Dragons of Autumn Twilight

by Margaret Weis

  “I tried to climb it last night,” he said—“but it was too slippery. I wonder what’s up there?”

  “Well, whatever it is will have to stay forever beyond the reach of kenders,” Tanis snapped irritably. He walked over to investigate the staircase that spiraled down into the darkness. The stairs were broken and covered with rotting plants and fungus.

  “The Paths of the Dead,” Raistlin said suddenly.

  “What?” Tanis started.

  “The Paths of the Dead,” the mage repeated. “That’s what this staircase is called.”

  “How in the name of Reorx do you know that?” Flint growled.

  “I have read something of this city,” Raistlin replied in his whispering voice.

  “This is the first we’ve heard of it,” Sturm said coldly. “What else do you know that you haven’t told us?”

  “A great many things, knight,” Raistlin returned, scowling. “While you and my brother played with wooden swords, I spent my time in study.”

  “Yes, study of that which is dark and mysterious,” the knight sneered. “What really happened in the Towers of High Sorcery, Raistlin? You didn’t gain these wonderful powers of yours without giving something in return. What did you sacrifice in that Tower? Your health—or your soul!”

  “I was with my brother in the Tower,” Caramon said, the warrior’s normally cheerful face now haggard. “I saw him battle powerful mages and wizards with only a few simple spells. He defeated them, though they shattered his body. I carried him, dying, from the terrible place. And I—” The big man hesitated.

  Raistlin stepped forward quickly and placed his cold, thin hand on his twin’s arm.

  “Be careful what you say,” he hissed.

  Caramon drew a ragged breath and swallowed. “I know what he sacrificed,” the warrior said in a husky voice. Then he lifted his head proudly. “We are forbidden to speak of it. But you have known me many years, Sturm Brightblade, and I give you my word of honor, you may trust my brother as you trust me. If ever a time comes when that is not so, may my death—and his—be not far behind.”

  Raistlin’s eyes narrowed at this vow. He regarded his brother with a thoughtful, somber expression. Then Tanis saw the mage’s lip curl, the serious mien wiped out by his customary cynicism. It was a startling change. For a moment, the twins’ resemblance to each other had been remarkable. Now they were as different as opposite sides of a coin.

  Sturm stepped forward and clasped Caramon’s hand, gripping it tightly, wordlessly. Then he turned to face Raistlin, unable to regard him without obvious disgust. “I apologize, Raistlin,” the knight said stiffly. “You should be thankful you have such a loyal brother.”

  “Oh, I am,” Raistlin whispered.

  Tanis glanced at the mage sharply, wondering if he had only imagined sarcasm in the mage’s hissing voice. The halfelf licked his dry lips, a sudden, bitter taste in his mouth. “Can you guide us through this place?” he asked abruptly.

  “I could have,” Raistlin answered, “if we had come here prior to the Cataclysm. The books I studied dated back hundreds of years. During the Cataclysm, when the fiery mountain struck Krynn, the city of Xak Tsaroth was cast down the side of a cliff. I recognize this staircase because it is still intact. As for beyond—” He shrugged.

  “Where do the stairs lead?”

  “To a place known as the Hall of the Ancestors. Priests and kings of Xak Tsaroth were buried in crypts there.”

  “Let’s get moving,” Caramon said gruffly. “All we’re doing here is scaring ourselves.”

  “Yes.” Raistlin nodded. “We must go and go quickly. We have until nightfall. By tomorrow, this city will be overrun by the armies moving from the north.”

  “Bah!” Sturm frowned. “You may know lots of things as you claim, mage, but you can’t know that! Caramon is right, though—we have stayed here too long. I will take the lead.”

  He started down the stairs, moving carefully to keep from slipping on the slimy surface. Tanis saw Raistlin’s eyes—narrow, golden slits of enmity—follow Sturm down.

  “Raistlin, go with him and light the way,” Tanis ordered, ignoring the angry glance Sturm flashed up at him. “Caramon, walk with Goldmoon. Riverwind and I will take rear guard.”

