket. The sight of Caramon putting on his armor—with Tasslehoff’s help—reminded the halfelf of what they faced today. He saw Sturm buckling his armor on as well, while Riverwind polished the sword he had picked up. Tanis firmly put the thought of what might happen to them today out of his mind.
That was not an easy task, especially for the elven part of Tanis—elves revere life and, although they believe that death is simply a movement into a higher plane of existence, death of any creature is seen to diminish life on this plane. Tanis forced the human side of him to take possession of his soul today. He would have to kill, and perhaps he would have to accept the death of one or more of these people he loved. He remembered how he had felt yesterday, when he thought he might lose Riverwind. The half-elf frowned and sat up suddenly, feeling as if he had awakened from a bad dream.
“Is everyone up?” he asked, scratching his beard.
Flint stumped over and handed him a hunk of bread and some dried strips of venison. “Up and breakfasted,” the dwarf grumbled. “You could have slept through the Cataclysm, Half-Elf.”
Tanis took a bite of venison without appetite. Then, wrinkling his nose, he sniffed. “What’s that funny smell?”
“Some concoction of the mage’s.” The dwarf grimaced, plopping down next to Tanis. Flint pulled out a block of wood and began carving, hacking away furiously, making chips fly. “He pounded up some sort of powder in a cup and added water. Stirred it up and drank it, but not before it made that gullymudge smell. I’m happier not knowing what it was.”
Tanis agreed. He chewed on the venison. Raistlin was now reading his spellbook, murmuring the words over and over until he had committed them to memory. Tanis wondered what kind of spell Raistlin had that might be useful against a dragon. From what little he remembered about dragonlore—learned ages ago from the elven bard, Quivalen Soth—only the spells of the very greatest mages had a chance of affecting dragons, who could work their own magic—as they had witnessed.
Tanis looked at the frail young man absorbed in his spellbook and shook his head. Raistlin might be powerful for his age, and he was certainly devious and clever. But dragons were ancient. They had been in Krynn before the first elves—the oldest of the races—walked the land. Of course, if the plan the companions discussed last night worked out, they wouldn’t even encounter the dragon. They hoped simply to find the lair and escape with the Disks. It was a good plan, Tanis thought, and probably worth about as much as smoke on the wind. Despair began to creep over him like a dank fog.
“Well, I’m all set,” Caramon announced cheerfully. The big warrior felt immea
surably better in his armor. The dragon seemed a very small annoyance this morning. He tunelessly whistled an old marching song as he stuffed his mud-stained clothing into his pack. Sturm, his armor carefully adjusted, sat apart from the companions, his eyes closed, performing whatever secret ritual knights performed, preparing himself mentally for combat. Tanis stood up, stiff and cold, moving around to get the circulation going and ease the soreness from his muscles. Elves did nothing before battle, except ask forgiveness for taking life.
“We, too, are ready,” Goldmoon said. She was dressed in a heavy gray tunic made of soft leather trimmed with fur. She had braided her long silver-gold hair in a twist around her head—a precaution against an enemy using her hair to gain a handhold.
“Let’s get this over with.” Tanis sighed as he picked up the longbow and quiver of arrows Riverwind had taken from the draconian camp and slung them over his shoulder. In addition, Tanis was armed with a dagger and his longsword. Sturm had his two-handed sword. Caramon carried his shield, a longsword, and two daggers Riverwind had scrounged. Flint had replaced his lost battle-axe with one from the draconian camp. Tasslehoff had his hoopak and a small dagger he had discovered. He was very proud of it and was deeply wounded when Caramon told him it would be of use if they ran into any ferocious rabbits. Riverwind bore his longsword strapped to his back and still carried Tanis’s dagger. Goldmoon bore no weapon other than the staff. We’re well armed, Tanis thought gloomily. For all the good it will do us.
The companions left the chamber of Mishakal, Goldmoon coming last. She gently touched the statue of the goddess with her hand as she passed, whispering a silent prayer.
Tas led the way, skipping merrily, his topknot bouncing behind him. He was going to see a real live dragon! The kender couldn’t imagine anything more exciting.
Following Caramon’s directions, they headed east, passing through two more sets of golden double doors, and came to a large circular room. A tall, slime-coated pedestal stood in the center—so tall not even Riverwind could see what, if anything, was on it. Tas stood beneath it, staring up at it wistfully.
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