  “And where does that leave us?” Flint grumbled to the kender as they followed behind Goldmoon and Caramon. “In the middle, as usual. Just more useless baggage—”

  “There might be anything up there,” Tas said, looking back to the pedestal. He obviously hadn’t heard a word of what had been said. “A crystal ball of farseeing, a magic ring like I once had. Did I ever tell you about my magic ring?” Flint groaned. Tanis heard the kender’s voice prattling on as the two disappeared down the stairs.

  The half-elf turned to Riverwind. “You were here—you must have been. We have seen the goddess who gave you the staff. Did you come down here?”

  “I don’t know,” Riverwind said wearily. “I remember nothing about it. Nothing—except the dragon.”

  Tanis fell silent. The dragon. It all came down to the dragon. The creature loomed large in everyone’s thoughts. And how feeble the small group seemed against a monster who had sprung full grown from Krynn’s darkest legends. Why us? Tanis thought bitterly. Was there ever a more unlikely group of heroes—bickering, grumbling, arguing—half of us not trusting the other half. “We were chosen.” That thought brought little comfort. Tanis remembered Raistlin’s words: “Who chose us—and why!” The half-elf was beginning to wonder.

  They moved silently down the steep stairway that curled ever deeper into the hillside. At first it was intensely dark as they spiraled down. Then the way began to get lighter, until Raistlin was able to extinguish the light on his staff. Soon Sturm raised his hand, halting the others behind him. Beyond stretched a short corridor, no more than a few feet long. This led to a large arched doorway that revealed a vast open area. A pale gray light filtered into the corridor, as did the odor of dankness and decay.

  The companions stood for long moments, listening carefully. The sound of rushing water seemed to come from below and beyond the door, nearly drowning out all other sounds. Still, Tanis thought he had heard something else—a sharp crack—and he had felt more than heard a thumping and throbbing on the floor. But it didn’t last long, and the sharp crack wasn’t repeated. Then, more puzzling still, came a metallic scraping sound punctuated by an occasional shrill screech. Tanis glanced at Tasslehoff questioningly.

  The kender shrugged. “I haven’t a clue,” he said, cocking his head and listening closely. “I’ve never heard anything like it, Tanis, except once—” He paused, then shook his head. “Do you want me to go look?” he asked eagerly.

  “Go.”

  Tasslehoff crept down the short corridor, flitting from shadow to shadow. A mouse running across thick carpet makes more noise than a kender when he wants to escape notice. He reached the door and peered out. Ahead of him stretched what must once have been a vast ceremonial hall. Hall of the Ancestors, that’s what Raistlin called it. Now it was a Hall of Ruins. Part of the floor to the east had fallen into a hole from which a foul-smelling white mist boiled up. Tas noticed other huge holes gaping in the floor, while chunks of large stone tile stuck up like grave markers. Carefully testing the floor beneath his feet, the kender stepped out into the hall. Through the mist he could faintly distinguish a dark doorway on the south wall … and another on the north. The strange screeching sound came from the south. Tas turned and began walking in that direction.

  He suddenly heard the thumping and throbbing sound again to the north, behind him, and felt the floor start to tremble. The kender hurriedly dashed back into the stairwell. His friends had heard the sound and were flattened against the wall, weapons in hand. The thumping sound grew into a loud whoosh. Then ten or fifteen squat, shadowy figures rushed past the arched doorway. The floor shook. They heard hard breathing and an occasional muttered word. Then the figures vanished in the mist, heading south. There was another
sharp cracking sound, then silence.

  “What in the name of the Abyss was that?” Caramon exclaimed. “Those weren’t draconians, unless they’ve come up with a short, fat breed. And where’d they come from?”

  “They came from the north end of the hall,” Tas said. “There’s a doorway there and one to the south. The weird screeching sounds come from the south, where those things were headed.”

  “What’s east?” Tanis asked.

  “Judging by the sound of falling water I could hear, about a thousand-foot drop,” the kender replied. “The floor’s caved in. I wouldn’t recommend walking over there.”

  Flint sniffed. “I smell something … something familiar. I can’t place it.”

  “I smell death,” Goldmoon said, shivering, holding her staff close.

  “Naw, this is something worse,” Flint muttered. Then his eyes opened wide and his face grew red with rage and anger. “I’ve got it!” he roared. “Gully dwarf!” He unslung his axe. “That’s what those miserable little things were. Well, they won’t be gully dwarves for long. They’ll be stinking corpses!”

  He dashed forward. Tanis, Sturm, and Caramon leaped after him just as he reached the end of the corridor and dragged him back.

  “Keep quiet!” Tanis ordered the sputtering dwarf. “Now, how sure are you that they are gully dwarves?”

  The dwarf angrily shook himself from Caramon’s grasp. “Sure!” he started to roar, then dropped it to a loud whisper. “Didn’t they hold me prisoner for three years?”

  “Did they?” Tanis asked, startled.

  “That’s why I never told you where I was these last five years,” the dwarf said, flushing with embarrassment. His face darkened. “But I swore I’d get revenge. I’ll kill every living gully dwarf I come across.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sturm interrupted. “Gully dwarves aren’t evil, not like goblins at any rate. What could they be doing living here with draconians?”

  “Slaves,” Raistlin answered coolly. “Undoubtedly the gully dwarves have lived here many years, probably ever since the city was abandoned. When the draconians were sent, perhaps, to guard the Disks, they found the gully dwarves and used them as slave labor.”

  “They might be able to help us then,” Tanis murmured.

  “Gully dwarves!” Flint exploded. “You’d trust those filthy little—”

  “No,” Tanis said. “We cannot trust them, of course. But nearly every slave is willing to betray his master, and gully dwarves—like most dwarves—feel little loyalty to anyone except their own chieftains. As long as we don’t ask them to do anything that might endanger their own dirty skins, we might be able to buy their aid.”

  “Well, I’ll be an ogre’s hind end!” Flint said in disgust. He hurled his axe to the ground, tore his pack off, and slumped down against the wall, arms folded. “Go on. Go ask your new friends to help you. I’ll not be with you! They’ll help you, all right. Help you right up the dragon’s snout!”

  Tanis and Sturm exchanged concerned glances, remembering the boat incident. Flint could be incredibly stubborn, and Tanis thought it quite likely that this time the dwarf would prove immovable.

  “I dunno.” Caramon sighed and shook his head. “It’s too bad the dwarf’s staying behind. If we do get the gully dwarves to help us, who’ll keep the scum in line?”

  Amazed that Caramon could be so subtle, Tanis smiled and picked up on the warrior’s lead. “Sturm, I guess.”

  “Sturm!” The dwarf bounded to his feet. “A knight who won’t stab an enemy in the back? You need someone who knows these foul creatures—”

  “You’re right, Flint,” Tanis said gravely. “I guess you’ll have to come with us.”

  “You bet,” Flint grumbled. He grabbed his things and stumped off down the corridor. He turned around. “You coming?”

  Hiding their smiles, the companions followed the dwarf out into the Hall of the Ancestors. They kept close to the wall, avoiding the treacherous floor. They headed south, following the gully dwarves, and entered a dimly lit passage that ran south only a few hundred feet, then turned sharply east. Once again they heard the cracking noise. The metallic screeching had stopped. Suddenly, they heard behind them the sound of pounding feet.

  “Gully dwarves!” growled Flint.

  “Back!” Tanis ordered. “Be ready to jump them. We can’t let them raise an alarm!”

  Everyone flattened himself against the wall, sword drawn and ready. Flint held his battle-axe, a look of eager anticipation on his face. Staring back into the vast hall, they saw another group of short fat figures running toward them.

  Suddenly, the leader of the gully dwarves looked up and saw them. Caramon leaped out in front of the small running figures, his huge arm raised commandingly. “Halt!” he said. The gully dwarves glanced up at him, swarmed around him, and disappeared around the corner to the east. Caramon turned around to stare after them in astonishment.

  “Halt …” he said half-heartedly.

  A gully dwarf popped back around the corner, glared at Caramon, and put a grubby finger to his lips. “Shhhhh!” Then the squat figure vanished. They heard the cracking sound and the screeching noise started up again.

  “What do you suppose is going on?” Tanis asked softly.

  “Do they all look like that?” Goldmoon said, her eyes wide. “They’re so filthy and ragged, and there are sores all over their bodies.”

  “And they have the brains of a doorknob,” Flint grunted.

  The group cautiously rounded the corner, hands on their weapons. A long, narrow corridor extended east, lit by torches that flickered and smoked in the stifling air. The light reflected off walls wet with condensed moisture. Arched doorways revealing only blackness opened up off the hallway.

  “The crypts,” Raistlin whispered.

  Tanis shivered. Water dripped on him from the ceiling. The metallic screeching was louder and nearer. Goldmoon touched the half-elf’s arm and pointed. Tanis saw, down at the far end of the corridor, a doorway. Beyond the opening was another passageway forming a T-intersection. The corridor was filled with gully dwarves.

  “I wonder why the little guys are lined up,” Caramon said.

  “This is our chance to find out,” Tanis said. He was starting forward when he felt the mage’s hand on his arm.

  “Leave this to me,” Raistlin whispered.

  “We had better come with you,” Sturm stated, “to cover you, of course.”

  “Of course,” Raistlin sniffed. “Very well, but do not disturb me.”

  Tanis nodded. “Flint, you and Riverwind guard this end of the corridor.” Flint opened his mouth to protest, then scowled and fell back to stand opposite the Plainsmen.

  “Stay well behind me,” Raistlin ordered, then moved down the corridor, his red robes rustling around his ankles, the Staff of Magius thumping softly on the floor at each step. Tanis and Sturm followed, moving along the side of the dripping walls. Cold air flowed from the crypts. Peering inside one, Tanis could see the dark outline of a sarcophagus reflected in the sputtering torchlight. The coffin was elaborately carved, decorated with gold that shone no longer. An oppressive air hung over the crypts. Some of the tombs appeared to have been broken into and plundered. Tanis caught a glimpse of a skull grinning out of the darkness. He wondered if these ancient dead were planning their revenge for having their rest disturbed. Tanis forced himself to return to reality. It was bleak enough.

  Raistlin stopped when he neared the end of the corridor. The gully dwarves watched him curiously, ignoring the others behind him. The mage did not speak. He reached into a pouch on his belt and drew out several golden coins. The gully dwarves’ eyes brightened. One or two at the front of the line edged toward Raistlin to get a better view. The mage held up a coin so they all could see it. Then he threw it high into the air and … it vanished!

  The gully dwarves gasped. Raistlin opened his hand with a flourish to reveal the coin. There was scattered applause. The gully dwarves crept closer, mouths
gaping in wonder.

  Gully dwarves—or Aghar—as their race was known, were truly a miserable lot. The lowest caste in dwarven society, they were to be found all over Krynn, living in filth and squalor in places that had been abandoned by most other living creatures, including animals. Like all dwarves, they were clannish, and several clans often lived together, following the rule of their chieftains or one particularly powerful clan leader. Three clans lived in Xak Tsaroth—the Sluds, the Bulps, and the Glups. Members of all three clans now surrounded Raistlin. There were both males and females, though it was not easy to tell the sexes apart. The females lacked whiskers on their chins but had them on their cheeks. They wore a tattered overskirt wrapped around their waists extending to their bony knees. Otherwise, they were every bit as ugly as their male counterparts. Despite their wretched appearance, gully dwarves generally led a cheerful existence.

  Raistlin, with marvelous dexterity, made the coin dance over his knuckles, flipping it in and out of his fingers. Then he made it disappear, only to reappear inside the ear of some startled gully dwarf who stared at the mage in amazement. This last trick produced a momentary interruption in the performance as the Aghar’s friends grabbed him and peered intently into his ear, one of them even sticking his finger inside to see if more coins might be forthcoming. This interesting activity ceased, though, when Raistlin reached into another pouch and removed a small scroll of parchment. Spreading it open with his long, thin fingers, the mage began to read from it, chanting softly, “Suh tangus moipar, ast akular kalipad.” The gully dwarves watched in total fascination.

  When the mage finished reading, the spidery-looking words on the scroll began to burn. They flared, then disappeared, leaving traces of green smoke.

  “What was that all about?” Sturm asked suspiciously.

  “They are now spellbound,” Raistlin replied. “I have cast over them a spell of friendship.”